Time in Malta

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"Lena Blitzkieg-Schicklgruber has won the Eurovision Song Contest", says the radio as we're on our way to the airport. I don't care much about mindless pop music, so I switch channels. "...first German victory in at least 100 years..." Switch. "...her light-hearted song 'Cum on my face, Robbie Williams' has won the hearts of the brainwashed masses..." Switch. "...finally Germans can be proud of their country again, the dishonour we suffered in WWII has been remedied..." I use the convenient pocket hatch I always carry with me to smash the radio to smithereens, screaming hysterically in the process. "Thank you", says my dad, flipping off the driver of the car he overtakes, as is his custom.

J. and I arrive at Luqa Airport after an easy two-and-a-half-hour flight, exit the terminal, where the bus to Valletta is already waiting. After paying the grumpy driver a very reasonable fare, the bus is off already, and I start getting suspicious. Everything seems to go a little to well, the trip has been a bit too easy so far.
Beige, sand and all shades of red appear to be the prevailing colours of Malta. Picturesque as it may be, the houses look very much alike, and after about 30 minutes I start wondering where the countryside is. All we see is garbage-littered streets and ugly buildings, and the air is ripe with exhaust fumes. It feels more like being in a North African country than in a Mediterranean one.
We get dropped off at the City Gate bus terminus outside the city walls of Valletta. The chaotic terminal is located at a multi-lane roundabout, at which centre is the Triton Fountain, which looks like the proverbial flower in the dustbin. The aggressive bus drivers, using the claxon extensively, the polluted air, as well as the general hustle and bustle just add to our complete disorientation. We ask our way to the City Gate, passing through which, a completely new world unfolds. Inside Valletta, an orderly grid of streets, squares and alleys lined with cafés, restaurants and swanky shops makes navigating easy, and the almost complete lack of garbage and dog shit renders it highly pleasant. With only about 7000 inhabitants and measuring a mere 600m by 1000m, Valletta is among the tiniest European capitals, but there's a lot of history to be found in its nooks and crannies, provided you keep your eyes open and manage not to get killed or maimed by the crazy drivers.

Our guesthouse is only a short walk away, much to the delight of our poor backs. How I always end up carrying so much stuff with me, I will never understand. But I shall keep trying. The guesthouse is owned by Charlie, who gives us a warm reception in fluent English. Just to clarify for the uninitiated: Malta's native language is Malti, a Semitic language, and the only one out of that language group to be written in Latin script. It is thought to be a direct descendant of the language spoken by he Phoenicians, but it resembles North African Arabic and is sprinkled with loan words from other languages. The second official language is English, which they adopted from their former colonial masters, and pretty much every Maltese is bilingual. Most people also speak fluent Italian, as Italian television, radio and music are liberally consumed throughout the country. It takes a while to get used to the fact that you're in a Meditarranean country, and everybody speaks more than one language. Take that, Italians, Spaniards and Frenchies.
Breakfast's included in the price of the guesthouse, and prepared and served by Charlie, who also takes his time sitting down and chatting with his guests while they are eating. The piss-weak tea and white bread (albeit tasty 'tis) with butter and sugary jam serves as a reminder, once again, that sometimes it might be worth it shelling out the extra couple of bucks to have a proper breakfast at a café, but for the moment, we make do with what we got. There's a boisterous, middle-aged Englishman sitting at another table, whose voice dominates the general atmosphere this morning. Turns out he's a former soldier who was stationed in Malta, and he liked the islands so much that when his service finished, he just stayed there. The only other guest is a French chick sitting at the Englishman's table, just because there's no other table left, and all we ever see of her is her back. She's in Malta for an English course, and seems to have started from absolute zero. The English guy impatiently corrects her and reluctantly repeats words she doesn't understand, which are pretty much all of them. Charlie talks to her in broken, but perfectly acceptable French, using Italian words where he doesn't know the French ones.

First thing we do directly after breakfast is head to the National Museum of Archeology, but not to see the exhibition, but to line up for tickets to the Hypogeum, Malta's biggest tourist drawcard. The Hal Saflieni Hypogeum is an underground necropolis, thought to date from around 3600-3000 BC, and which probably housed an estimated 7000 bodies at one stage. It consists of vast halls, chambers and passages hewn out of the living rock, covering some 500 m², and the sheer scale and magnificence of the site is surpassed only by the mystery it is shrouded in. Nobody knows what ancient civilization built the Hypogeum, and by what means.
Now the problem is that access to the Hypogeum is limited to 60 visitors per day, which makes it tough to get hold of a place on the list. One can book on the internet, but the site is usually booked solid for weeks in advance. The last chance for those who didn't manage to secure a spot is to line up at the Museum of Archeology early in the morning, and to hope that there are tickets left for the same day or the next.
When we arrive half an hour before opening time, there's already a few people waiting, amongst others an obviously German middle-aged couple (white socks in sandals FTW) and a solitary Japanese traveller wearing a Djibouti t-shirt. When the museum opens everybody lines up neatly, and we manage to get tickets for the following day, albeit at €25 they come at a cost.

Although we take our time exploring Valletta in detail, it doesn't take us long to find our way around. The city sits on a peninsula, and walking along its edges, you get nice views of the towns scattered around it, with their impressive forts, pretty lighthouses and harbours. Everything feels really close together, and everything is covered with buildings, almost as if the Maltese want to make good use of every little square metre they have.
Most of the houses look orderly and well-kept, and the adorned balconies and friezes give them a very unique touch. There are images of Jesús (the Middle Eastern bloke, not your Mexican gardener) and his mother Mary (of whom they say she's also a virgin, imagine the chutzpah of a religion that makes their followers believe such logical inconsistencies, haha...) as well as an assortment of saints on most residential buildings, blatantly reminding us that we're in Catholic country. In fact, according to a 2005 census, 95% of Maltese believe there is a "God", and more than 50% regularly attend Mass on Sunday. Consequently, divorce and abortion are illegal in Malta, and this is highly unlikely to change. Attitudes are staunchly conservative, women are mostly expected to stay at home and look after their children, homosexuality is frowned upon at best, same-sex marriages or partnerships are not recognized.

We stop at a food stall to eat some pastizzi, small deep-fried parcels of flaky pastry filled with mushy peas or cheese. The vendor doesn't respond to 'Merħba' (hello) or to 'Grazzi' (thank you), and just looks at me as I wait for an expression of common courtesy for a split second. The pastry tastes better than it sounds, but we have to take care not to let that snack become part of our regular diet, as the paper bag that holds the pastizzi becomes translucent from fat in no time.
We visit Hastings Gardens, Fort St. Elmo, the Siege Bell Memorial and the Upper Barrakka Gardens, from where you get an excellent view on the harbour. There are quite a few people out and about, but the city is not yet crammed to a stage that could be considered uncomfortable, after all, it is still shoulder season, probably 10-14 days before the hordes come pouring in.

Next morning, we take the bus to Paola, the small town where the Hypogeum is located. Our tour there starts at 11:00, and before that, we visit the Tarxien Temples, a megalithic structure that turns out to be a big disappointment. First of all, when we arrive at the entrance to the temples, it is just in time to be caught on a wave of several large tour groups consisting of mostly old people entering the site. Then, once inside, we have great difficulties manoeuvering around them; somehow they always manage to stand in the way or walk into our pictures. Probably the worst thing about it is that the temples themselves are just a seemingly random assortment of stone blocks, and after around 10 minutes you've seen them all. Only a few of them are nicely decorated with spiral patterns and reliefs of bulls, goats and pigs, and the most famous figure is that of a female with a really big ass.

Afterwards, we walk to the Hypogeum, a mere 5 minutes away. The entrance is a bit hard to find at first, just because it's so inconspicuous. Who would expect the entrance to a 5000-year old structure in a normal-looking house, behind a generic door? The Hypogeum was discovered by accident in 1902, when workers broke through the roof duing building work, and subsequenly excavated. It was inscribed on the UNESCO World Heritage List in 1980. The obligatory tour starts punctually, and all 10 participants are handed out audioguides. Before we descend to the necropolis, we pass through an exhibition room filled with artifacts and findings from the site. There is a guide who walks with us, but apart from a brief introduction, he doesn't talk or explain anything, his only purpose seems to be to point out the right direction and make sure nobody slips and falls along the way. Speaking of which the stairs that lead down are indeed pretty slippery, so is the whole passage that leads through the structure.
We descend to the second level of the underground temple via the central passage, passing burial chambers on each side. We enter rooms with painted walls and ceilings, consisting mostly of spirals in red ochre, but also of geometrical patterns and circular blobs. When we finally arrive at the Holy of Holies, we are duly impressed. As the name already suggests, it is the most important room of the Hypogeum. It consists of three layers of elaborately carved trilithons, framed on top of each other, very smoothly finished. The workmanship is all the more impressive when one considers that the chambers were meticulously carved using only stone tools. Unfortunately, photography is strictly prohibited, so no pictures of it in here. It is quite understandable, though, considering that the temperature, relative humidity and carbon dioxide levels are constantly monitored to ensure the preservation of the Hypogeum for future generations.

Seeing that we still have half the day left, we hop on a bus to Senglea, which, together with Cospicua and Vittoriosa, forms the Three Cities, situated on peninsulas Southeast of Valletta. We take an easy walk the whole length of picturesque Senglea, stopping at a small pub for a drink. The few Maltese men and women inside stare at us suspiciously, they don't seem to get many tourists here. I have a can of local Cisk beer, which is alright, but nothing special. At the table next to us sits a lady who is constantly arguing with her son, a roughly 8-year old kid who defiantly talks back to his mother, until she slaps him in the face. The tears start rolling, he screams something at her and runs to the house opposite the pub, where he enters and smashes the door shut. Again, very Catholic.
We walk on to Vittoriosa, where we enter the labyrinthine lanes of Il Collachio, the old part of town. In these narrow alleys, no cars can pass, which makes a stroll all the more pleasant, for one can concentrate on the elaborate door-knockers, numerous pot-plants and cactuses and the laundry suspended overhead, the Mediterranean classic. Time seems to have come to a standstill here, illustrated best in a few ancient-looking old people sitting on doorsteps, who look like they've taken root and merged with the grapevine and ivy.
As a stark contrast, the harbour is rather modern, with futuristic multi-million dollar yachts moored next to each other, and their leather-skinned owners suntanning beneath their respective flags.

After a day full of disappointing and fascinating experiences, we return to Valletta and eat a nice dinner in one of the city's numerous restaurants. Seeing that most traditional Maltese dishes are of the meaty variety (rabbit, baby marrows, fish, etc.), we stick to the Italian-inspired options where there's no better local vegetarian alternative. The pasta dishes and pizza that are on offer are mostly pretty good and sometimes even delicious, and I get the feeling that most restaurants pride themselves on their fresh, local ingredients and creative recipes.
The only downside is that the general consensus among café, restaurant and pub owners appears to be to slightly overcharge the customers wherever they can. We always have to remember the prices of our meals as stated in the menu. With the drinks it's a bit trickier, they usually don't appear on the menu, so one should ask what the respective drink costs before ordering. In one restaurant, even though I asked for the price of a beer before ordering it, they charge me 50 cents more than what I was told. When asked about it, the brazen waiter apologizes that we received wrongful information, but insists we pay the price on the bill. Likewise, you should always count the change immediately, as they really like to short-change you. It's not a lot each time, mind you, 20 cents here, 50 cents there, but if they do it all the time, and nobody complains, they make a killing ripping people off. Good Catholic people, eh?

The next day, we take the bus to Marsaxlokk on the other side of the island, a 45-minute trip from the capital. Marsaxlokk is a small fishing village that could be classified somewhere between sleepy and dull. The only reason to go there is to marvel at the luzzu, the traditional, colourful Maltese boats that abound in the bay. Oh, and passionate piscivores can indulge in the fresh seafood that is on offer in the manifold restaurants that line the harbour. J. tucks into some fish and chips, then we're off again, as the town is just a bit too dead for our taste.

More exciting is the walled-in city of Mdina in central Malta, 30 minutes Southeast of Valletta. It lies right next to the small town of Rabat, and is probably the most beautiful town Malta has to offer. Its citadel was fortified as long ago as 1000 BC by the Phoenicians. Nowadays Mdina is a highly popular tourist destination, primarily with day-trippers, who flock the main streets, spend exorbitant amonts in the glass-blowing factory, eat an expensive lunch and hop on their bus again to be carted to the next attraction. It is so easy to escape the crowds, though, we just walk one or two alleys off the main lane, and the silence becomes overwhelming. All of a sudden you're alone in one of the most picture-perfect settings imaginable. We find a hidden little restaurant and have our lunch there. We order the Gozitan platter for two, which consists of sundried tomatoes, olives, capers, mushrooms, putrid Gozitan cheese (which really packs a punch), freshly-baked bread, and tomato, bean and basil dips. The service is refreshingly genuinely friendly and attentive, and our waitress surprisingly has purple hair and a decent number of facial piercings. The food is simply incredibly delicious, and the owner, a middle-aged slim man with slick hair, moustache and glasses and the raspiest, hoarsest, croakiest, most Marlon-Brando-in-The-Godfather-like voice I've ever heard, comes up to our table to ask if we enjoy our meal and to advise us on putting a bit of everything on a piece of bread, for eating it that way makes it all the more delectable.
We finish our feast with a shot of sweet bajtra (prickly pear) liqueur, and chat to the owner for a while, fully taking in the words his raucous vocal chords produce. The waitress asks us whether we'll go to the Cannibal Corpse concert in a few weeks, and I am more surprised that such a band would be permitted to perform in this country than by the fact that she asked such a question merely based on my outward appearance. I can just imagine the band starting with: "Hello, Malta! We are Cannibal Corpse, and the first song tonight is called 'Meat Hook Sodomy'!" Probably the archbishop himself will keelhaul the band when they realize the blasphemy they committed inviting such unholiness into their pure, unspoilt Christian land.

We have a quick look around adjacent Rabat, which is a bit more rough than well-kept Mdina. When we get disoriented trying to find St. Agatha's Crypt & Catacombs, an elderly priest with a benevolent smile stops to ask whether we need help. He explains us the way, and goes on his. We watch him walk into the other direction, when suddenly a car stops next to him, with the driver greeting him and then giving him a banknote, which the priest takes, nodding gratefully.
We arrive at our destination, pay the entrance fee, and visit the musty museum, which is stuffed with random things, like Christian memorabilia, sealed glasses containing worms in ethyl alcohol, animal skeletons, stuffed animals, paintings, there's even a didgeridoo, for unfathomable reasons. We leave after a couple of minutes, mildly confused, and wait around for the tour of the crypt to start. Our guide arrives and asks the assembled people whether everybody understands English. There's an elderly German couple who doesn't, so I volunteer to interpret for them. Before we descend into the crypt, the guide lets us know that we have only 20 minutes before we have to get out again, as the oxygen will run out in the narrow underground catacombs.
As to the history of the place, St. Agatha was a 3rd-century Christian martyr who sought refuge on Malta from the amorous advances of Quintianius, the governor of Sicily. When she returned to Sicily, she was imprisoned and tortured, amongst other things her breasts were cut off with shears, which is gruesomely depicted in many statues and paintings throughout Malta. The catacombs are said to have been her hiding place. They also functioned as underground cemeteries, dating to the 2nd or 3rd century AD. Hundreds of tombs of different shapes were found here, with the corpse routinely embalmed with oil, covered in sheets and wrapped in bandages. The body was then laid in the grave and later covered with stone or terracotta slabs and sealed with mortar. The guide explains everything pretty rapidly, and I try to give the Germans a quick synopsis afterwards. When the guide asks if we have any questions, J. asks: "Yeah, where is that guy going?", pointing to a random old man wandering off into the confusing tunnels of the catacombs. The guide follows him and brings him back after a while. Turns out he's an old German guy who appears to be more than just a bit confused, with a younger man, probably his son, taking care of him, but not all to well, apparently.
When we move on to the next room, passing through numerous openings carved out of the stone, the guide realizes that the same two guys are missing again. He goes off to fetch them, which takes a bit longer this time. The guide asks me to tell them to stay with the group, which I do, but the son snaps at me irritatedly: "Well, let me tell you that this man is 84 years old, and he doesn't know what he's doing, it's hard enough already for him climbing through these caves here, and it's none of your business anyway." I decide to go all German back at him: "It is some of my business at least, seeing that I'm the OFFICIAL interpreter for the tour guide. Just stay with the group already, and move out of the way, you're standing in front of the fresco everybody wants to see." We get to see another 'Holy of Holies', the earliest rock-cut church of Malta, a semicircular chapel with a frieze all around, and pillars and capitals to each side to decorate the place. In the middle of it is the most important fresco of these catacombs, dating from the 4th century AD, depicting the Alpha and the Omega as well as a large scallop shell that is meant to represent heaven. After taking a peek, our guide urges us to get out, as we have already extended our stay too much.

We begin our last day in Malta taking a bus to the Southeast coast of the island, to a tiny harbour called Wied iz-Zurrieq. For the first time, we see more tourists than locals on a bus, which gives me this nagging feeling that I shouldn't be there in the first place. Everybody gets off at the last stop and makes their way down to the quay, where a myriad of small, brightly coloured boats and their captains are already waiting for customers. What we've come to see is the Blue Grotto, a huge natural arch in the sea cliffs close to the harbour. I keep wondering if it's really worth it paying €7 for a short boat trip with other tourists to see a few caves and a big hole in the cliffs, but in the end, I cave in to the all-too-convenient, frequently throughout my travelling career reoccurring argument of "We're already here anyway, might as well do it".
We pay the fare, count the change, and hop on the next boat, together with 5-6 other people. Shortly after the boat leaves, I cast my doubts about the whole procedure aside. Yes, we are on a boat with other tourists, which makes me feel very touristy as well. But that said, it is quite picturesque, indeed, and kind of relaxing as well. I guess one doesn't always have to do original things when travelling. The boat passes through half a dozen caves with names such as Honeymoon Cave, Cat's Cave, Reflection Cave. The water is a very deep blue, and the cliffs rise dramatically out of the water. There are myriads jellyfish in the water, floating about in their gelatinous sort of way. We pass through the Blue Grotto, which is quite impressive after all, when you consider that it has been hollowed out by waves crashing at the cliffs for tens of thousands of years, patiently eroding the seemingly unforgiving, relentless rock.

Back on shore, we walk the 3km to the megalithic temples of Hagar Qim and Mnajdra, another 700m downhill from the first set of temples. I have to admit that they are better preserved and presented than the Tarxien Temples. Nonetheless, it still feels like random rocks put on top of each other, plus we are already too templed out, once again, to care or to be overly excited. The tentlike shelter they had to erect over the structures to protect them from the elements gives these an even more constructed, unnatural feel, so do the fences and the gates. Apparently the Mnajdra Temples are full of significant solar alignments, and at sunrise during the winter solstice, the main altar is illuminated by a beam of sunlight. Not bad for something that was built between 3600-3000 BC.

Our last supper in Valletta is again a big feast of excellent pasta with loads of parmigiano, served by bitchy-looking waitresses, who turn out not to be all too bad, I think I can even detect a hint of friendliness behind the bitter features. We go to bed quite early that night, for the next day will be a long one. We shall make our way to the isle of Gozo.

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