Malta is weird. Half the people living here speak broken English. The other half apparently are English. Chatted to a man this morning, his skin an advert for a melanoma charity. He said he was born in Malta but I knew he hadn’t always lived here. Raw Brummie can’t be faked. Who would want to? He was curious about my accent. I explained my background, lack of regional roots. He had a similar tale, his father in the army.
Despite the early start it was gone 10am before I caught the bus to today’s destination. I knew where to catch the bus because I’d stopped at tourist information, Google being curiously incapable of helping. But the tourist office was manned by a sole lady, and she worked on Maltese time. She parked her car and emerged, blinking curiously at the five people waiting, six minutes after she should have opened.
We’d waited patiently, a derelict mini golf between us and the sea, used now only by the lizards that sheltered from the sun under the obstacles.
The rest of the hour was spent chatting to the former army brat, walking to the bus station, admiring a nice boat sailing past. As I approached the station a bus left, its number the one I wanted. Once I got there, queued at the ticket office, got told to buy a ticket on the bus a sign told me the next bus would be 20 minutes. Another declared it to be 33C, and still not 10am.
The bus station itself closes for lunch. Or maybe a brief siesta. Later I found the convenience store behind my hotel closed at the same time; perhaps all of Malta stops from 2-3pm.
I sat behind the station, a low wall offering a seat in the shade. Graffiti on rear of the bus station encouraged intercourse with fast food, the four lettered alliteration contrasting with the low quality artwork.
I wondered if a bus whose destination board read Tas-Sliema went somewhere different to one stating Tas-Silema. The buses all have a common number plate: BUS and three digits. Later I spotted a taxi, its number plate TAXI and then the number of the car, also written on its side.
Bugibba has a lot of property for sale. Much of it advertising that it’s being sold by the owner, one building stating it had a class 5 permit.
The 20 minute wait ended and the electronic sign updated. Next bus now another half hour away. I sighed: Maltese time. It arrived halfway between the two times, the driver struggling with English, giving me a single not a return, €2 to reach the destination. I asked him to let me know when we got there but he laughed and said, “It’s the last stop.” The bus filled.
The driver closed the doors then opened them again. Another passenger boarded. The doors closed, opened again. The passenger leaned out, beckoned to her family who ran 40 yards to get on.
No seats left, one person standing. A small girl smiled at me, sat beside me, stared forward. I could only see her flowery baseball cap and, below, sparkly flip flops. An hour into the trip she got agitated, seemed bored. By then there was no standing room either, the aisle full, half a dozen people forward of the ‘Do not disturb the driver’ sign.
I’d seen where I was going a few times by then. We zigzagged through the middle of the island, countless towns blurring together, non-tourist areas, constant stonework, an aviation museum by the national stadium, a craft centre and a derelict military base.
The whole island is pitted with forts and towers, protecting a scrub field here, overseeing a rocky hill there. I see little farming activity, no livestock, the rare field of crops the size of an allotment and growing small dry plants.
The bus got less busy, the small girl getting up and moving to another seat. Her mother sat beside me instead, bright dress and dark glasses.
A family got off, the waist high boy opening a red telephone box, ushering his smaller brother in. A brief exploration and escape was attempted, but the door too heavy. He was freed, the entrapment accidental, and they moved off. The bus did too, grinding painfully up a hill.
I was the last off the bus, found most of the passengers milling around, consulting their phones, pointing in different directions. I ignored the roman house and crossed a small park to gaze upon a broad wall, a gate through some 40 feet below. Circling back around I walked down a steep road, a couple dodging my photograph of the gate, then turning to photograph it themselves.
I’d been promised a good view if I walked up the hill to a cafe. I found the cafe, and its view.
They don’t do full meals at lunchtime so I ended up with a pizza. Pizza and pasta seem the national dishes, along with the rabbit. This was a full sized pizza, and with coffee cost me €10.55. In Berlin they’d have charged me that just for the view.
The walled city the cafe is in looks seriously old, its walls rivalling those of the Spandau Citadel I’d seen four days before. Inside it’s very different, people’s homes and religious sites, narrow alleys giving it the feel of the Moroccan medinas, but without the roof to shield the sun, with neat yellow brickwork feeling more permanent than the Moroccan plasterwork. I do minimal research before visiting places like this, so only now know that the city dates back to the eighth century BC, fought over by the Seleucids, the Romans, the Byzantine empire, the Sicilians, the Saracens, the Hafsids, the Ottomans, the French and the locals. Only when the British stepped in and made Malta a protectorate in 1800 did things settle down. The Germans got a bit frisky in 1940 and spent two years trying to invade, but stalwart defence both stopped them even landing but also retained Malta as a supporting base for the war in North Africa.
All the tourist sites subtitle Mdina “the silent city”. Lacking idiots with car horns does not make a city silent, especially when roving packs of teenage tourists are calling to each other down the streets. On a related and perhaps distasteful note, teenage camel toe appears to be in fashion. (No link for that, there are some google searches even I don’t want to do).
Rabat stands by Mdina, full of churches and chapels that wouldn’t fit inside the walled town. Malta relishes its biblical relevance but Rabat goes to extremes. Church of St This, That or T’Other, St Whatshername’s catacombs, St Someone Else‘s catacombs, St Oojamaflip‘s grotto, a convent. I visited the grotto, one set of catacombs and a world war 2 bomb shelter hewn out of the bedrock. The shelter was basic but deep enough to stay cool, while the catacombs matched my Enid Blyton influenced expectations of narrow low corridors weaving in a disorientating maze.
I’d drunk a bottle of water before entering the catacombs. I emerged with it covering me, soaking my shirt. I don’t mind the heat but it does leave clothing damp. At the bus stop something young and slim in a lightweight playsuit glared at me in disdain. I smiled back when she stood up, revealing the large dark ovals that had formed on the creases at the top of her thighs where she’d been sitting.
Nobody escapes in this heat.
The wait for a bus home was easier. Maybe I’d acclimatized to local standards or perhaps the lack of a due time prevented undue expectations. The bus was quieter, merely about full, a seat left by me and one by the girl to my left. In her 20s, travelling alone, her shoulders covered but no hat.
I sat on the same side of the bus, seeing the other side of the road. An office building, light industry, a travel agent advertising holidays to Slovenia. Another impressive stone building, could be a church, a town hall, an opera house. The downsides of taking a random bus, everything you see is a mystery. The joy is looking it up later, learning about the places you’ve been and seen.
The seat next to me gets taken, a local lady, her phone using a different language. She departs a few stops later, no words exchanged.
I see a hilltop fortress, at one time nearly a quarter of the island under its cannon. Malta is short of natural resources or wealth, its location the key source of its influence and why civilisations have for millennia sought to control it.
I leave the bus before we reach the bus station, a much shorter walk back to my hotel. I’d done 7km anyway, adding to the 4km from yesterday and making a rest feel attractive. Back in the hotel by 3pm felt too early, except I’d left it well over six hours before, even if half that time had been spenting waiting for or sat on buses. I just didn’t fancy any other activity, even after drinking a lot of water. I was already over halfway through the water I bought yesterday, just 24 hours after buying it.
Later in the evening, after the sun had set, I ventured out. The power had gone in the hotel, emergency backup kicking in half a second later, the wifi router taking another 50 seconds. I’d decided to go out anyway, see the town at night, find a boat. The nearby apartments had no power still, residents sat outside, chatting quietly in the dusk.
The boat was nearer than I’d thought, and that meant it was smaller too. I have an 8 second exposure with my real camera; whether it worked with no tripod I’ll find out when I get home.
I brought another 9l of water back to the hotel with me, took off my t-shirt, wrung it dry and set about replacing the fluid that 4km walk through the dark had lost me. There’s a very gentle breeze but it just moves the warm air around. I settled back on the bed, resting my knees. The catacombs had been hard on them and bus trips always cause problems, so it was nice that I could still venture out so late.