Honeycomb Island

As the wheels of the plane touch Maltese ground, a mixture of excitement and curiosity finds its way through my body and manifest itself as a joyous cry on the tip of my tongue. Upon entering the arrivals hall, I am unsure if we arrived in the right place; the o so familiar logo of the Costa’s greets me, inviting me to purchase that very needed ice coffee. The fact that a ‘welcome to Malta’ sign welcomes me and our taxi driver speaking a language that sounds to me like a mixture of Arabic and something unfamiliar, allows me to believe that we are not in Aberdeen airport but have indeed arrived in Malta.

We take to the road, seven of us in the back of a taxi van, and take in the sensations of this, for most of us, unfamiliar country. BBC radio forms some welcome background noise.  I feel a pang of nostalgia whilst driving through the city; odd, since I have no ties to Malta, which I discovered today means honey island, at all. This feeling continues when I set my first steps in Valetta the next day. I realize it is not Malta itself, but what it reminds me of; driving on the left takes me back to sitting next to my grandmother, whilst we drive to the store. The shops remind me of that particular store, with my childhood treats displayed in racks on the wall. I crave a Crunchy bar; its honeycomb centre sweet on the tongue. On the streets, the English signs indicate the status quo of things and direct me to my desired destination; Valetta University.

I was aware that Malta is a former British colony but had not expected the remains of this to be so visible in everyday life. Malta officially became British in 1814 under the, in my opinion ironic title, Treaty of Paris*. Malta formed the perfect port, connected to the Adriatic Sea and with access to North Africa. After the Suez Canal was opened in 1969 the volume of shipping increased drastically, due to the easier access of the Mediterranean Sea to North-Africa. Malta achieved independence relatively late, but in 1964 they joined the list of former British colonies.

Several sculptures are scattered around the city, depicting Maltese provers and sayings. I find out that this is a project by Ikon Artworks to preserve the Maltese language. Curious about how the locals feel about Maltese versus English, I ask around. An elderly woman selling delicious looking fruit tells me that she “hardly speaks English” and would “prefer Maltese over English any day”. The youth seems to be more indifferent about the English versus Maltese debate, something I gather from talking to a group of teenage boys.

The city is breath-taking, sand coloured buildings with beautiful coloured doors mark the streets. An era of a time long gone comes over me/descends unto me, a time where people aren’t in a constant rush to get to and fro, where they can enjoy what they have. However, time as not stopped in Valetta, as it does nowhere in this age of globalization; traditional looking stores and neglected looking buildings are alternated with modern stores ranging from New Look to MacDonald’s. Yes, even this small island has a MacDonald’s, talking about Americanisation. I wonder how popular this is with the locals. Tourists walk the streets, locals try to sell souvenirs and several once hidded sights have now become busy tourist attractions.

* http://thecommonwealth.org/our-member-countries/malta/history

We were lucky enough to get to Visit Of the Beaten Track, a antropological fieldschool in Malta. I wrote a short story about this experience, which you can read below.                                        

                                                                                               The Field School

On Gozo stands a house, a school, a home. To get their one must go Of the Beaten Track. A group of students enters for the first time, not knowing what they will encounter. They find hospitality, laughter and incredible food, to be enjoyed with kind company. The sun sets, illuminating the sky with shades of purple and pink, the purest she has ever seen. There is talk and chatter and chitchat; about Malta, anthropology and ‘home’. A conversation takes place between two girls, born on opposite sides of the world, that have found a common ground. The sky has darkened, taking on the colour of burned coals. The crisp air turns cold, causing the people to cuddle and snuggle in blankets. Crispy Roasted Pig enters the room, catching everyone’s attention. The voices die down to a mere background sound, as if the DJ has turned the music down after a very intense song. The feast commences, just as a tiny drop of rain falls on the terrace, the first droplet the students have felt on their trip.

To all things must come and end, and this evening is no exception. The students brace themselves for the bump-bump-bumping of the taxi on the uneven road, but since all are tired – some slightly intoxicated – the journey pasts fast.

A bit after midnight, a taxi parks in front of a hostel in San Julian, Malta. Several students make their way past sleeping houses until they reach the front door of there temporary home.