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.
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.
