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A Maltese AdventureBy Caroline M. Jackson
Built by the Knights of the Order of St. John in the 16th and 17th centuries, it is built on a grid system of narrow streets which open up to stunning harbor views. Although it was October, the temperature had already soared to the mid seventies. However, the tall buildings meant that we could always walk in the shade and a refreshing ocean breeze cooled our skin. With the busy terminus behind us, we walked through the city gate which was the prime spot for swarthy merchants selling fresh bread, fruit and vegetables. A few steps beyond this, we found ourselves in Freedom Square where we were swallowed up in a festive crowd watching a lively marching brass band.
Nearly everyone spoke English and I was pleasantly
surprised to come across UK stores such as Marks & Spencer and Mothercare.
Magnificent churches abound with one for every day of the year.
Having been easily convinced not to take a rental car, our
ever helpful B&B host put us in touch with a local tour company which offered a
cornucopia of island highlights. With timely pick up and drop off right at our
door, this was the best way to familiarize ourselves during our first few days
on the island. Our first choice was a visit to the medieval walled city of Mdina
which dates back to the days of the Phoenicians in 1000 BC. The imposing Main
Gate embellished with the arms of a Grand Master led into the main street which
cuts across the city. I gave the gruesome dungeons a miss, peered into St.
Agatha’s chapel and pondered on the lives of the nuns who live in complete
seclusion in the adjacent Nunnery of St. Benedict. Continuing along the shaded
side of the street I suddenly found myself like the proverbial salmon swimming
upstream against a sea of over-heated tourists who were on a guided daytrip from
one of the cruise ships berthed in Valletta. Continuing past limestone edifices,
I found myself the lone occupant of a spacious piazza outside St. Paul’s
Cathedral. The site was once the home of Publius, the Roman governor who showed
Paul warm hospitality after he was shipwrecked then bitten by a snake on Malta
in AD 60. The adjacent city, Rabat, lies outside the city walls and also pays
tribute to Paul with the Church of St. Paul, the grotto where he preached and
the adjacent catacombs. With a little hesitancy I ventured into the catacombs
flashlight in hand.
After an al fresco lunch, our mini bus took us to the
nearby Ta’Qali Crafts Village which is housed in old Nissen huts left over from
World War II. Here one can choose from a selection of inexpensive Maltese lace,
silver filigree jewelry and exquisite colored glass ornaments.
Souvenirs: Maltese nougat flavored with almonds or hazelnuts. Lace handicrafts, blown colored glass, silver filigree, hand-knitted sweaters.
Bird protection: http://www.proact-campaigns.net is a non-political, independent and voluntary organization which is involved in environmental campaigns for the conservation of birds and their habitats. Images by Hamish M. Jackson |
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TM
The
Maltese lace curtain billowed out in the Mediterranean morning breeze and a
distant cockerel heralded the dawning of a new day. Soon the fishing village of
Marsaskala would be bathed in a soft golden light. This, my first morning on the
island of Malta, seemed idyllic, then, the unexpected happened. My soporific
state was shattered by repetitive volleys of gunshots reverberating off the
cubic limestone buildings. Fighting the cobwebs of Trans-Atlantic jet lag, I
jumped out of bed and cautiously made my way onto the flat rooftop of our B&B
imagining that I had mistakenly arrived in a war torn country. Totally perplexed
as to the location of this ongoing loud barrage, I watched the locals carrying
on with their daily business apparently oblivious to the staccato goings on
somewhere in the vicinity. A neighbor was already on her rooftop beating clouds
of limestone dust from her exotic Moroccan carpet, nuns attired in pristine
white habits were escorting uniformed school children to the bus stop, garden
wells were being plumbed for sparse gardens and caged canaries trilled in
shaded courtyards. All seemed to be well with the world.
By
the time I went downstairs for breakfast, the crack of shotguns had ceased. It
was now eight o’clock and before our host’s first spoonful of muesli reached his
lips, I popped the question. “Ah”, he said, “shooting and trapping wild birds is
a sport in Malta which is on the migratory path from Europe to North Africa. The
shooters have a privately owned area near here and there is sadly nothing we can
do about it.” Being a bird lover, I was shocked that such a cruel and archaic
practice could continue especially since Malta is now a member of the European
Union. I determined in my heart that by the end of my sojourn, I would do some
research and try to do something to change the annual trapping and killing
thousands of migrating birds.
But
I hadn’t reckoned on the deeply ingrained history and traditions of this small
sun-bleached island which is strategically located between Sicily and Tunisia.
My Lonely Planet guidebook devoted nearly a dozen pages to Malta’s history which
stretches from its megalithic temples which pre-date the Great Pyramids of Egypt
all the way through to the island’s strategic role in World War Two. During the
latter era, the Maltese endured months of continuous bombing with the isolated
islanders brought to the brink of starvation. All of these hardships have
created a unique people who after 150 years of British rule, became independent
in 1964. Today the densely populated island is a treasure trove of history which
I discovered can barely be covered even in a two-week visit.
After
our traumatic awakening, my husband and I decided to take the public bus to the
terminus in the capital city of Valletta, the central hub for all bus travel
throughout the island. The inexpensive 30-minute trip took us through heavy
populated neighborhoods with exotic names such as Zabbar, Vittoriosa and Paola.
Valletta is a magnificent fortified city situated on the Grand Harbor
overlooking two massive peninsulas.
It
was the perfect opportunity to people watch and while I observed the colorful
scene before me, I pondered on the fact that many locals are of Arab descent.
After the crowd dispersed, we wandered down many of the stepped streets and
chatted with locals sitting by their doorways.
Valletta
alone has 32 churches with one of the most striking being St. John’s
Co-Cathedral. Having read up on local etiquette, I had a headscarf in my
knapsack so the gentleman guarding the door affirmed that “You are respectable
Madame” and welcomed me inside. Most Maltese are Roman Catholic and ask that
visitors be covered in their places of worship. Visitors wearing shorts or women
with no head covering, will freely be provided with a scarf at the door.
By
mid afternoon, we realized it would take us a few days to see all of Valletta so
we asked directions from a passing motorist as she inched past us along a narrow
street near Fort St. Elmo. She was heading home and offered us a ride to her
husband’s vineyard in the nearby picturesque fishing village of Marsaxlokk. This
delightful seaside town was balm to the soul with colorful fishing boats bobbing
in the harbor and sunburned fishermen mending their nets on the docks. We found
a waterfront restaurant where we enjoyed local fresh Lampuki, or dolphin fish.
It seemed strange to have the water just a couple of feet from our table until I
remembered that unlike the Pacific, there is very little tide in this part of
the world. As evening approached, we caught a local bus back into Valletta so
that we could get an ongoing connection to our village of Marsaskala. The
traffic was heavy with throngs of people heading home and we had to leap between
buses with alacrity while remembering traffic bore down on us from the left. By
now it was completely dark and just as we edged through a roundabout, we were
caught in a huge traffic snarl. A pungent smell of acrid smoke hung in the warm
air and from my window seat I spotted the source of the commotion. A derelict
cardboard-manufacturing factory had burned to the ground and beside me a line of
helmeted firemen puffing cigarettes stood beside cylindrical tankers. At first
glace I thought the vehicles contained gasoline but later realized with relief
that they only held water. On an island bereft of rivers or lakes, I was glad
that the now smoldering factory had not been one of the many firework plants
which supply pyrotechnics for the popular festi (feast days). 
The
three-kilometer labyrinth of narrow passageways lead past rock-hewn tombs but
since I hadn’t brought my ball of red wool with me, I didn’t wander too far away
from the main area. We also paid a visit to nearby St. Agatha’s Catacombs which
boast 12th century frescoes with no photography being permitted.
En
route, we drove past the Maltese Quarry where gigantic cubes of limestone are
hewn out from deep inside the ground. As with everything in Malta, the deeper
one digs in its history, the more is uncovered. Even its history goes back to
Neolithic times. Nowhere is this more evident than the pre-historic megalithic
temples of Hagar Qim and Mnajdra located near the coastal Blue Grotto. The
largest megalith weighs more than 20 tons. The 500 meter walk down to the
Mnajdra Temple was easy enough but the climb back in the scorching heat was more
challenging.
It
was while walking along this cliff top path and looking over the bird netting
traps below that I ran into a Maltese gentleman. I challenged him on this cruel
sport being perpetrated just feet away from the pathway. He just shrugged his
shoulders and said “That’s the way it is. things don’t change quickly on Malta
and never will.” On this point, I hope he is wrong. 
Contacts:
Malta Tourist Authority