Last Friday afternoon saw me departing from The Land That Forgot How To Pronounce The Letter “T”, bound for a small, history-rich nation in the middle of the Med aboard a Ryan Air flight (Xmas pressie from Mum and Dad-cheers!), full of dark-eyed women and octogenarians with Yorkshire accents. Indeedy, it was off to Malta – the tiny island nation that’s twice taken everything the World’s Baddest Nation at the time could throw at it and still come up trumps.
Famous for the steely-eyed seige-busting antics of the Knights of St John (formerly Knights Hospitallers), refusing to throw in the towel despite copping the Grand Daddy of all pastings from the Nazis in WWII, spectacular scuba-diving and rockpools, nougat and prickly pear liquer (honestly), this little island has got some seriously interesting quirks to it. For example:
· The Maltese look almost Arabic and they speak Malti, which sounds like a cross between Italian and Arabic, but can all speak English pretty fluently due to England’s long occupation and friendly support through their darkest years. And they drink pale ale. So you can still have a natter with them when they're six sheets to the wind.
· The English influence goes further than just the ability to hold booze-addled convos with Pommy tourists, however – the red phone booths and post boxes are exactly the same as those here in London and the buses are all old ‘60’s-era Leylands relics, shipped over from England once they’d failed their roadworthy. Same with lots of the cars in Malta – similar-vintage Minis and Cortinas and other famous old British family cars crash around the narrow roads looking like they’re held together with ruber bands and prayers. Love it.
· The aforementioned prickly pear was introduced to Malta from the Americas and got right down to business reproducing itself at a biblical rate as it did in Australia. However the Maltese fell in love with the ugly little b*gger, and today they not only make liquer out of it, but candies, sweets, sauces and dividing walls for their rocky, terraced fields (instead of the usual stone walls). I even saw a few plots where the farmer had used huge prickly pear “leaves” as weights to hold down his irrigation pipes. Whereas we in Oz spent hundreds of thousands of dollars chopping, spraying, burning and chain-felling the stuff before introducing Monsieur Cactoblastis to have a nibble. Hmmmmm.
· The Maltese do not know what Maltesers are. I asked. Many times. They don’t know. Export opportunity for Nestle right there.
· They’re one of the very earliest Christian civilizations on the planet. And by Great Odin's raven, do they love a good church.
· The Knights of St John obviously weren’t Maltese but got “given” the islands by the Pope in the mid-1500’s, which didn’t sit too well with the locals at the time. But then the Ottoman Turks, under Suleyman the Magnificent (the equivalent of Darth Vader at that time) tried to invade in 1565. The Knights of St John thought that was a bit rude, and managed to persuade the entire population (except some snooty Maltese aristocrats who took their ball and holed up in Mdina) to aid them in the struggle. Nothing like a common enemy, ey?
The Turks had been doing the Viking routine on Malta for decades, so the locals jumped at the chance to hit back at the local bully by helping out during what was to become one of the greatest sieges in history. During which the Turks had the snot beaten out of them by a force less than a fifth its size, thanks in no small part to the frankly stunning escapades of the Maltese men, women and children. Reading all the accounts of the seige, you can almost see the Maltese standing next to the Knights on the shattered ramparts of Fort St Elmo, shouting out things like “And the camel you rode in on” or “Suleyman sucks minaret” at the Turkish fleet as it limped away across the Med to Constantinople. They were some spicey little Maltesers, alright.
- In the early phase of World War Two, the Nazis and the Italianos dropped more bombs on Malta (the hub of England's naval presence in the Med at the time) than all of southern England copped during the Blitz, mainly because His Majesty's Royal Navy wasn't playing fair with the Nazi ships supplying the Desert Fox in North Africa. In fact, Malta still holds the record for copping the heaviest sustained bombing attack in history: 154, count 'em,
154 days and nights and 6,700 tons of bombs. So quit your whingeing, Baghdad! For their bravery and for holding out against simply laughable odds, the entire Maltese population was awarded the George Cross, England's highest civilian honour for bravery - the only nation ever to receive such an honour. Lesson learnt - never take on a Malti in a staring competition. They never blink first.
Anyway, so here’s what I did/saw/thought while in situ:
- Got a great introduction to Malta with my transfer bus driver playing Johnny Cash at volume as we went up on two wheels round corners and ripped past semi-Arabic, semi-Italian houses, massive churches, plots of aubergines and citrus groves sandwiched between old apartment blocks.
- Stayed in Sliema the first night, in a decent-enough hotel, for 7 euros a night. Was right on the promenade overlooking the water and Manoel Island and, further behind that to the east, the capital city, Valetta, with its forts and domes all gently lit in the darkness. Did a nice cruise of the Grand Harbour (where most of the action during the 1565 Great Seige took place) the next morning, wandered Valetta's steep and narrow but oh-so-grubbily-picturesque streets, wandered through the Palace but missed the Cathedral (was shut for maintenance). Had a quick look in The Pub, an authentic English dark-wood-and-lanterns boozer where Oliver Reed carked it doing what he did best (getting absolutely trousered) while on location for "Gladiator" (shot in Malta). Surprisingly not cheesy. The whole thing was kind of village-y in a way - lots of wizened little old ladies sweeping their doorsteps and smiling at you as you walk past and stocky, barrel-chested men in labourer's clothes sipping pints and tiny red wines outside tiny little bars and cafes.
- The local fashion was much the same as anywhere else in Europe- meaning most teenage boys wore far too much gel in their hair and deeply dodgy tracksuits.
- Saturday night I stayed in Mgarr, a small steep harbour town on the south coast of Gozo (the northern island) with fantastic views back to Comino (small island between Malta and Gozo, scuba central) and Malta's main island. My hotel (Grand Hotel, 20 euros a night for something that'd cost 100+ in London - result!) was perched high on the hillside overlooking the harbour full of brightly-coloured fishing boats and the farm plots that hugged the hillside down to the water's edge. Had the local delicacy (roast rabbit) at a nifty restaurant down near the harbour that night. Avoided car-load of drunken tourists on walk back up hill to hotel by about 5 centimeters. Resolved immediately to never walk near speeding carloads of drunken tourists again.
- Sunday morning I went up to Victoria (or Rabat as the locals call it), Gozo's main "city" in the centre of the island. Gozo Cathedral's niiiiice - the only one I've seen in person that uses rich red tapestries from floor to ceiling - lush. Had a coffee in Cafe Jubilee just off the town square - this place was one of those gorgeous character-filled little narrow bars that you don't want to leave, a mix of French bistro and Italian cafe bar with an atmosphere that literally had me feeling like I was my loungeroom. Best of all, no tourists. Apart from the tall skinny one.
- Victoria / Rabat, and Gozo as a whole, were much less touristy than Malta proper. It has fewer people than Roma, in Queensland (5,000 or so) but it seems so much more vibrant and refined while still being rustic and relaxed at the same time. The labyrinth of old streets behind the main squares of Victoria were fantastic and completely navigation-resistant. I could usually see straight through people's houses through their ornate open doors and out to their foliage-draped internal courtyards, which made it feel like I was getting a free glimpse into the heart of Maltese life. But I missed St John's Basilica (called the gilded cathedral for a very good reason, judging by the pics). Bummer. To make up for it, I scored great views of the whole of Gozo from the top of the Citadel (old fort) in the town's hilltop centre. You can see across rocky, terraced, kelly-green fields to all the small towns scattered over the island, each dominated by a ridiculously-oversized church. Cue longing for a digital SLR camera.
- The most amazing sight I clocked wasn't one of the churches or fortresses or natural landscapes. I was in the middle of Valetta, wandering the quiet Saturday morning streets, fair few people out and about but you could hear the bells of the boats down in the harbour half a kilometre away. Suddenly, a local gadfly man-about-town in a clapped-out old Cortina came absolutely blazing out of a side-street up ahead of me on one of Valetta's long, straight, steep and very narrow streets, drifting sideways, then floored it 2 blocks downhill to the intersection I was standing at, which had a tiny, crowded bar on one side and a busy florist on the other. He then pulled a massive drift maneuver right in front of me, tyres squealing, car sideways again, and shot off into the side street to my right. All with one elbow hanging out the window, steering one handed and singing along to The Beatles' "Help" on his tinny old stereo at top volume. And then the blokes standing out the front of the bar and the ladies out the front of the florist all cheered and clapped and laughed. And then it was quiet again in the centuries-old city of Valetta. It all happened so fast that I was left standing there looking around thinking "Did that just happen?"
- The car ferry back to Malta from Gozo was packed on Sunday afternoon - and bizarrely, they had a stonking 2-piece band playing live covers of indie hits in the rear lounge who were studiously ignored by the throngs of elderly Brit tourists (where did they come from??). Outrageous. A bunch of young Maltese lads and myself made sure to give them a good round of applause after each tune.
- The Malti's seemed generally relaxed, and friendly and they all seemed fairly affectionate towards each other (especially the old couples, who love stroking each other's faces no matter where they are or who's looking). Despite their proficiency with the English language they're still definitely more Mediterranean than British (all those cars and busses and letterboxes and pubs are just a veneer) and they're probably slightly more Arabic than Italian. But Christian. With a taste for ale. And rabbit.
- They also seemed fairly religious on both Gozo and Malta too, with Virgin Mary or Jesus statues on every third building's corner, in wall recesses outside people's doors, in light-bulb-illuminated shrines in the middle of nowhere, even on some of the fishing boats cruising past in the Harbour. Guess you would be if you'd spent a large portion of your history defending the Faith against Muslim raiders hell-bent on converting you, enslaving you or bandinado'ing you to death (look that word up. Sounds fun. But isn't).
- Overall,Malta has got that great semi-rundown-yet-picturesque look and feel and relaxed attitude towards rules that you find in countries all around the Med - but without the craziness and manic pace. That could've been due to the fact that it's currently winter, though. It's not a pumping party destination and it's not the most utterly spectacular sightseeing destination either, but it's definitely worth another look in Spring when its snorkelling weather.
- Final point: when I left Valetta to get to the airport, I jumped onto another old rickety Leylands bus. Lo and behold, the bussie (who looked all of 17) was Walkin' The Line with Johnny Cash Live at Folsom Prison on a boombox perched on the back of his seat. The Man In Black seems to be kind of a big deal in Malta. Which makes me love the place in a strange non-descript way, actually. Go see for yourself if you've never been.
Ah, post-Christmas winter in London.
