The Maltese Talkin' - Chapter 7 - Gozo & The Supernatural Magic Of Dwejra

Chapter  7.   [ with photos ]

Waiting for the ferry to Gozo at Cirkewwa

 

The day was one of those rare days void of a season. The sun was getting bored, the clouds were wandering aimlessly. I was stood on the front deck of a ferryboat, cooled by what felt like the wind’s last heavy breaths. Just me and some freight trucks going over the fidgeting sea to the rural island.

The two other passengers

On arrival I walked past some fishermen re-painting their boats. The trucks from the ferry all past me up the first hill, honking their horns as they went. I spoke to a spectral man in his shaded doorway, explaining I that I was here for today and the night.

“Be careful,” he said, in what little English he had - I was not sure whether to take it in good will or as a threat. 

Mgarr harbour

       










I turned right at the top of the hill and walked through a village. On the outskirts I found an abandoned Mini painted pink with ‘GOZO GIRLS ON CALL HOB69696969’ scrawled in blood red on the side. A black air freshener hung in the front with a skull wearing an Elvis wig and the words ‘Die Young, Stay Beautiful’ written in a skeletal font. 

Couldn't resist a ride

I found a bay and went down for a swim. As I was about to climb in an old woman appeared heralded by her barking dog. She warned me that the sea was too rough.

“If you go in today, you might not come back out.” were her words of advice.

         I walked back the way I came, going past the village on the hill onwards towards Victoria, the capital of Gozo. The small city was as dull as its grey buses so after eating a slice of pizza I decided to continue walking. I was overtaken this time by a man riding a two wheeled ‘Gig’ – a cart pulled by a cantering horse. Practicing for the Trot Races - a national sporting event. I continued on and on with very little to look at except vast fields and ‘Stick No Bills’ signs attached to stone shacks until the sea once again became visible. 

 

No posters here

The long curvy road passed historic remnants of The Roman Civilisation, noted only by a tiny wooden sign: just another group of visitors barely remembered. The evening had started and was moving in fast when I reached the bottom of the hill. There I saw the small and surreal inland sea of Dwejra Bay.

         Dwejra is unique in many ways and plaques cropped up here and there to give detailed scientific information about the area and its rare breeds of plants and wildlife.  

Plaque 1.

Dwejra is an outstanding example representing significant on-going ecological and biological processes in the evolution and development of communities of plants and animals, including micro-evolutionary processes and the development of an endemic rupestral community including the presence of rare and endangered species.

         I sat by a hidden freshwater pool and wondered why this little ecological community was such a haven for loners, one-offs and mysteries - an outpost of the rare. Maybe it was here because any functional society needs little deposits for its anomalies. Or maybe the anomalies themselves choose these places that support their special requirements, these places on the border of the invisible that permit a strange existence.  

Dwejra's Azure Window and Inland Sea

Plaque 2.

Up to this day the Cart-Ruts have remained an unsolved puzzle to all authors and scholars who have tried to describe their function and behaviour. Attempts at giving a solution to these enigmatic features have been a continuous endeavour and various hypotheses have been suggested from irrigation systems to ancient mechanisms for the constructing of Megalithic Temples. But all theories are based on assumptions and limited evidence. The pair of ancient Cart-Ruts in the Dwejra area climb all the way up from behind the chapel dedicated to Saint Anne to the towering cliffs north of the Inland Sea. These Cart-Ruts are one of the most enigmatic archaeological features due to an unexplainable two metre drop and to the fact that they start and terminate in a mysterious way. 

 

         Brooding in the twilight hour, I felt I had a connection to Dwejra; a place accessible to the mainland ecosystem, similar in most respects, but also unapologetically different. Here without reason, sat purposely lost before the cold sunset. 

         Shrill back-wood sounds grew louder and all the horror films I'd ever seen converged in my mind along with the fear they had created. Here I was alone at a bizarre cove, night falling, wind whipping up; the moon wearing a costume of dread. I had time to dwell on those movies, the horrific monsters and murderers. The light vanished, I had no place to turn for comfort and as time crept ever onwards… nothing happened. There was nobody else around unless they were inside the little locked up beach houses. Hours pass slowly on the edge of nowhere, fright sharpens the senses. The all encompassing chirping noise that Crickets make became clearer and clearer but no longer induced apprehension, instead it bestowed familiarity and comfort - unlike the stone I was sitting on. 

         I stand up feeling in tune, feeling a power bestowed by nature. I want to face down a wild beast. None even came near me. So I shouted at the top of my lungs “BRING OUT THE BOAR!” it echoed once or twice then disappeared into the valley's vague history. 

         I lie down on the ground in a walled garden of a beach lock-up that I presume empty, resting completely calm. I listen to the wind get continually stronger. Grains of sand blow into my eyes and I realise pain is a problem to deal with not to be afraid of. I wash my eyes with the flat salt water of the sheltered Inland Sea. With my eyes clear of sand I can now see the grains of stars, under which I gradually drift away like Juan Preciado. I sleep like the stones. Cold and hard.

Plaque 3. 
The scientific importance given to Dwejra Bay is mainly due to a 65 metres high megalithic islet named Hagret il-General or Fungus Rock it is the only locality of the sub-species of wall lizard known as Podarcis Filfolensis Generalensis. Fungus Rock takes its name from the parasitic flowering plant Cynomorium Coccineum, a Fungus which only grows on this islet. During the reign of the Knights Hospitaller the Fungus was protected by the Knights of St John who believed it to have medicinal powers. 

        

         The brief sleep of pure necessity ends.  I rub my eyes as I watch a fishing ship out in the unruly sea bobbing up and down and occasionally completely disappearing under a wave, only to return seconds later unperturbed.  

Disappearing ship near Hagret il-General

         Once I'd walked back to Victoria, in a café that had just opened I sip a coffee so strong the shock of the taste alone wakes me up completely. When the waitress serves the meal I feel the wholehearted, deep appreciation for a plate of food that only comes from being genuinely hungry. I eat the breakfast of Galletti and traditional Ftira bread filled with bacon and a sliced boiled egg, which has a green yolk! I'd never eaten an egg with a green yolk before; things were squiffy on Gozo, but rustic and unspoiled. The green egg tasted real good anyway. I felt brave and ready to leave! 

         When I walked down the hill to the awaiting ferry I nodded to the doubtful local spectre in his darkened doorway who nodded back trusting but unconvinced, retreating back into his home, leaving the door wide open.

By the evening I was back working at the bar at the bowling alley trying in vain to explain how I spent my days off.

The Maltese Talkin' - Chapter 6 - An Immigrant With A Job

Chapter 6. 

Neville turns away to conceal his chuckling when I arrive at work.

“What?”

He bangs his hands together twice then holds them there, palms out, volunteering himself for arrest.

I give him a confused look.

He huffs at not being instantly understood then begins talking “You remember the other night? Us drinking. Me talking to Steffania, the one with the burnt face.”

“Yeah I remember - Kylie’s friend.”

“She is young ta. Fifteen only.”

Again he mimics being handcuffed.

“Well you only talked to her.”

“Ah Allah, I took her number. I S.M.S.ed her. But now, no. No more.”

Then out of nowhere he squawks “STEFFANIA!”

Once he settles down I ask “Should I message Kylie? She is sixteen, so that’s OK right?”

Neville shrugs, then holds his wrists together again, silently laughing.

“But I am younger than you Neville. I’m only four years older than her.”

He doesn’t respond to me, he just leans on my shoulder as if I was built to be his arm rest. I contemplate how to ask Kylie out but my thoughts are interrupted by Neville shouting.

“I wannababba, I wannababba!” and laughing.

After a good few weeks at the job the paperwork had caught up with me - apparently I needed a Work Permit. Neil the manager muttered, “Just tell them you will start at the end of the month, OK?” in as casual a manner as he could muster. 

To pick up this permit I had to go, with my passport, to the ETC head office in Hal Far. The following day I left early…ish. It took two buses and a good while to get there, I arrived just as they closed the large rolling gates, desperately I explained I just needed to pick up a permit but “We close at twelve, man. You will have to come back tomorrow, we open at nine A.M.”

Feeling slightly stunned - who simply shuts at midday? - I meandered around a bit. Not much in the neighbourhood: a few workshops and warehouses, the sound of grinding steel and the dust from limestone blocks being cut. An army jeep drove slowly past followed by soldiers in formation quick marching after it; a road sign pointed the direction to The Base. In the vicinity, amid an overgrown evergreen hedge, was a sign stating PEACE LABORATORY that stood out as a welcome contradiction juxtaposed against the areas otherwise military trappings. Through the fence I saw some nice potted plants, some empty tents and some modest (though nude) statues. It looked like a disused Kumbayah summer camp. Perfect for an evening roughing it, as long as it remained empty of happy-clappers. 

I decide to walk down to Birzebugga, spend all day on the beach then come back to sleep stealthily in a vacant tent eliminating the hassle of taking all those buses home then back again.

In my backpack: a litre bottle of water, a snorkel and my passport.

The walk down to Birzebugga from Hal Far is solitary except for occasional butterflies along the rural side-roads. Passing a Boy Scouts H.Q. I see more vacant tents – seems I am in luck today!

Pretty Bay is a little strip of sand that sits in front of Birzebugga and is the most southerly beach in Malta. While snorkelling I talk to an old Canadian man who is prizing shells from the rocks and collecting spiky sea urchins called Rizzi, eating them as he goes. He opens a large Rizzi with his knife and offers it to me. Its deep orange core tastes of the ocean with just a hint of days gone by. I swim out and look at the Freeport; cargo ships come and go. I guess it was named Pretty Bay before the heavy industry moved in, either that or the naming committee got off on irony. But for all its aesthetic gloom the port adds an air of mystery to the otherwise banal idyllic headland. Swimming in the clear water I wonder what those cargo ship’s stories are and what freight is in all those large faceless containers. Unlike the sea that surrounds it the whole operation is anything but transparent, looming large like an family secret.

After drying myself with my T-shirt and letting it dry in turn in the sun, I shuffle into Birzebugga for lunch – pizza slice. I see a bunch of teens skateboarding and watch for a bit, then ask to have a go and soon I am skating with the group. The action takes place on a large semicircular concrete seat on the beachfront. We ollie on and off, then go and skate the steps outside of the church.

The day passes quickly, the sun starts dropping and the skate rats go home. I head back the way I came. The Scouts tents are full of muffled chit-chat and activity, it feels like my luck is diminishing along with the light. I continue past the ETC and it seems a much longer walk this time, in the half dark. 

The Peace Laboratory smells of a mish-mash of spices. There are lights on in a little cabin so I go in, I am greeted with confused looks from the three North African men sitting around a small table but those lying on the bunk beds don’t sit up to look. I ask if there is any room to stay in the tents and once I manage to explain it is just for one night one of the men goes to find someone he says can help. A couple of minutes later in he walks my saviour: a dark black man wearing a retro Manchester United home shirt, overflowing with energy and all conquering smiles. 

“You want to sleep here tonight my friend?”

“Yep, I have to go to the ETC tomorrow morning.”

“Ok no problem, follow me. My name is Beckham.” He laughs pulling the red football strip down at the back to showcase the white-stencilled surname. 

            We walk out of the Peace Lab and shortly get to an open gate in a compound enclosed with high fences. Piles of shoddy clothes are laid out on the floor near the entrance.

“Take some if you need” Black Beckham enthuses. 

I have a brief scour of the heap but it seems all the football kits are taken. There is a sort of security block: a pre-fab hut with its lights on. Beckham reassures me that we needn’t worry about informing them of my presence as I am only here for one night. Then as my eyes adjust to the darkness I see where we are. Many dozens of old military tents set up in long rows with a few fires burning in petrol cans here and there. It’s a refugee camp. 

We bounce through the makeshift neighbourhood and Beckham spots an aggravated man being very loud with arms flailing. Confiding in me, Beckham tells how this loud man hogs all the women. He advises me not to look at the nearby women and believe it or not I take his advice.

Beckham speaks to some people outside his cousin’s tent; two women are cleaning clothes in a bucket, twiddling my thumbs I watch, hoping they have nothing to do with Loud Flailing Man. I get shown into the tent. Inside is unlike anything I have seen before; isles of bunk beds turned into four person rooms by segregating them from the adjacent bunks with cardboard boxes. A lot of the people are out in the middle corridor and look like they are making the most of the cool evening that is slowly winding down. Seeing my dizzy white face amuses them all, as they carry on doing whatever they are doing. 

In a makeshift dorm I am assigned Beckham’s cousin’s vacant bed, its silky sheets are surprisingly comfortable. The man opposite offers me the only food he has which is a jar of mayonnaise, I refuse politely – shaking my head happily. I feel sorrow and respect for him. He tells me to sleep on top of my bag: again I take the advice given though it adds to my image of a wary child of the west. I lie down feeling warm from the generosity shown by these people who obviously have very little even for themselves.

I let tiredness command my thoughts, allowing them to run uncontrolled and to mingle organically with the whispers, shouts and laughter of this haphazard community.

I drift off to sleep to the sound of joyous singing.

Early morning. All is now quiet and motionless. I look at the picture pulled from a magazine of a Californian woman in a bikini posing sexually. Pinned onto the cardboard wall, here, in this setting, she looks more unobtainable than ever. Everyone else is asleep, I write a note that reads:

‘Thank you for your hospitality’ then leave quietly.

It is only 8am as I walk out of the camp, there is dew on the grass and the sky is a white shade of blue. I wait for the office to open as the sun rises. I see the first few people come out of the camp wearing heavy work boots covered in paint, and clothing that clashes so badly it begins to look like high fashion. The office opens and after sitting in the waiting room for over an hour I go in. After a signing a form I get my work permit. I walk out into the courtyard where pink flowers glow in the sunshine. Waiting at the bus stop I feel once again that luck is on my side. Now I have a work permit in my bag to go with that ever-important passport. 

            I hadn’t known anything about the immigrant situation in Malta before that night. Later I would read bits and pieces in the newspapers, turns out it was a hot topic. I heard people talk about the displaced Africans in scorn, where this scorn came from seemed entirely unfounded. Hysteric xenophobia had implicated migrants as the sole blame for every unsolved crime. A simple target means that any complications or uncertainty can be ignored, overlooked. I even heard the urban myths, which I expected were fallacies arising from bored suburbia. How “a Maltese man, on his stag do, naked except for a learner’s ‘L plate’ was handcuffed to a lamppost and left there overnight. When his friends returned for him in the morning he had been gang-raped by a group of ten or twelve savage immigrants.” 

            When I got back from Hal Far I went out in Paceville. As I walked into a nightclub I overheard the mercenary bouncer turning away a black guy saying “You don’t have an invite” I’m sure he didn’t but neither did I, neither did anybody.

            I didn’t know which African countries were currently gripped in civil war but I knew if war came knocking at my door step I would sure as hell up and leave. The situation was beyond my grasp. Who was I to say there should be no borders, allow everybody in and treat everyone as you would wish to be treated yourself. Malta is a small island and I’d heard of something called Economics. Newspapers reminded me that the country was one of the most densely populated in the world. Its a small island how can we deal with this many immigrants? All I know is saying there should be a cap on immigration it doesn’t put a smile on your face like when you sing:

There was a big high wall there that tried to stop me

Sign was painted, said private property

But on the back side it didn't say nothin’

This land was made for you and me.[1]

Singing that song you feel something old, something powerful, something right. Some mad holistic worldwide perspective. Overpopulation may well be a real problem but issues surrounding man-made boundaries seem mere avoidance of the issue: assisting in foreign birth control might be worth thinking about instead, if that really is the worry. And if overcrowding was Malta’s reason to detain refugees then what could explain the decrepit vacant houses or all the half buildings whose construction had ceased at the critical juncture of adding windows? I’d considered squatting in them myself, if they didn’t give the impression of a mousetrap. 

One lesson I remembered from history is that the flow of people is nothing new and it is unstoppable.

At least the government gave refugees that made it past the boundary line some aid. But the prevailing unsavoury attitude that fueled unhealthy contempt towards these unwelcome, un-European guests was no help to anybody. 

[The best reportage I've since read on the matter is The Unwanted by Joe Sacco it is available in full in his book Journalism or abridged here for free]

            

 Malta was the safest place I’d ever visited. The whole country felt like one big playground. The country made it easy for Europeans to live what Neville called The Play-life. There were no areas that gave me an uneasy feeling. No small roads through ancient woodland whose overhanging branches block out the moonlight. No shadowy city streets, whose human walls constantly observe you, waiting for the first sign of weakness. No dubious characters tarnishing the wholesome, healthy Maltese street scenes. Not a single (white) homeless person to be seen on the whole island, not even in Valletta. I never even saw any fights. The only violence I ever fell privy to was when an American knocked me out while I sat on some steps – (our nations separated by a common language... and uncommon sense of humour). I was told he repeatedly punched my head against the corner of the step but I didn’t actually witness this either, I was too unconscious. 

            The San Giljan Police force could be seen sat around outside the Spinola station most days directing lost tourists to Paceville and unless I was imagining it half of The Force was made up of gorgeous women. The long legs of the law. You heard the wail of sirens about as often as the pitter-patter of rain. Parents stayed at home while their young children played in the parks long into the evening. I figured if I ever had kids this would be the place to raise them. But after hearing the racism from the bouncer, I wanted to be somewhere other than San Giljan, Sliema or Paceville for a bit. So I did what the Maltese do when they need to get away from it all:

 

 I went to Gozo.

GO TO CHAPTER 7

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[1] Lyrics from This Land is Your Land by Woody Guthrie