Walking with intent

Walking with intent

a spiral of shirts

a carousel of shadows

a burning head

an empty morgue

wet with waiting

Good Friday in Valletta

Finding St George's Bay

This is me at five years old, a year or so before we went to live in St George's Bay.  This month I'm doing some teaching in Swieqi just up the valley from St George's.  It has got me thinking about the process of memoir and writing.  I hate what St George's has become and wrote about it in a blog back in January 2009.  When I was writing Washing up in Malta last year I used some of those ideas in a linking piece and that's what I've reproduced here. 

Landscape is a keeper of memory.  The ghosts of our past drift through the sand and sea, the streets and walls of the places we have known.  When concrete covers the earth, memory is strangled along with the trees.

Finding St Georges Bay

My flat is on the top floor of a large block in Valletta.   The foundations quarry down into the old slave market or so I am told.  The block was built after the Second World War to house people bombed into homelessness.  Sometimes I meet their descendants in the lift.  Sometimes I imagine the ghosts of slaves who wander the stairs lamenting their lost children.

When I am not sitting in the square, I sit at my window and watch harbour traffic leaving and returning through the mouth of the twin breakwaters.  The daily catamaran heads North West to Sicily, the cruise liners head West and East to explore the wider Mediterranean, the float plane lifts off and heads West, North West to the sister island of Gozo. 

At night, the lighthouses at the harbour entrance blink red and green.  In calm weather, small boats fish along the harbour walls.  In stormy weather the waves crash mightily against the ancient stone of the breakwaters.

Sitting at my window, I think about opening up this small world where I have come to live.  Could I put in an arch here, knock out a wall there?   Then I could watch the boats come and go even when I am in the kitchen washing up.

 Is it peculiarly Western this disease, this need to renovate? 

Now, when I scan the local papers, published in English for the benefit of the most recent colonisers, I look for possible builders and architects to help me with my renovations. 

That’s how I notice the advertisement in the Times of Malta.  A conference was to be held to present the findings of a research study funded by the European Union.  The study investigated best practice in equality in Northern Ireland, Italy, Cyprus and Malta. The conference venue is a big new hotel in St George’s bay.    We lived there when I was a girl.

I get the number 19 bus from Valletta and at the end of the run the driver points me vaguely down a road lined with hotels and bars.  I can recognise nothing.  I walk down towards the bay.  I try to feel for the shape of the land underneath all that concrete.

Here is the fall of the valley running down to the beach.  This concrete space must be the small, unmade triangle where dad used to park his grey DKW motorcar.  So to my right is the road where we used to race our go-carts.  I feel again the hairpin down to the bay that now disappears in blocks of flats.  To my left the steps go down St Rita Street.  A small street sign hidden under the huge hot dog advertisement confirms it.

I set off down the steps that are now a warren of small bars and fast food outlets towards the street where I used to play cricket with Ben and Peter outside the nunnery.  At the bottom a huge crane is lifting concrete up to the top floor of a block of flats on the corner.  I scurry anxiously under the enormous bucket.   The workmen on the roof grin their control of this space that once was mine.

The conference hotel is just around the corner and the marble clad entrance opens onto our cricket street. The nunnery has vanished, but for a fleeting image of a small girl pressing the doorbell at the front gate to ask in trepidation for the return of her brothers’ cricket ball.

I sit through the conference knowing that I must be sitting over the back garden of our old house.   It is like sitting on a tomb.  What happened to the tortoise that dad brought back from North Africa to make its home in a hole under the wall half way down the garden?  What about the pigeons and hens and rabbits we kept at the far end and the budgerigars and canaries in large cages by the back door?   Are there any back gardens left for their descendants to sing and lay eggs in?

I am still there for the conference summary but I don’t hear it.   I walk out through the glass and marble reception area in the hot stillness of the afternoon and follow the cricket street down to the bay.  Everything has been “embellished” - an esplanade around the small sandy beach and palm trees planted.  The palms are struggling.  The rocks where I learnt to dive have been concreted over and made into a beach club. 

Piles of brown winter seagrass have washed up on the beach as always.  The concrete has not yet reached the underwater meadows where the natural cycle of destruction and renewal begins.   And here is the little square stone building that the nuns used in the summer to change into their swimming habit.  As they entered the water in a group and settled into a circle to chat, their black habits billowed out around them like the petals of a flower.  What did they talk about cradled in their black roses?  Did they concern themselves with matters of equality in their small, closed community?  What did they think of the little girl who rang the doorbell and asked in English for the return of her brother’s cricket ball?

Back at the flat, there is an email from the architect.  He has completed concept designs and would like to come round to talk about them.

Am I ready for that?  He is such a young man.  I don’t want to stifle his creativity but I sense that he is impractical and his ideas are expensive.  Besides, I am old enough to want my space to remain mine untainted by the flights of fancy of new generations.  I sigh as I phone him and arrange a suitable time for his visit.

Spring voting in Malta

It feels like the first weekend of Spring and Saturday was a beautiful day for queuing to vote.  This is also the first time I have been able to vote in Malta and I can only vote for local government in Valletta, not for the National government.  A policeman knocked on my door some weeks ago and presented me with my voting card telling me where to go and what room I had to find.

Armed with my card, I set off to the voting station with directions from my neighbour who also told me to vote for the young man who was promising playing facilities for children.  I found the school easily at the end of Merchant street - it looked like the whole of Valletta was heading in that direction.  Voter turn-out was well over 90% in all districts.

I joined the end of a long queue and since everyone was chatting in Maltese I got out my newspaper and settled down to wait.  The queue was moving very slowly but the atmosphere was good-natured even though everyone was complaining.  A continuous stream of ambulances and cars brought people in wheelchairs and the police were acting as ramp orderlies as well as crowd management.  As I inched closer to the entrance to the school, a tall policeman told us all to switch off our mobiles.  He spoke in Maltese but I worked it out and dutifully switched off.  He also prevented people who had already voted from talking to the people who were waiting.  People smoked and I buried  my nose in the newspaper to try and avoid setting off my lingering bronchitis.

A policeman was talking at me in Maltese and reaching across the queue towards my newspaper.  i thought he wanted to read something in the paper so I offered it to him.  Everyone laughed.

"It's the law," said the man in front of me in the queue.

"Really?" I managed

"There might be political content," said the policeman, "No political content within 50 metres."

I started folding the paper.

"Put it in your bag," said the policeman.

I felt a bit sheepish but did as I was told.

"I should've brought my book to read," I muttered and got sympathetic smiles from the people around me.  The woman in front lit up her third cigarette.  Nobody talked about politics.  The sun was very hot.  A man in front leant on the barrier and lit a cigar.  The policeman told us all to stay on the pavement.  A tourist couple walking down the road asked the policeman what was happening.  He replied in a very deep, slow voice,

"It is a g-e-n-e-r-a-l e-l-e-c-t-i-o-n"

A small girl broke ranks and went to sit on a block of stone across the street.  She took on the role of crowd entertainment.  She carefully got out her dummy from her pocket and settled down with her hands on her knees.  She flirted outrageously with the tall policeman.  He walked slowly down the queue telling us all to stay on the pavement.  When he returned to the other side of the street, he offered the little girl a poppa.  She was unsure at first but then a huge grin spread across her face behind her dummy.

The policeman asked her something in Maltese that I interpreted as "Do you know how to open it?"

"Iva," said the small girl and carefully put her dummy back in her pocket.  Her nana joined her but the policeman insisted that she should return to the queue.  By this time, I had got to the front and was inside.

The system works well.  I found the correct room and could tell by the familiar faces in the much shorter queue that the rooms were assigned by district.  The room had four polling booths and they let people in as the booths became empty.  I had to give them my card and they matched it up with a photocopy on a sheet, crossed it off, kept the card and gave me a voting sheet.  Then I had to fold it and put it in a box. 

And the result was out soon after midday today.  I was in the Maritime Museum in Birgu when I started to hear screaming and banging as though bombs were dropping.  The man on the desk told me that Labour had won.  Out on the streets, a huge crowd was gathering in the square and carcades were winding their way around the back streets.  On the ferry coming back to Valletta several labour supporters were waving flags and chanting the slogan "Malta for All".  In the lift which was free and through Upper Barrakka gardens people shouted "for all" with a proprietorial air.  It's a good slogan but Malta for all requires each of us to take responsibility for making sure that everyone's rights are respected. I'm disappointed that the Greens didn't win a single seat so that they could have a platform from which to argue against the groups who seek to turn public space into private playgrounds.

Lost in Buskett

A few years ago I walked in Buskett gardens with Malta Ramblers.  Verdala Palace was built by the knights as a hunting lodge and the gardens were planted to serve as their hunting grounds.  We walked past two tumble-down farmhouses and were promised that the walls were to be rebuilt using EU funding.  The plan was to use the buildings as interpretation centres for the gardens.

Now it has happened!  Today I got the bus to Rabat and walked over to Buskett to check out the advertised open day.  This is the smaller of two farmhouses that have been restored.

Walking over from Rabat, I came into the gardens from the top road and was confused by a large crowd of mostly men gathering at a large shed.  It was difficult to work out what was going on.  They looked like hunters or farmers and one had a parrot on his shoulder. 

I attended to my immediate need and found a single toilet.  I returned to the gathering thinking it might be the start of the guided tour.  A speaker system was being tested.  I hung around for a bit as people were invited to sit down.  It was starting to look like a political rally.  I started to feel cross.  Everything has been hi-jacked by the election.  I asked a woman who was sitting on the edge.

"It's the election.  Our leaders are coming to talk to the people."  She pointed me down the road and I set off in search of the farmhouses.  I found the first and largest one quite quickly.

They have done an excellent job of restoring the old buildings.  The falconer was one of the costumed men whose job seemed to be to hang about and answer questions.

 Inside the rooms there were interesting niches probably for cooking and washing as well as ventilation in the walls.  The information boards were intended to give an impression of the future use as an interpretation centre but were difficult to read.

From the roof

 a view of the valley waterway

and this was the irrigation system at the back of the farmhouse

 I walked out through the back gate with the coat of arms

 and set off down this roadway and along the waterway

 The lane petered out before I could find the second farmhouse and so I scrambled up a narrow path and doubled back on myself

 through some dramatic walls and gardens

When I got back to the first farmhouse, the small girl I had seen from the roof was intent on taking
a micro photo of an interesting pattern in the wall.

 I wandered back out past the political meeting place now empty and out on the Siggiewi side where I stumbled on the Olive press and winery.  The stalls with honey, olive products and wine were neat but felt like it was done for the tourists.  But I discovered that the bus stop was just outside and since it was starting to rain I decided to join the fairly large and growing number of people waiting for the bus.  We waited.  The advertised time went by.  The policeman directing traffic said "Don't worry, it comes every hour."  We waited.  I phoned Arriva and once I'd pressed the right numbers to get past the recorded voice and had given the human the number of the bus stop, I was told that the next bus was due at quarter to the hour.  "What happened to the one for the previous hour?" I inquired and at that moment, the bus appeared.

Back at Rabat, I was starving and wandered down to the Cuckoo's nest for lunch - home-made Maltese wine and a delicious slow-cooked meat stew that I suspect might have been horse.  I was the only person there and the family who run the bar were watching politicians on the TV.