Gone with the elapsed week is also any residual sensation of serenity and regeneration. Three weeks which loomed large and ominously at the outset in retrospect zipped by like a fly evading a swatter ( the reference is NOT haphazard ) and now only inhabit, if only fleetingly and already somewhat foggily, an increasingly unreliable memory.
If these introductory sentences have turned initial eager anticipation to yawning indifference, let me at this juncture hasten to point out that I have every intention of continuing at this dilatory pace. If you have other pressing matters, I recommend clicking the print icon and finishing this at your leisure. You cannot accuse me of not having warned you......
Let me start by saying that though we spent 3 weeks in the Republic of Malta, all but 1 day was passed on Gozo, the second largest of the 3 islands �islets not included - in the archipelago. The inhabitants of the country very much insist on differentiating between Maltese ( inhabitants of the
island of Malta ) and Gozitans. Gozo, though only 15x7 kilometres in imension, has over a dozen townships, each with its own distinct character. It is not uncommon for Victorians to keep a vacation home 5 km down the
road on the beach in Marsalforn. This, just a small indication of how ery insular life there can be.
To simply describe Gozo in August as hot in meteorological terms would be a
great injustice, demonstrate a scathing lack of precision and not begin
to convey the burden of the heat. Searing, incandescent, sweltering, oppressive, prostrating, infernal must precede any allusion to temperature there.
So, I lay, now supine, now prone, indoors, from dawn till dusk, at which time it became reasonable and possible, as a sensible human being with nothing but natural air-conditioning and electric fans her disposal,to venture out. Some farsighted - and no doubt, long dead - Gozitan
sometime in the past seems to have decided that trees were a blot on the landscape,
and had any and all razed to the ground. Scrub and bush are notoriously poor
providers of shelter from the harsh midday sun, so one has no recourse
but to technology (inevitably indoors) or the not so cool, but
crystalline waters of the Mediterranean, on which the sun relentlessly shines. I chose the former; Cord and Jared went for option #2. Jared snorkelled while Cord went scuba diving, so he, at least, got some cooling respite in the azure depths.
The paralysing heat yielded a perfect by-product - splendid and indulgent
hours of supine inactivity in which I devoured tome upon tome of
literary endeavour - and meditated on various things which need not be
expounded upon here. As such, it was my first true vacation in years.
Lest I leave you with the impression that the entire 3 weeks was spent
reclining on a bad mattress, let me add that after acquiring a wide-
brimmed hat, woven of palm leaves on Gozo, and refractory to even the
most purposeful attempts at destruction, I could be occasionally observed enjoying
the landscape and architecture of the island during daylight hours.
The sight of limestone baroque, twin belfry-and-dome churches bathed in
radiant sunlight, stately limestone homes, with names like Ave Maria and
Sacred Heart adorning majolica plaques, magnificent brass door knobs
and knockers, luxuriant mauve and orange bougainvillea, terraced farms,
sheer cliff faces and ubiquitous stray cats mingled with the pungent
odour of manure from the fields, the more subtle fragrance of caraway
seed, the insistent buzzing of flies, the explosion ( even during the
day ) of powerful fireworks at festas and the ever-present heat to
produce total sensory stimulation.
Total sensory stimulation is not quite accurate. As you may have
remarked, one sense was rather neglected on Gozo - that of taste.
Gozitan cuisine is, to put it euphemistically, rather unimaginative,
even bland. Time and again, disappointment followed letdown, as the
lesser half ( man does not live by bread alone - the saving grace of any meal-, and after all, a little hunger does wonders by way of condiment) of yet another promising-sounding repast followed its cohorts into the refuse. Haute cuisine was not expected; creative seasoning was. Gratification, however, generally got lost between fork and lip. The
wines were acceptably good, if Cord's judgement be trusted, and though a
steady diet of tomatoes, mozzarella, crusty bread and olive oil rapidly
becomes monotonous, it got us safely through a few lunches.
Two of our three weeks were spent on the outskirts of Sannat, a small village, in a picturesque limestone farmhouse which I examined and booked, along with our rental car, on the Internet. The final week was spent in a hotel on the beach in Marsalforn. Farmhouse was actually not a misnomer as I had initially thought, because though no farming of any kind had been conducted in or around the house itself for decades, a horse, chicklets
and a few cats vied for space in the premises directly across the alley,
and the odour, magnified manifold and held hostage in the air by the
stagnant and stifling heat, was unmistakably farm-like. The flies from across the
alley buzzed in at dawn and departed reluctantly with the setting of the
sun, making abortive most attempts to enjoy the view on the
indoor/outdoor bougainvillea-and-geranium-filled multilevel courtyards in
the house. The worst efforts of the winged nuisances notwithstanding, I
did manage to paint a few watercolour impressions of the farmhouse, the
best of which you may view here.
Village Gozitans, on first impression, appeared rather a taciturn and
sombre lot. With time, this impression was replaced by one of guarded
friendliness. Kyra was EVERYONE'S darling and within the three weeks,
managed to build up such a following that we would be accosted on
the street in the capital and asked if we weren't staying at such and
such a place, as whoever it was had heard of her from a friend or
acquaintance. Village life!
I put some effort into learning correct Maltese pronunciation and even
some phrases. With the latter, I could unfortunately make no impression on the locals.
Maltese is a Semitic language, which when transliterated into the roman
script, strikes terror into the heart of anyone accustomed to q's
followed by u's, and x's placed obligingly at the end, not the beginning,
of syllables.
Try "Xlendi", "Xaghra","Qala" and "Xewkijas" on for size. ( Shlendi,
Sha'ara, 'Aala, Shewkiya). At least, when aking directions, I could get us whither we wanted to go. <br><br>
Were the Gozitans good-looking? No feast for the eyes there.
One evening ramble in our village ended very rapidly when we made the
acquaintance of a Dutch-Australian couple who had recently converted an
old school house into a veritable palace - with the name Palazzo Saguna
not inappropriately hewn in stone on the facade - and taken up full-time
residence. It was an aesthete�s paradise. We were given the full tour and
invited back for a swim in their inviting pool. That was actually the only time
that I fully immersed myself in water during our stay - salt water
and sand are my most fearsome foes - but given that it had been
65C in the sun that day, and the water temperature approached body heat,
refreshment, though welcome, was short-lived.
Is this all sounding too negative? In recounting details, I find that I
have given a rather unbalanced impression of our sojourn. The lively
village festas, with marching bands, processions, fireworks, food and
drink were entertaining and the day trip to Malta amusing. As fate would have it, it seems we chose the hottest possible day for the outing- there was a thin sheen, a layer of molten asphalt on the road; with the car windows open, the air felt like the uppermost level
in a Finnish sauna directly after pouring a pailful of water on the
coals. In Valetta, we browsed a lively street market, where I found my "souvenirs" - ornate
sconces, and finials for my curtain rods- then took a horse-drawn carriage ride
through the fortified capital, to see the Grandmaster's Palace, the
Grand Harbour, St John's Co-Cathedral -a magnificent, stupendous structure- and
last but not least, the beautiful old capital, Mdina, with its narrow,
winding streets. All left their indelible marks.
GAMK, August 1999
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