The sun had begun to set from the horizon by the time our plane arrived at Luqa airport. The airport was small; only a few people and taxis drivers idly waiting at the exit. I was greeted by a vast open space outside the airport. It is typical to build an airport in the middle of nowhere, surrounded by vacant land and space. For some reason, I felt immediately calmed, a strange feeling to have at the airport. I took small steps toward the bus stop, seeing it was not too far away.
There was already a long line of tourists waiting ahead of us. Shortly after, an orange bus appeared to everyone’s relief. Except for those who stood at the end, two of them were us. The bus was filled up very quickly, more precisely it was packed, but the queue shrank only by half. With this rate, we would not even get a breathing space let alone standing and sitting. From a distance, I saw another orange bus heading to our direction. Though the bus number 59 was not one of the buses destined for Valletta (based on my prior research), out of desperation, I asked Alena to abandon the post to check with the driver. She turned to me, nodded and like a fish let go from the hook into the water, we slipped onto the new bus taking with us only ten more tourists, leaving behind the body slamming and sweat smelling contest.
Now sitting comfortably on two seats next to my backpack occupying two others, I looked out of the window and watched the people dubiously looking back at us with a tinge of jealousy. Still more and more climbed into the over-packed bus. Is it hard to switch? Is it that difficult to try something slightly different from what we expected? It is not like bus 59 will drive them off to some unbeaten path in Malta.
Is it hard to switch? Is it that difficult to try something slightly different from what we expected? The tourists could have walked only two meters out of the queue and asked, if not the driver than us who were already on the bus. We are afraid to change even a simple and small thing. We don’t like the inconvenience or doing something out of our mindset. Then I realized that this was exactly how we went about doing things in life. We hardly change. We are afraid of changing. We keep on the same old routine even though two meters and one minute might have brought us out of our misery. These two meters and one minute more had brought my sore bottom utter happiness.
The bus carried me to the capital Valletta and began a trip in a country I knew little. The landscape, at first, was dull but gradually became familiar when we slowly entered what seemed to be the center of a city. Neighborhood after the neighborhood had walls painted in either white, beige or very light color. Almost every house had a pocket-like balcony protruding out to the street. The muted toned buildings resembled those in San Marino, and the wooden windows could be seen in many other seaside cities in the Mediterranean.
The friendly bus driver dropped us off on the street near our hotel Metropole. We took one look at the fancy hotel and got a little bit nervous. We doubted if a room in such a hotel cost only 14 euros as advertised when we made the reservation. We wondered if they would put us in the basement or a storage cabinet. We waited a long 15 minutes for the front-desk staff to get off the phone and finish our invoice. Here it was, 28 euros for two nights. What a splendid joke. We showered and pampered ourselves fast if you consider dripping 100 ml of water on dust-filled bodies, and pounding tons of deodorant and body spray are showering and beauty maintaining. No wonder with this kind of beauty care, we hadn’t found our prince charming.
It was dark by the time we hit the marina. We strolled along the bay, listening to the sound of nocturnal ripples alternate with the desperate pleading from our empty stomachs. An old man with a perfect English accent walked by, offered to take our photos and ended up to be our evening escort. Our gentleman didn’t come from England nor ever lived in England as I first thought. His perfect-English secret was not some mystery. Malta ceased to be a British protectorate only in the late 50s.
My knowledge about Malta is limited if not nothing. I didn’t even know Malta was only some miles south of Italy until I researched for the trip. Malta, to me, was a black box. I had no imagination whatsoever about the land and the people who occupied it. Our accidental host was warm-hearted and a little touchy, stroking our arms when answering our questions. His behavior didn’t bother us at all, perhaps because in the Mediterranean, people don’t understand the fuss about the 100-mile-social-distance rule that Westerners invented and applied when in contact with strangers. We followed the old man and listened to his brief lecture on the English colony and the modern-day situation of Malta. Without knowing, we had crossed into another city, San Julian. The kind old man parted his way. “I need to go home now. ” “Yes you should. Your wife is waiting.” I joked. “No-one is waiting home for me. I’m alone.” What meant to be a casual and innocent remark became a bad-timing joke. I felt like a complete fool.
Words escaped both Alena and I. We didn’t know what else to do except for standing there, waving at him and seeing him off to his car before continuing toward the restaurant area. Thoughts slowly returned to us, and out of a sudden Alena groaned: “Oh my god, we should have asked him to have dinner with us.” Her frustration resounded with me, and for the remaining of the night, we were left wondering why we didn’t think of asking him for dinner. Alena at one point shouted at me to shut up or else she would cry. It is the thing I keep reminding myself from time to time, but when it matters, I forget. I tend to build a wall I often use to filter out unnecessary distraction from situation and strangers, only to feel some kind of regret and sadness when they are about to disappear for not getting to know them better.
Alena and I continued our walk further into St. Julian, the party den of Malta. You wouldn’t know it if taking our route. The street was dark with a handful of restaurants still opened for business. We walked past a few bars, but they looked all dead. Only when we looked across the harbor to the well-lit area where our friend pointed to us earlier, we could believe young people didn’t come to this city to fall into to tranquil hypnotism. I turned to look at Alena, asking if she wanted to find the way to the party quarter or remained where we were and looked for a midnight yogi. She looked at me and deferred the decision-making responsibility back at me. No wonder we fitted so well together: two ’50-something’ indecisive introverts first time traveling to the Mediterranean island. On the way back to the hotel, we passed by a tour agency office. We didn’t have many days here. Thus, we opted to go on a tour called ‘Malta highlight.’ We called the number on the flier and was told to return in the morning at 9 o’clock sharp.
Our tour started with stops at two craft villages to watch a demonstration of glass blowing and jewelry making. Education and mind-blowing stuff right? Well, it could have been if these stops weren’t the introduction of our tour and didn’t look obvious to every tour member that we would spend the first two hours here just to shop.
It’s very interesting though how Malta’s glass blowing industry differed drastically compared to its closest neighbor Italy. Italy’s glass industry has been around since the 13th century, but Malta only began the production in the late 60s, owing to an English guy called Michael Harris. I was surprised at first why the godfather of Malta’s glass industry was not Michaelo Harrigi, an Italian, given the close distance culturally and geographically between these countries until I remembered Malta was a British colony. Mr. Harris’ setting up shop in Mdina must have been no difference than buying a flat in let say Scotland.
Malta had just gained its independence from British rule in 1964; the country needed to also prove itself to be economically independent. The government offered a 10-year tax-free to attract entrepreneurs. On top of that, the pleasant Mediterranean climate, the good food, and the idyllic lifestyle probably convinced the glass maker to make his move. His business, Mdina Glass, became an instant success due to the booming tourist industry. He specialized in free form organic glassware using nature: sea, sand, earth, and sky as inspiration for the colors of his products. He taught the local Maltese, whoever wanted to learn his craft.
One would think Michael Harris remained in Malta, skipping tea and drinking cappuccino for the rest of his life. The Mediterranean holiday was cut short when the Maltese government became increasingly nationalist, often seen in many newly independent countries. They wanted to get rid of any reminder of English influence and pressured him to leave.
I bought a small glass blow as souvenir, and soon departed with my group.
The driver drove to Blue Grotto, told us to hurry up to catch a 20-minute boat tour. The annoyance caused by the incompetent tour guide completely disappeared upon the first sight of the sparkling blue and green water. Middle-aged and old men in short-lined up the dock waiting to take tourists on their motorboat to discover the hidden jewel of Malta. The boat took us to a small arched cavern. The captain turned off the engine of the boat and let it drift slowly into the cave illuminated with various shades of blue and green colors. This natural phenomenon is caused by reflected sun-ray combined with the different underwater minerals and flora.
The Blue Grotto was featured in the Hollywood movie Troy in the scene where Brad Pitt’s character Achilles’ sought advice from his mother Thetis if he should go to Troy. Unlike any other mother, the nymph walked into the water, picked up a seashell, adjusted her Hollywood pose and said: “I knew they would come for you, long before you were born. They want you to fight in Troy…If you stay in Larissa, you will find peace, you’ll find a wonderful woman, you’ll have sons and daughters, and they will have children, and they will love you. And when you’re gone, they will remember you. But when your children are dead, and the children after them, your name will be lost. If you go to Troy, glory will be yours. They will write stories about your victories for thousands of years. The world will remember your name. If you go to Troy, you will never come home. For your glory walks hand in hand with your doom and I shall never see you again.” Then Achilles left Larissa, no I mean Brad Pitt bid goodbye to Julie Christie, left the Blue Grotto to move on to another film set as I returned to my horrible tour to see what else was waiting for me.
We returned to mini-van to learn that the half-day tour had concluded, and whoever booked a half-day package would be taken back to St. Julian. I realized I had just paid for a private driver and not a tour package. No extra information was given during the ride except for very basic facts that anyone would know just by reading the travel guide. The driver didn’t bother to slow down the car let alone stop it when we passed by important sites which he was giving us a lecture.
The driver dropped us, those who bought the full-day package, at a restaurant in a dusty area surrounded by construction sites to return to St. Julian to pick up more prey for the evening half-day program. The tour company had made sure that guests not only had a memorable event but also treated to a full-course “gourmet” meal. Our lunch consisted of canned pasta and tomato soup. Seafood was a slice of frozen fillet served with french fries. Fresh fruit was one apple arranged nicely on a small plate. Canned peach and pineapple chunks were labeled ‘fruit salad.’ If it weren’t for the laid-back man from Wales, his Scottish wife who resembled Susan Boyle and the comical Turk and his warm German girlfriend, I would not know what to do with myself. You might think that I exaggerated or that I was just another spoiled city-dweller who went on a trip for the first time and found faults in whatever not cooked by my mother. It was the opposite; by the way, my mother can’t cook. I had a high tolerance for mediocre food. If I find something to be awful, it wouldn’t have the luck to be your third bite. Sitting in an empty restaurant during lunch hour with no other guest than us, the scammed tourists, I could pen an Alanis Morissette’s Mediterranean irony. The driver showed up half an hour late but had the nerve to tell us to hurry up as the tour would end precisely at 4 p.m.
The next stop was Mdina. We felt relieved when a Romani came to fetch us at the stop. “Go with her. She will take care of you.” The drive reassured. The over emotional woman hushed the tour group and almost screamed when others didn’t follow her. “The show will start in 5 minutes. We are waiting for you.” I was excited because finally, some local guide would tell me a bit about the city. We had no time to stop to soak in the beautiful surrounding and had to rush with the angry woman. By the time we entered the door where the show was performed, one lady at the front desk quickly said “Only 5 euros!” We shook our heads in disbelief. It should come as a surprise after our morning endeavor and the gourmet lunch.
We walked out leaving behind a fuming Romani. It wasn’t a bad idea to watch the show as it was one of many highlights for tourists in Mdina. If I traveled on my own, I would probably find this show interesting and bought the ticket myself. But I felt frustrated by the manner of the tour, thus I couldn’t wait to be left alone to navigate the city. Mdina used to be the capital of Malta until the mid 16th century. 300 years earlier, the Muslims defeated the Crusaders, took over the Holy Land and drove them out of Jerusalem. Among them were Order of the Knight Hospitallers or Knights of Saint John of Jerusalem. They fled to Cyprus where they stayed for another 200 years. The fight continued, and again the Knights lost and retreated to Greece. The chase kept on until the siege in Rhodes where the Muslims evicted the Knights from the island. The Holy Roman Emperor, Charles V, ordered the Knights to stay in Malta to defend from further Islamic raids in exchange for paying minimal taxes.
Just because we tourists flock to Malta nowadays doesn’t mean that the Crusaders drooled over it. They reluctantly accepted the King’s offer. After all, beggars couldn’t choose; other than Malta, they didn’t have anywhere else to go. To defend the territory, the Knights had to build their base near the sea where they could easily spot the enemies. They moved to Valletta and there established a new capital which remains until present days. Mdina, as the years went by, became known as the ancient one. It was a little bit odd that despite being a cultural gem of Malta and an obvious tourist trap during the peak travel season, Mdina exuded the kind of airs which attracted people in their retirement to set up houses and mediated in tranquility.
I found myself often fumbling onto empty streets. The city was strangely quiet and peaceful, perhaps lived up to its other name, the ‘Silent City’. Some attribute the silence to the city’s design which blocks out cars and noises. Some say this is due to the ghosts which still linger about. Has your auditory sense ever been stimulated when you visited a rich neighborhood? Unlike many other old towns in Europe where the old quarter is only a part of the city together with the new part and the surrounding suburb, the fortified Mdina is a city of its own having just 300 inhabitants, many of whom are descendants of the the noble Maltese clans who built the grand buildings and palaces. What could have been the suburb of the ‘greater’ Mdina is the city of Rabat, meaning oh-well suburb.
We did not have time to hang around Rabat since the tour driver hushed us back into the minivan and drove us to the famous church of Mosta. It wasn’t the church which attracted tourists’ attention. It was the bomb and the story that came after it. On April 9th, 1942, a bomb hit the dome of the church, pierced through the ceiling, hit the floor in the midst of a wedding congregation of 300 people. The bomb neither exploded nor hurt anybody.
All Maltese perceived this as a miracle. They made a replica of the bomb and kept it as a memorial in the church. During World War II, Malta was heavily bombed, and during the year of 1942, this tiny island was the most bombed place on earth. Nearly 7000 tons of rained down in April, the same month when this bomb hit the church. Blame it on Malta’s geography. Only 100 miles, 180 km south of Sicily, Italy; Malta, a British colony, became the most important strategic point in the Mediterranean for the Allies. The island linked the supplying route between east and west while serving as the blockage to Italy’s military base in Libya.
I would never suspect that such a small country whose name I never heard mentioned in all my history classes could play such a vital role during the second war. I finally broke free from the queue of people waiting to behold the magical bomb which for the love of God didn’t explode on that fateful day. In reality, it was an intervention by the Czechs from Plzen. The Czech or at the time Czechoslovakian workers from Skoda’s car manufacturing plant, to rebel against the occupying Germans, filled the bomb with sand instead of explosive.
This is the official version, but if you ask me, I’ll tell you a different truth. These workers were probably too drunk to know the difference between sand and explosive. This Skoda plant was located in Plzen, the very place which gives the world the best beer, Pilsner Urquell.
My name is Cindy, also rhymes with travel junkie. A friend said I was probably a gipsy in my previous life. One of my many secret missions in life is to convert you to run off every once in awhile.
