A real life adventure, a true Machiavellian mystery

This is the story of two retired spies, code-named Mr. Plum and Mr. Mustard. It is a true story, but like cut-diamonds that arouse desire in our hearts, the truth has many facets. 

The writer refers to himself in the second-person, so that the reader might gain some insight into what it was like to become embroiled with these two nefarious characters.

You’ve just moved into a new house. Your friend Caroline's housemate Pablo, who you've never met, has gone to Mexico, so you are paying his rent and living in his room until he returns. Some days you hallucinate that you are Pablo, and that Pablo is you: both pulled from the ranks of replaceable men.

You are living in a house of women. Three French girls and an Italian. One of the French girls is called Coco. She requires an introduction as she plays one of the main roles in this story. You’ve met her before. A few years ago you played badminton with her and Caroline. She went to your Uni, you’d occasionally said "Hi", in passing, on campus, but you’d never really gotten to know each other until now. She grew up in La Reunion, a place you'd never heard of: a tropical island, located next to Madagascar, but actually part of France and Europe.

Growing up in Reunion, when Coco would see the White-Tailed Tropicbird (Phaethon lepturus) flying low to the ground, she would know it was going to rain.  

Walking back from Peckham, from under her umbrella Coco tells you of a moving experience she'd had in Solesmes, hearing the holy Gregorian chanting at the Abbey.

Coco was a student of Graphic Design and for her degree was creating a new variety of playing cards, 45 cards to the pack, with combinations of dots in place of suits. These cards linked to a story, written by a poet, in French. You helped her translate it. That is to say, you edited Coco’s original translation. It was the story of Louis: he woke up in a white room and mistakenly signed a contract on white paper in white ink, he ate steak as a red mist descended, then drifted away, eventually, as things turned black.

As the weeks pass in this new house, something that is becoming hard to bear is how often Coco is visibly upset: troubles of the heart. 

Pablo had a jigsaw collection and was a Risk aficionado. Coco loved games too, and from time to time the whole house and guests would gather to play something like Jungle Speed. It was fun. Sometimes you forget to play games. It is all too easy to neglect your inner child.

At one soirée somebody took out a deck of cards.  You suggested Poker. Coco said she didn’t like bluffing because it was like lying, and she hated lying to the point that doing so caused her physical pain. She didn't like doing magic tricks either because to her they were a form of lying. Unfortunately for her: the game that everybody eventually decided upon was Cheat, also known as Bullshit. Regardless of whether Coco liked to lie or not, she was good at Bullshit. 

Inexplicable letters

You are sat in the kitchen, about a month after moving in. Coco enters holding the post. 

“There is a letter for Mr. Mustard” she says.

You look up from your coffee: “Mr. Who?”

“Mr. Mustard... It’s from Egypt... Is it for you?” she demands.

You tell her you've never gone by the name of Mr. Mustard and ask to see the envelope. The address is written in an elegant hand and sure enough it is adorned with an Egyptian stamp.

“Have you ever received anything addressed to Mr. Mustard before?” you ask.

Coco shakes her head slightly: “No, never.” 

You look over the envelope. It begs to be opened.

“Let’s open it!” you say, “maybe we will be able to find out who this guy is, and then if it is important we can try and deliver it to him.”

Coco is apprehensive but eventually agrees that opening the letter is an appropriate course of action.

The letter, written on a typewriter, reads:

Dear Mustard 

I write to you two days before my departure, by merchant ship, from Morocco. At last I am able to leave these openly disputed lands and return to a country where things are done tidily, behind closed doors.

So long as you have not been spending all your time on crosswords, you'll have noticed that the Cairo gambit paid off. We must divide the gains on my return.

 I shan't expect a reply to this letter. We both know there is every possibility you are being observed, even after all these years. I will write again, once in London.

Consolidate your health, mon vieux, for a reunion in early April. it's overdue.

Yours

Plum

In the evening speculation runs rife around the house. Coco phones a few of her friends to ask them if they know anything about it. Pablo is suspected, but he is supposedly in Mexico. You are also accused of being Mr. Plum after, Coco recalls that you went to Egypt two years ago on holiday. The stamp was from 2011, so the years match up.

You argue: “That is ridiculous. You think I'd have bought a stamp two years ago and saved it, just to send this now.”

Caroline points out that there is no postmark. The letter hadn’t been franked. It had been hand delivered!

A week later a second letter arrived. This time with an English stamp on it. That could only mean one thing. Plum was definitely in London.

You arrive home from work one evening. Coco shows you the opened letter and tells you she has phoned the police.

"What did you say to them?" you inquire.

Holding the envelope out to you Coco says: “You have to read what the letter says first.”

You are breathless and dazed from working all day and aren’t ready to read it and take it in.

“Why? What does it say?” you ask.

“It gives a time and a place to meet.”

Coco goes on to say that the police told her they would have a man patrol the street at the allocated time on the designated date.

"Oh really" you say "I've just gotta go put my bag upstairs. I'll come back and read through the letter in a minute, it’s been a long day in the office.”

After dropping your bag off and getting into your brown fluffy slippers you go back down:

“Let me see this letter then.”

Dear Mustard

I've heard talk that your health has deteriorated over the years. Je le regrette mon ami.

I've wasted no time composing a game that only one of your ilk could rumble: in case these letters aren't reaching you.

If your health is as bad as they say, then send some canny representatives. The pursuit I've devised will give enough scope to furnish me with the information, without your agents ever being certain of my identity. Who would have thought that the data we collected in Cairo would have been so valuable.

The game shall begin at 14:00 hours on 10th April. you need to be opposite the George Canning (is yours still a Bombay and bitters?) The pursuie will end before dusk.

Yours

Plum

Ps: it's good to be home.

The George Canning is a pub about ten minutes walk from your house, near the train station.

There was also a cardboard sheet enclosed with the letter. Some sort of codex maybe, a clue sheet?

 

You start to think it must be intended for Coco, the names Plum and Mustard clearly from Cluedo: a game. The narrator even saying he had designed a game. The little flourishes of French in the letters. The use of the word 'reunion' in the original correspondence.

You tell Coco this and she admits she hasn’t actually called the police. You begin to find the whole situation very strange, like a whirlpool.

You ask Coco why she'd said she'd called the police if she hadn’t.

She looks over her shoulder at you: “I was using a lie to expose a lie.” 
  

“What?"

Coco smiles: “I wanted to see how you would react when I told you, because I thought it might have been you... Sorry." 

“Why would I do it? Somebody has obviously done it for you. Surely you know who it is?”

“No I don’t.”

“Well it's pretty interesting. I like things like this, spies and what-not. I'll go to the meeting point on the 10th!”

As the days pass Coco makes it clear that she wants to go with you. So you discuss who the suspects could be.

The Suspects:

• Julian: A friend of Coco’s. You've played badminton with him. Sporty and energetic. He is known to have access to typewriter.
• Pablo: Supposedly in Mexico. Fan of boardgames.
• Somebody connected with Monsieur Trevor Semple, your landlord: Trevor Semple receives a lot of post but never comes to pick it up. A resident of Germany. A luthier. His website shows he has visited many countries on different continents and also describes the Egyptian art of mixing different woods for decorative effect. Could he have used the moniker Mr. Mustard in the past?
• Yourself: New to the house. Caroline knows you and although she admits you've never done anything like this before she also wouldn't put it past you. 
• A real-life secret service agent who'd once inhabited the house but had since moved on.

(Place your bets now)

Coco's boyfriend isn't a suspect, she categorically says that he would not do something like this. You put the mystery out of your mind, but as the date approaches you become increasingly curious. Coco asks if you're still going to go. 

“Yeah. I'll call in sick at work," you remark with a grin. 

You ask if she is going to go. She says she wants to but doesn't want to go on her own, so she will only go if you do.

You confirm the arangement: "OK, lets go together then... I'm glad you are coming, because I’m sure it is a game designed for you.”

'Was Coco the one behind it all?' Is a question that probably should have been asked.

Eventually the day arrives. You feel that you are encroaching on something that was meant for Coco, but she assures you she doesn't want to go on her own. She is nervous, a bit scared even.

Coco says she will walk past the pub but has to go to Uni because the print studio is only open from 2pm until 5pm. It is just three weeks before her final university hand-in. You walk out together onto the middle class, residential streets of this quiet inner-city suburb. In the pale sunlight everybody you walk past looks suspicious. Everybody could be an extra in a film. A film you are the main characters in. Anybody could be a spy.

You are walking to the top of Dog Kennel Hill. Is one of these passers-by Plum? Was it him? Was it that rich looking man with the wavy grey hair? The man with the duffel bag? That woman pushing a pram? Surely not all of them? The guy with the long beard? ...Mr. Mustard?

Coco suggests walking in a loop around the pub because the person – Plum – would probably be expecting you to come straight down the hill.

You cut in: “Lets just go straight there. There is nothing to worry about.” although you are feeling oddly nervous yourself.

You walk straight down but Coco is determined to at least walk on the side where the buses go in the same direction that you're walking.

When you are opposite the pub she doesn't want to wait. You do. It isn’t even 2-o-clock yet. Still four minutes to go. She is getting antsy.

You want her to relax: “Take it easy. Lets just wait until the right time at least... then go... if nothing happens.”

Just then the nearby payphone starts ringing.

You pick up the receiver: “Is that Mr. Plum?”

You hear a man's voice say “Yes…” and immediately you put the phone to Coco’s ear.

You look at Coco in an attempt to read her facial expressions. She gives you a nod.

You grab the phone back: “Pardon, I didn’t hear you properly.”

“There is an envelope under the shelf . Take it and go to Stationers' Hall.”

- Silence -

You hang up and peel the envelope from beneath the shelf with Coco’s protests ringing in your ears: "It could be a bomb!" 

You open the envelope and find a hand written note:

In the beginning was the Worde...

... then books... 

... then a place to read them.

 

You Google 'Stationers Hall' on your Smartphone. It is near City Thameslink station. Just three stops on a direct train from Denmark Hill station.

Coco is adamant that she must go to university. She hasn't got time to waste on this wild goose chase.

"But it is so obviously for you!" you tell her once more.

"Non, non." she says, adding: "You don't want to mess with Egypt, that place just had a revolution, you shouldn't get involved with spies from there, its dangerous."

"How is it dangerous..." you protest, "...in the middle of the day, in public places."

"Come on, these clues could lead you anywhere, probably to some backstreet or some warehouse..."

"Well I won't go anywhere that looks dodgy. Come on! Let's just see when the next train is. I'm sure this will only take an hour or so."

"But the print studio closes at five." she says while walking for a bus that has just stopped a few feet down the road.

You take her arm and lead her to the crossing in front of the train station. She follows for a moment, considering throwing caution to the wind, but then makes her final decision: "No. I have to go to uni."

"Alright," you say as she boards the bus, "I'm going to go. I'll let you know what happens."

She gets on the bus and you catch the next train into The City. She texts you telling you to be careful and that she is sorry that she didn't come.

What follows is one of the strangest experiences of your life. You collect clues along the way and take photos on your phone in order to help explain the occurrences to Coco on your return home.

"So what happened?" she says as you come through the door at around 6.32pm.

-- You begin to tell the story:

A detective's game of cat and mouse through the streets of London

"I took the train to City Thameslink and found Stationers' Hall. It was an old building with stained glass windows depicting medieval-looking crests.


On one of the walls I saw a plaque that matched the clue from the phone-box

 




I looked for Shoe Lane on Google Maps and saw there was a library there: 'In the beginning was the Worde... then books... then a place to read them.'

 








So I went into the library and had a look around. I wasn't sure what I was looking for then I remembered the Codex. I showed it to the librarian and she said that the reference code at the bottom was a shelf-mark. The book was an encyclopedia of London.

 

 

 

The P544 at the end was obviously the page number and when I found that page I put the card over the text.

The words left exposed read: 'next move New Square Lincoln's Inn, WC2

This piece of transparent acetate was slipped into the back of the book:

New Square was about five minutes walk away. It was a highly respectable semi-private garden surrounded by buildings owned by The Honourable Society of Lincoln's Inn (lawyers). I matched the line drawing up to the skyline.

I wasn't sure what to do. I stood around for a bit. Then I noticed something on the floor. It was out of place among the flowers on the well trimmed lawn. It was a mustard jar.

There was a note rolled up inside that read: 'You can't buy curiosity, But if you could, where is the first place you'd look?'

I thought about it and remembered that The Old Curiosity Shoppe was nearby, a little London landmark considered to be the inspiration for Charles Dickens' novel of the same name. When I got there I had to ring the doorbell because the door was locked. Looking into the establishment you could see shoes everywhere. An oriental man wearing a dirty green apron unlocked the door and asked if he could help. I said I was looking for a man named Mr. Plum. He looked at me for a moment, then walked down a small staircase at the back of the shop. When he returned he handed me an envelope: "He left this for you."

Go to the Olde Cheshire Cheese.
You'll find a man there, acting on my behalf.
He'll test you at a board game
I mastered in Egypt.
P. 


The Olde Cheshire Cheese was a pub a few hundred yards back along Fleet Street. It was dark inside. There were a few business men stood at the bar. I ordered a beer and had a look around. It was obvious who I was meant to be meeting. Sat at a low, embossed metal table was a tiny Indian man with a curly mustache and long beard, wearing a turban. In front of him was a game board. I asked him if he was Mr. Plum. He said he had been employed by Plum. He said he had been told to wait here until his opponent arrived. He said little else, except for explaining the rules of the ancient strategy game to me. I asked if I could take his photo: he said no. I asked if I could take a photo of the game board: he said yes.

You had to move the all red beans clockwise from one of your pits dropping one in each adjacent pit along the way. If you managed to land one on its own in an empty pit of yours on the middle line you would capture the corresponding beans from your opponent's side and remove them. The beans in the square pit were untouchable. The winner was he who had the most beans in his square pit at end.

The Indian man won... easily. On doing so he showed no emotion, he simply handed me an envelope.

 

I know now that this isn't Mustard, but bravo for being brave: you have represented him with aplomb. Go straight from here to the choir service at St Paul's, to receive a little compensation for your valiant efforts.

À tout,
Plum


I arrived at St Paul's Cathedral just as the choir service was beginning. I had the feeling that Plum was a very precise man and that I was his pawn. I sat and listened, the hymns and the grandiose setting dramatising the Machiavellian scheme that was reaching its peak. As I watched the catholic ceremony unfold I was tapped on the shoulder by one of the cathedral employees.

"I was asked to give you this." She said.

"By who!?"

She looked over her shoulder and indicated a man who was leaving. I turned and saw the back of tall man in a long coat putting on a bowler hat as he walked out the door. It was perhaps 150 metres from where I sat to the door so I had no hope of catching him.

I looked at the envelope and read the letter."

There is a stillness in the air as Coco processes the fantastical tale, finally she acknowledges: "I could have won at that board game!"

The mystery is solved

In Coco’s bedroom, two weeks later, you bring yourself to utter a phrase that indicates the second phase of this article.

After twiddling your thumbs you finally say “There is something I’ve been meaning to tell you…" and admit that: "I am Mr. Mustard.”

She stares at me blankly from beneath the covers.

“I’m Plum and Mustard,” I splutter, “I wrote those letters, you know, the letters for Mr. Mustard.”

She grabs her hair with one hand in disbelief. 


- Moments pass -

Eventually she says, “I knew it was you.”

“No you didn’t.” I contest, edging nervously out of her room.

“I thought it was you… because of the stamp, you went to Egypt in 2011.”

“I know but I didn’t get the stamp from there. That was just a strange coincidence.”

She is unconvinced: “Where did you get it from then?”

“A shop on the Strand,” I say while pulling up a chair “I wanted to get one from Morocco really, but they didn’t have any. They had a few from Egypt though. It was just a coincidence that I’d been there that year. I just wanted to create these characters, y’know, like two old retired spies. I’m sorry Coco I didn’t mean to worry you with it all… Sorry.”

“I should kill you!” she says jokingly,  “…but why did you do it?"

“I wanted to do something exciting, to make you happy. I’m sorry that it just made you nervous.”

“I wouldn’t have been nervous if I’d known who was behind it… If you’d told me it was you I would have gone.”

I shrug: “But that would have taken the excitement out of it …I thought you knew it was me after I told you what had happened. I wasn’t very convincing telling the story.”

“Yes you were. You would make a good comedian! You kept a straight face all through and it seemed like something strange had happened to you… So there was no little Indian man?”

“Well not exactly. Let me explain.”
 

Planning a real life adventure

I woke up one sunny morning and I couldn't stop thinking about how upset Coco had been the night before. I'd offered to talk out her problems with her but she hadn't opened up to me. With her being withholding, I knew nothing and consequently had nothing to say to console her. I'd felt sick and powerless for the rest of the evening. But as I walked along the Thames, to the boat where I work, I had a mad eureka thought. I should plan an elaborate real-life adventure, a scavenger hunt / game that would take Coco's mind off her depression. I'd speak louder than words with some action!

I looked on the internet for similar endeavors. I found this website www.betheadventure.com and contacted them asking for advice. I never got a reply.

I told my colleagues about the idea, which at this stage was embryonic: just a vague notion of an immersive distraction. They said I was unstable.

After work I walked to St. Paul's Cathedral. I had a kind of Da Vinci Code backdrop in my mind. I strolled around the City looking for other suitable settings. I took notes and photos and by the end of the evening had a route and some preliminary clues planned out.

The next day I told my friend David about the idea and he was enthusiastic. He was in the process of writing a conference paper on 'playfulness in the detective story, with some glances at the interplay of factual and fictional spaces within the context.'

We sat and schemed while smoking cigarettes. We conjured up a back-story that we hoped would be intriguing enough to convince Coco to participate, but not so scary as to frighten her off. A story that would also justify her involvement. David reviews theatre productions for a web-magazine and had recently reviewed some experiential shows. He had taken part in a one-on-one adaptation Franz Kafka's The Trial. He said that no matter how realistic they tried to make the shows it was impossible to be anything other than a spectator, because of the fact that you had conscious of having entered into a performance. At one point in The Trial two male actors had dragged off an innocent female actor and beat her to death, as he and the other audience-members looked on from a first-floor window. There was no way he was going to physically intervene. We agreed that what we were planning would have to go beyond the realms of 'audience' involvement. To become truly absorbed into the plot one must not know that what is happening is an authored story. One must believe that everything that is happening is simply life unfolding, sew up the seam between script and reality.

Over the next week the plan became more concrete.

I based the timings of the pursuit around the evening choral service, held daily, in St. Paul's Cathedral - a suitably atmospheric conclusion. 

I booked the day off work.

David and I walked the proposed route. We visited the library and made the codex. I spoke to Daita, the master cobbler based in the Old Curiosity Shop, he was a man of few words, but on hearing my intentions and motivation he graciously agreed to help out.
 

 















Buying a foreign stamp was tricky but fun. After looking for shops that we discovered had recently closed down we were led into the basement of a stamp collectors' emporium that was accustomed to selling stamps worth a small fortune. The manager laughed with us as he neatly placed the stamp into a presentation sheaf and I handed him a £1 coin.





 David was particularly amused by this task, in his paper he wrote:

'we actually found a use for the shop described by Louis Aragon in Paris Peasant, whose sole service was to have any letter, provided by the customer, sent back to a Parisian address from any other location in the world.'

If only such a service existed in London, then my ruse would not have been foiled by the letter having not been franked.

I bought some clear acetate and sketched the skyline at the precise spot in New Square where I'd told David to drop the mustard pot.

David drafted the clues in his enigmatic handwriting as we ate cod and chips at Masters Super Fish.

A friend of a friend had a typewriter - it was needed to add weight to the characterization of Mr. Plum the old-school spy.

I dictated as she typed, with songs from past Eurovision song contests providing a surreal soundtrack. 

I was determined to get a 'mature' individual to play the game, somebody too old to have been recruited from my circle of friends.


I posted an ad on Gumtree

Looking for an older lady or gentleman (Age 45+) to act for an hour or two as part of a role play treasure hunt.

You will be required to play a strategy board game, then hand over a clue if your opponent wins.

Reimbursement to be discussed. Date not finalized. Sometime during the daytime (around 4pm) during the next month.



I had a few replies but only one stood out: The actor Trevor Allman had applied and had sent me his show-reel.





I was immediately attracted by Trevor's ability to play the part of someone playing a part. Any fans of Garth Marenghi's Darkplace will immediately recognise his genius.

I ordered a Mancala board, and as we counted down the days to the adventure Trevor and I exchanged some heart-warming correspondence:

 

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


Thanks for the "Mancala" instructions.

It turns out the "Mancala" game on my phone did work, and I didn't understand it !!
I have now become an addict!!

To recap. You want me to liaise with your friend  in "Ye Olde Cheshire Cheese", who will supply me with a "Mancala" Board and a sign saying "Mr Mustard". I then await your arrival.

When Coco and yourself arrive, Coco should ask if I'm Mr Plum's agent. I will answer in the affirmative.
If Coco says anything else, asks any questions, I'm to state that I probably know less than she does.

I then suggest playing "Mancala", which Coco doesn't know how to play. I act very surprised at this and proceed to teach her.

----------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------


 
I took down the number of the phonebox and sourced some fake moustaches for David to 'go incognito' when he delivered us the final envelope in St. Pauls. David was to be the key collaborator, always one step ahead, laying the clues.

  

























By the day before everything was set, except that the Mancala board hadn't arrived. Luckily the receptionists at work had become interested in what it was I'd ordered that I was so anxious to receive. I briefly explained my scheme to them, and that having the Mancala board was essential. By chance one of them said she had such a board that she had purchased while on holiday on an island off the coast of Ghana. She would bring it in the next day, allowing David to pick it up. As it turns out her board was not exactly the same as the one I had described to Trevor, making game-play slightly different. If Coco had gotten to that stage it is hard to tell how Trevor would have dealt with the situation. 

David was preoccupied by a minor crisis of his own. In case Coco might recognize his voice, he tried to get a Big Issue seller to make the 2pm phonecall. On giving the man the script he found it incredibly difficult to convince the poor man that he wasn't a spy cleverly pretending not to be a spy!

When Coco rode away on the bus I phoned Trevor. He was not too angry at the job being called off at the last minute. All I can say is I would highly recommend hiring this man for any stage work. I couldn't have asked for a more pleasant candidate.

In the end, the journey being its own reward was a self-fulfilling prophecy. Although it hadn't achieved what I had hoped for Coco, the attempt alone had been a rewarding experience for myself. It was worth it just to have created and met such an array of colourful characters. I also like to think that everybody involved got a little something out of it, a tiny spark of contagious playfulness, a reminder that mischief can be altruistic, or just a little confusion that elevated one day slightly above the control of routine.

5 Funniest Search Terms

One of my favourite things about having this blog is checking Google Analytics to see the search terms people have used to discover posts on Necess City.
 
Here are my top 5 so far:


1. try naked bowling gradually 

2. unicycle spandex

3. knock off pink dolphin clothing  

4. brothel malgrat de mar  

5. nude maltese

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

---

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

The Maltese Talkin' - Chapter 5 - Paceville (And Its After Effects)

Chapter 5.

Paceville: The nightlife zone in between my flat (Riviera Court) and my workplace (Superbowl). Paceville: the clubbing district of Malta. I had been warned by Eric and Davinia to avoid it, but its location had made that neigh impossible.

The place came alive as evening emerged, the central nightclubs would start pumping out dance music too loud for that daylight hour. Promoters would be handing out B.O.G.O.F drinks tokens to encourage the all-important first customers in. During each evening’s early stage a few of the youngest language students would be milling around looking lost, while holiday-making families sought out restaurants. Soon the Maltese would congregate on the outskirts hanging around shop-cum-bars drinking in large groups, jesting and fooling around. One guy would act the lummox, playfully accosting passers-by as his friends exaggerated their amazement with cries of “Il Allu!” – translated into English it means “Oh God” but the Maltese is misspelt to make it less blasphemous, so the direct translation, I suppose, would be “Oh Gud!”

I grabbed some drink tokens and went home to cook and get ready to find out what all the fuss was about. As midnight drew near I left my flat and followed the crowds all heading towards the magnetic neon pull, a steady stream of pupils arriving at a new cult. I recalled all the times in my life I had seen a beautiful girl walking in the opposite direction to me in the street. As they passed me I would often wonder where they were going. Now I knew. I felt I had stumbled upon the secret of each and every babe’s absolute final destination: Paceville.

When they arrived they didn’t stop walking. Everybody there seemed in a rush to get to the next club, to follow their friends, to meet others someplace else, always just around the corner. I stood still and watched. Maltese girls seemed to dress like twins; matching outfits. Two girls dressed in black and yellow like bumble bees. Three dressed all in white, save for their red belts: darling plump parcels wrapped with red ribbon. Groups of guys prowled in packs. You could almost smell the pheromones, the excitement, the hormones. Wondrous confusion resonated from the pavement’s dry heat, from the cigarette smoke, from the garish mixture of songs converging into an out-of-time throbbing pulse at the central crossroads: the country’s arteries. 

 - Hearts were broken and sparks of lust set others aflame - 

            As the night thrust on, the nightclubs filled up and squashed you onto the dance floors, no choice but to move - either rhythmically or out of there. The songs got into your head and you smiled a drunken smile, and it seemed everyone smiled. 

By the early hours of the morning the Maltese had returned home. Disheveled members of the European aristocracy were smooching on the padded seats at the edge of the dance floor and the streets were littered with empty glass bottles and passed-out Aryan teenagers. On the way back to Riviera Court was a Pastizerria: a small shop that baked Pastizzi: a cheap little pastry filled with pea paste or ricotta cheese. This Pastizerria named ‘Champ’ was open 24 hours a day, it also produced trays of pizza loaded with molten cheese and flavoursome green olives on a thick doughy base that soaked up all the excess oil. The Pizza came in a white paper bag that was made translucent by the grease almost instantaneously. It was dirt-cheap and the perfect ending to any cheap, dirty night.

            My alternative option for an evening’s stroll was back towards the Astra Hotel. I would often walk this route if I didn’t feel like drinking. A wide promenade ran all the way to Sliema and was full of dog walkers, groups of nuns, new mothers pushing baby carriages, exemplary families all sporting Ralph Loren, joggers sweating for success, and just about anyone who was anyone. The promenade hugged the twilight’s navy blue sea that turned the orange streetlamps and yellow lights of hotel rooms into dancing sea snakes. I could sit on a bench underneath thick palm trees and get overcome by the aura of richness and fertility. At times like these, sat under the moon’s insect glow, I would feel acute loneliness. Peculiarly it felt liberating, because it allowed for extensive introspective trains of thought. I was beginning to construct a new identity on my own agenda. I was reading extensively. Gin-soaked paranoia and ‘The Fall’ by Albert Camus made me consider the effects of being judged and of judging people. Following this I came across a ‘non-violent communication’ theory known as Jackals and Giraffes on the Internet. It was a way of talking whereby you never demand or judge but say how you feel and give others the opportunity to act or respond accordingly. You observe others and guess how they feel and what they need, occasionally making requests in the hope of coming to an empathetic understanding. 

• A Jackal might say “Don’t sit on that bench under that palm tree staring at us with your wild eyes, it gives our pleasant evening an edge of awkwardness.”
• Whereas a Giraffe would say “You look wild eyed. Is it because you feel lost? It makes us feel less comfortable about ourselves. We would feel better if you strolled along at an amicable pace like the rest of us.”

             










One night I stole a large rectangular board that had come unattached to the railings. On one side it advertised ‘Calypso’ but the other was pure white. Onto the white surface I painted an elegant giraffe’s neck and head, swirling black and white circles jumped out of the figure that stuck out its long blue tongue. 

When you get creative it gives you a rush. I liked playing with the forms and I liked this image of the land animal with the biggest heart since the dinosaurs, so I began making a conscious effort to speak like a giraffe. 

I noticed it making a positive effect on Yin my Korean flatmate.

“I see you are cooking, you must feel exhausted and in need of energy after a hard day learning English. The smell of the food makes me feel hungry.”

I tried the seaweed she was cooking but didn’t like it at all. Never the less I continued talking in Giraffe.

“I don’t like the taste of this but I feel more cultured for having tried it because seaweed isn’t a staple cuisine in England.”

“Oh OK Chris.” She said nervously.

…“You’re beginning to look stressed. Would you like to go out, drink some beer and blow off some steam?”

At a Paceville bar I got to know a Chinese friend of Yin’s who agreed to come over and cut my hair. It was all very giggly; a drunk giraffe getting a tipsy haircut. A week later I went out with my newly trimmed head and saw my kind hairdresser on her own. We drank a few sangrias together. She had left the clippers at my flat and asked if she could come back to pick them up. I obliged and before long we were both naked, sat cross-legged in my bed and she was rolling a condom onto my little giraffe. As we screwed she made high-pitched noises but they didn’t turn me on, they sounded grim like a squeaking baby strapped to a seesaw.  In the morning I no longer wanted to be a giraffe and refused to let her join me for breakfast.

Come Saint Patrick’s Day the whole Superbowl crew were going for a night out in Paceville, or PV as they called it. As I mop the floor Neville pulls on a T-shirt emblazoned with the Pepsi logo; the writing reads ‘Sexsi.’

He yells “Yeah Yeah!” and rubs his hands together. 

We all drink a lot of Cisk larger and are soon up and dancing, I feel a rump bumping my crotch and place my hands on Dawn's hips. I admire a beauty spot on her face and her bashful expression. We kiss for a minute or two but then Dawn pulls away worried she will hurt Neville’s feelings. He hadn’t seemed to notice as her friend was suggestively dancing with him at the time. Soon they both leave and the remainder of the group plonks down at a table in a different nightclub.

Alex and I spy and group of girls a-spying us. We invite them over and I begin nattering with a girl with short hair called Kylie who is just my type: tomboy, big gums! We hit it off talking skateboarding after I’d noticed her Vans shoes. Neville is speaking to a girl with a burnt face, and Alex has run out of conversation and looks bemused. The girls leave; Kylie gives me her phone number and a peck on the lips.

The drinking continues. Back at my flat Timms, Kurt and Alex start drinking the gin from the kitchen. Soon Kata, my witchy Hungarian landlady, flies out of her bedroom shouting at them to get out, says she can’t trust strangers in the house. 

In the morning fueled by sleep and still half-drunk, the joy of waking up with no hangover gives me a buzz-saw madness, I begin going about the day as normal. I shower and get on the bus to Valletta. I'd planned to visit Malta School of Art to investigate its potential as ‘the place for me’. Approaching it, the ancient crumbling Old Bakery Street installs bohemian anticipation in me. I enter the hallowed halls of an esteemed, pillared building that houses white Romanesque nude statues and renaissance paintings. A tutor tells me to come back in two hours for a tour. My head begins to pound as the sunlight grows vicious, and a violent need to rehydrate in a dark room grabs me by the throat. I see a sign for a cinema down a back-street so I grab a ticket and a litre cup of Pepsi.

  

 As I sit down the room fills with a ten-foot erect penis, then the largest pair of boobs I’ve ever witnessed graces the silver screen. I look around: a few old men reclining in the shadows. I’ve stumbled into a porn cinema! The sheer size of the pornography makes it more frightening than erotic and as I sit there St Patrick’s effects take a hold. I shiver, my eyes push against my bruised brain. My mouth dries up. My head thumps itself and my body weighs me down. Never before have I felt terrified by the effects of gravity. I force myself to endure two hours worth of the gargantuan genitalia. In the end the darkness helped the hangover and, after wildly cracking and chewing all the ice from my supersize Pepsi, I was ready to face the world of natural light: reborn, a child conceived in a porno.

All was well again, except now, any mundane situation seemed on the verge mutating into hard repetitive sex. Until I felt a little less fragile I would need to avoid mechanic’s garages, faulty showers and Romanesque banquets. I doubt I will ever be able to forget the noise, in full digital surround sound, of skin slapping against skin. The art school was nice, tranquil, but for someone like myself, maybe it was a little too conservative.

GO TO CHAPTER 6