Maltese fireworks are part of the package of Maltese summer life. Village feasts are considered incomplete with, out them, though the loud bangs produced by petards throughout the day and the early evening cause annoyance to many. But for the many fireworks enthusiasts, it is not only feasts, which would be, empty without gunpowder, but also their lives.

It is an addiction, fireworks enthusiasts are not there to enjoy the band marches, or the cold beer sipped in the village square as the statue of the patron saint is carried shoulder-high through the streets. While their fellow-villagers enjoy the revelry, they are out in the fields, on the outskirts of the village, preparing for lift off.

Sometimes, an accidental explosion can claim a life or a limb. Oddly, that seems to be part of the fun. "The danger makes it more attractive, more challenging," says Joe, a former pyromaniac. He still hovers on the fringes of the fireworks, making clan, but he is no longer in the thick of it: "I have a wife and two kids, so I can't dedicate as much time as I would like to the art. But I do go to the club or factory occasionally, and dip my fingers into the good old chemicals. I still have a licence after all."

In an attempt to cut down on accidents, fireworks-makers need this licence. "This is essentially a chemist's work, but I'm dead sure none of us knows any chemistry. We identify chemicals by their taste," Joe says, touching the tic of his index finger to his tongue, to demonstrate.

"You moisten the tip of your finger, touch the chemical, and taste the fragments which stick to your finger. Most chemicals look the same, but your tongue never lets you down." His eyes twinkle: "We know how to make them, but we know nothing about the chemistry of what makes them work. Science is for the scientists, not for us!".

Like many other addicts, Joe was drawn to making fireworks through his childhood fascination for them. "I recall walking through the fields, looking for bits of petards which failed to explode the day after the feast a very dangerous practice which should encourage at all costs. We used to collect the unexploded bits and set them alight. A young friend of mine lost two fingers, but that didn't put me off".

At 10 years old, he was already doing the donkey work at the hand club which owns the fireworks factory, The preparatory work is harmless: cutting the cardboard strips used to cutting cardboard strips used to make the fireworks containers. These are glued and left to dry, until they are filled with the explosive chemicals which light up the night. Petards are made with several containers, linked to each other by fuses cut to precise lengths.

Joe says that slipshod methods, which can lead to accidents, are the result of ignorance: "Many are still using recipes handed down from generation to generation. The older the recipe, the more dangerous the ingredients are likely to be. New chemicals are less prone to shock or friction". Some of the older mixtures were really sensitive to vibration, or to sudden movements which cause friction.

Today's chemicals, which are mostly plastic-based PVC, are easier to handle and less dangerous, as long as the manufacturers know what they are doing. But they are more costly. Old-timers prefer their good old-fashioned chemicals, which, like wizards of old, they mix alone, guarding the successful recipes with their lives. "When you mix some chemicals and try them out, if the result is what you want, you keep the recipe in your mind. You do not tell it to anyone, not even to your colleagues," says Joe. "Although we know no science, we act like scientists when we mix the chemicals. We know it is dangerous - that is why we do it on our own. But unless you experiment, you don't get new products, new effects. We are always after the spectacular, after producing something others do not have. The element of risk is taken over by the competition".

This small island shelters some 35 licensed fireworks factories, and there are around 400 people with a licence. Their ages range from 18 to 70. There you find them, with each approaching season walking to the factory, lying just on the outskirts of the village or nedalling along on an old bicycle. The younger ones, of course, get there faster on four wheels. The fireworks factories are these days built to more modern and safer specifications, with well ventilated mixing-rooms, kept away from storage rooms, so that in case of an accident', the risk of greater explosions is minimized.

Fireworks enthusiasts don't just mix potions and make fireworks. They also do the rounds, collecting donations, knocking on every door in the village as the festa season approaches: "Something for the fireworks, madam", they say, pushing forward a large bag, to which the effigy of the patron saint is usually crudely pinned.

I cannot forget one particular fireworks fan from the St. Michael's Fireworks Factory in Lija, which is famed for its displays. With a near miss il-Habbuga, as he was affectionately known by his workplace colleagues, used to live for fireworks. And for fireworks, he lost his life. It is pointless trying to describe the sacrifices that these people make. But il-Habbuga's example may shed some tight. That smile was always punctuated by a cigarette. He was a chain smoker. But when making his fireworks, sometimes for more than 12 hours at a stretch, he forgot all about the nicotine habit. His addiction to fireworks was much greater than his need to smoke.

At the end of the day, the fireworks do go up in smoke, leading to the argument that they are a waste of money. Some parishes spend well over Lm 10, 000 for a performance, which lasts less than 20 minutes. But like every other thing in life, their beauty and necessity are in the eye of the beholder. Some hate them. Many love them. And a few love to hate them.

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