Blissful days in Gozo

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The bus drives up dangerously close to the bumper of the car in front. Our grumpy bald-headed driver blows the horn repeatedly, mouthing unintelligible insults, pressing his lips together in anger. The radio plays Elvis Presley's 'Jailhouse Rock', and he turns up the volume to a deafening volume, adjusts his sunglasses, and proceeds with harassing the poor driver in front of us. We're sitting right behind the driver, who serves as our principal source of entertainment this morning.

The ride from Valletta to Ċirkewwa, the harbour where the ferry to Gozo departs, takes around two hours, which makes it one of the longest possible drives in Malta. When we arrive there, the ferry's already waiting. We just walk on with the cars, as there's no separate ramp for passengers. The ticket is payable on return. The ferry is not that crowded, and it feels like we're the only tourists on board, definitely the only foreign backpackers. Most of the passengers look on in bewilderment as we lug our big backpacks onto a couch in the lounge.

A mere 20 minutes later, we arrive at Mġarr harbour in Gozo, where we get on the bus for Victoria, Gozo's capital. Some young Frenchies get on after us, but when they see that the bus is very cramped, they want to get off to wait for the next one because it's TOO BLOODY HARD TO STAND FOR 8 MINUTES to a bunch of 18-year-olds. Luckily for them and their poor feet, the driver finds some spare seats where they can rest from the hardships of travel.

In Victoria, we go and eat at a nice little eatery close to the tiny bus station to pass the time until the bus to Xlendi, our final destination, departs. The service is refreshingly friendly and attentive, and the ciabatta and focaccia with grilled vegetables and mozzarella is divine.

Afterwards we hang around outside and wait for the bus. We ask an Italian couple with a maybe 5-year old daughter whether they go the same way as us. The kid is so fascinated by my leg that she just can't stop staring at it. When she discovers that my arm is painted as well, her eyes sparkle with surprise and glee. Then she beholds my ears, and her jaw drops, for she doesn't know what to make of that. It's nice for a change to get a young kid smiling at me, instead of the usual wary stares and tugging at their mothers skirts to direct attention to the strange creature that they were always warned about by their procreators, for somebody who looks like that might also feast on little children.

Another bus ride later, we finally arrive in Xlendi. The main attraction of tiny Xlendi is its gorgeous natural cove filled with water of different shades of blue, glistening in the sun. Sharp cliffs rise out of the water dramatically, accentuating the picture-perfect setting of the bay.

At our guesthouse, we have to walk through the back, past the swimming pool, to find a door that's unlocked. Fortunately, the owner has left the room key for us. First thing I do is put on my bathers and take a quick dip in the pool to cool off, pure bliss after half a day of walk-bus-ferry-bus-bus-walk in the scorching heat. When I look up at the balcony, there's the little Italian girl playing peek-a-boo with me. It took me a while to figure out that this is only the second time I've ever stayed at a hotel with swimming pool. The first time was in Crete back in 2002, on a trip where I carefully started cracking the shell of the package tourist-incubator. I was astounded to discover what lies beyond, and still am.

We walk down to find the small beach uncomfortably crowded with predominantly fat kids eating ice cream and frolicking in the water. Up the paved little path to one side of the bay, it's a bit less busy, and we base ourselves there for the moment. The water's just right, cool and fresh, and quite deep less than 50 metres from the shore already.
For dinner, we decide to go on the cheap and eat veggie burgers and fries at a place called Herbees, a poor choice for a name maybe, for it rhymes with Herpes.


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After a good breakfast, we hop on the hourly bus to Victoria, also known as Rabat. Gozo's capital has about 6600 inhabitants, and if you come at the right time, you might even witness a bit of life in the sleepy little town. There's a small market place that feels like it's been the same for the last 400 or so years. Vendors are selling fruit and vegetables, dried fruits and local sweets from their tiny shops. Next door, well-dressed oldtimers sit in tiny cafés, drinking coffee, playing backgammon or arguing about politics.

We sit down for a coffee, seeing that deceleration is a virtue on this little isle. I flick through the local newspaper, The Times, whose frontpage screams 'Liberal MP would rather live in Iran' at me. The article says the politician's bizarre utterance is based on his perception that "people there riot in the streets when somebody makes fun of their religion". He can't take it anymore to live in a society where religion is ridiculed. Apparently it all stemmed from a film in which somebody cloned Jesus. He says Muslims would go crazy if it had been Muhammad instead. Hotels where you can watch porn channels are something else the guy doesn't approve of, and he's greatly concerned about the fact that there's more single mothers in Malta nowadays compared with 30 years ago. The punchline: "Our country is on the way to becoming like the UK, where children rape and kill other children".

A letter to the editor from an angry Valletta man says that with the upcoming 50-year anniversary of the pill, he thinks it has caused severe societal problems such as an increase of extramarital sex, abortions, divorces, Barbra Streisand, et al., and not, as stated when it was introduced, a decrease in these. He closes his letter with the words "May God Help us all".

There's a less liberal newspaper than The Times as well; the headline on the cover of that one says 'No Eucharist for mortal sins'. The writer of the corresponding article opines that "people who are guilty of mortal sins shouldn't receive the Eucharist in church as it could aggravate others who are free of sin". He doesn't elaborate on how to detect those evildoers - or the innocent little sheep, for that matter - though. Finding somebody free of sin might actually be a rather unfeasible assignment in holier-than-thou-Malta. Why those asshole hypocrites are always so quick to point fingers and cast the first stone, I shall never comprehend. Cloning Jesus might be a good idea after all, if only for the clones to teach these wire-to-God-wannabes some old school and the proper religious ways.


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We roam around the extensive Il-Kastell, a picturesque citadel that's one of Victoria's biggest sights. From its walls, one gets the best views over most of Gozo, and even a glimpse of the Mediterranean Sea. At some points, it gets uncomfortably crowded with Spanish and German tour groups, and we try to dodge them as good as we can, travel snobs that we are.

The following day, we head to Victoria again, as it's the main hub to get anywhere on Gozo. This time, we hike a path that winds itself up a hill towards the little village of Xagħra, perched on the hilltop. Upon arrival, we find a place that looks like it's been asleep for centuries. There's hardly anybody on the streets, which are dusty and littered with rubbish, but the pretty main square, Pjazza Vittorja, with a small café and a church that looks curiously similar to all the other ones, make more than up for it.

Gozo is indeed much slower and relaxed than its bigger neighbour. The island has only about 30,000 inhabitants, you get more of a sense of space than on Malta, plus the air is cleaner. There's more vegetation, albeit of the barren and rocky type, and less congested urbanization, none, in fact. Not that Malta was such an urbanized place, but too overdeveloped and polluted it certainly is. Still, the only wildlife we see on Gozo are lizards. Cars, or rather their insane drivers, are a real nuisance there, just like on Malta.

We visit the Ġgantija Temples just south of Xagħra, the largest of the UNESCO-inscribed Megalithic Temples of Malta. They are believed to have been built between 3600 and 3000 BC, which makes them one of the world's oldest man-made religious structures. There's hardly anybody around, which makes a stroll around the two temples all the more pleasant. The free audio guide informs us that when they were constructed, neither the wheel nor metal tools had been introduced to Malta, and that the temples were possibly the site of a fertility cult that sacrificed animals on several of their altars. Hard as I may try, I still find it difficult to get excited about an accumulation of stones and rubble, especially when it's held together by scaffolding. The best thing about the site are the old olive trees that surround it. I really like olive trees.


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Our hotel has copies of the monthly newsletter of the local church. It's only one sheet of A4-paper, printed on both sides. Apart from a bunch of bible quotes and dates of upcoming events, the newsletter crowns a Saint of the Month, which for that month is St. Joseph the Worker, to fit with the 1st of May. There's also a small section called 'Food for Thought'. It says "Without God our week would be: Sunday - Sinday; Monday - Mournday; Tuesday - Tearsday; Wednesday - Wasteday; Thursday - Thistday (sic); Friday - Fightday; Saturday - Shatterday". They close this edition with "If you are not ashamed of GOD, pass it on. Remember seven days WITHOUT GOD makes one WEAK!!" I like that they used all caps for emphasis.


Most of our time in Gozo we spend lazing around at Xlendi Bay, swimming, snorkelling to some of the small caves on the opposite side of the bay, and eating great pasta dishes in one of the many restaurants just off the beach. The first time we go there, the waiter serves us bruschetta without our having ordered them, and my first reaction is to ask whether they are free of charge. The waiter says yes and looks at us as though we were penny-pinchers, giving us a bad conscience; he would probably be more understanding of our suspicion had he been charged for bread in restaurants in Italy and for random entrées and appetizers in Portugal. When after the delicious mains, he brings us two limuncell liquors out of his own initiative, we don't ask but down them gratefully.


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Our last day is more on the stressful side again, unfortunately. We do the walk-bus-bus-ferry-bus-bus-thing again, having to deal with a couple of unfriendly bus drivers, who want us to pay for our luggage, but don't like it when we put it on a seat. At the Valletta bus terminal, I buy some last greasy pastizzi and mqaret, a date-filled, deep-fried pastry, for the wait at the airport.

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Congratulations, on your first featured blog, on the Front Page. :)