The engines of the Gozo ferry hummed continuously as they drove the propellers under my feet, churning the midnight blue Mediterranean waters into foam. I had spent quite some time at sea, since I worked on a cruise ship, and had seen many harbours and views from the deck. Standing here, with my hand on the white rails and the breeze in my hair, I had to admit that the ones I was seeing now were definitely among the more beautiful. I had left the bustling Malta behind me, which was receding by the minute into a thin brown strip with an unnecessary blot of pink on it – a seedy hotel that looked as if it had been poured from a concrete mould.
I was instantly entranced by Comino – the high, sheer cliffs rising out of the sea, dotted about with deep dark caves, and the scrubby brown land punctured by the sight of the lonely fort perched on the crest of a slope, some distance away from a high precipice. I rummaged in my haversack for my battered Nikon, and snapped picture after picture of the sight. I scrambled up the staircase onto the topmost deck to get a better vantage point, startling a young couple as they strolled around the deck, whiling the time away. I was rewarded with two breath-taking panoramas: a wide-angle shot of Comino, and a few minutes later, one as we arrived at Imgarr Harbour.
I was stunned by what I saw, simply because I had been expecting a similar sight to what I had seen in Malta. Nothing could have been more different. Little fishing boats bobbed up and down, their bright colours reflected in the turquoise-blue waters. Graceful sailing boats were moored in stately rows nearby. Another fort, barely visible except for its outer walls, squatted on the hillside, as though it was about to pounce on the ferry. Next to it was a tiny chapel that looked as though it was gothic, perched crazily on another hill. I could also spot two other churches from where I stood. A few whitewashed buildings were nestled together next to the water’s edge, behind which was a road snaking away from the harbour, lined with little houses and a restaurant or two. Behind these, a few apartment blocks only a few storeys higher rose like trees looking for light. The buildings were all painted in faded shades of white, pink and yellow, some with the original stone exposed. All this was carpeted in dark trees of a rich green that made the place pulse with life.
It was a wondrous view – far from unspoiled, yet it was many things – picturesque, quaint, and above all, mysterious. The sheer height of the hills and buildings that rose straight out of that dark green land gave me the impression of an impenetrable fortress – emphasized not in the least by the front bastion of the stronghold that rose out of the ridge. It looked as if I would have to lay siege to this new place – my curiosity was piqued, and I wanted to find out more for myself. I ignored the thoughts that floated through my mind – I couldn’t stay, I had a steady job and a grand plan – to see the world, and then to write my first real novel. A boat ride, a pretty view, a couple of sun-drenched houses and an old fort or two simply couldn’t stall me. I would ask my aunt for a condensed tour of the place, and that would be it. I would get going before anything or anyone could delay me.
I disembarked absentmindedly and walked towards the bus stop, wondering how much my aunt had changed since I had last seen her. I was also preoccupied with the mixed feelings I had about the island – on one hand, it was love at first sight. I felt it was so serene and quaint; precisely the kind of place that begged you to settle down. Yet it also remained rugged and mysterious – it possessed a certain aura I couldn’t quite fathom. I decided it reminded me of a lion – beautiful and placid while basking in the sun, yet by no means tame. On the other hand, I was also wary of the effect it had on me. Ideas of buying a ramshackle old farmhouse with an olive or citrus grove attached wafted through my head. I would divide my time between lovingly converting it, and tending to the trees. I would find a nice Gozitan girl to get married to, maybe raise a few children…no, I couldn’t. I still had a university debt to pay, a book that I was planning to write, and I still hadn’t finished with my travels.
I was so caught up in my daydreams I wouldn’t have noticed that the bus had nearly arrived were it not for the spectacular rattles, clashes and clangs it made as it negotiated the bend. As it ground to a halt, the engine backfired once and then fell silent. My face broke into a smile. I inwardly chuckled at what I was looking at. Was this seriously public transport, or just a gimmick kept up for the tourists that visited?
Parked before me was a bus that looked like it was lifted right out of the 1950s. It was painted grey with a maroon band running along its length, and had a sloping white roof. On its front were two circular bulbous headlamps with little orange and red bulbs beside each one, all lined in chrome. This was dominated by a magnificent chrome grille you could barbecue a pig on, were it not for a few horseshoes, horse brasses and other metallic oddities affixed to it. Instead of the route number, which was displayed behind the windscreen, the niche above the windscreen proudly bore the words ‘SAINT GEORGE’, printed in chunky red lettering. It was the most outlandish thing I had seen on four wheels.
I climbed the narrow steps while rummaging in my wallet for the coins I needed to buy a ticket, grin still etched on my face. It swelled into a smile again when I saw the driver; possibly even more idiosyncratic than the vehicle he was driving. He was a short, balding man with a superb handlebar moustache. He wore socks and sandals on his feet, navy blue shorts, and an open shirt. He was covered in chest hair, and the threadbare white vest tucked into his shorts drew attention to an enormous beer belly. On his tanned neck and chest swung a thick gold chain you could use to anchor a small steamer with.
He brusquely printed me a ticket on his small red ticketing machine, slapped the change into my outstretched hand, and did the same with every other passenger. Without bothering to even close the door, the rickety bus lurched forwards as the driver gunned it up the sloping road like a bat out of hell. As the sun-washed villages, houses and countryside zipped by, all thoughts were pulled from my head as we were shaken about like beads in a rattle, the bus careering over each pothole. I could never have imagined that a sleepy little island could be as diverse and vibrant as this. The locals already seemed to be highly individualistic, colourful people.
I had already begun to enjoy my stay, as the scenery I saw from that entertaining bus ride wove its spell around me, whispering in my ear to settle down, to take the time to breathe in the air, see the sights and smell the scents. I knew that my world tour was more of a mad dash to visit the places I had always dreamed about seeing, but wasn’t it justified because I had so much to see? I couldn’t really do it any other way, since I was tethered to my job. I decided not to think about it further. I would cross that bridge when I got to it. For now, I was occupied, and Gozo beckoned.
I wouldn’t have made it to the market place I was to meet my aunt at on time, had the friendly Gozitans not given me directions. Granted I could barely understand the Pidgin English they spoke, but they rightly sent me down the road and past a public garden, and up Republic Street, which was set on an incline, until I came to the market, which, according to them, was impossible to miss. Victoria grew busier with each step I made towards the centre of the town.
The sun shone over the hodgepodge of houses, offices, cafes and shops that lined the streets. People were like hermit crabs here, I decided. Some grand old townhouses were converted into chic cafeterias and offices. Smaller houses had been improvised into shops of all kinds: groceries, souvenir shops, jewellers and curiosity shops – one even a pharmacy. Others remained private residences, with wizened old women peering out of the painted wooden balconies a storey up. Narrow, shaded side streets led off the wide road I was walking along. Bang in the middle of a row of shops and houses was a building that looked like a cross between a music hall and a Greek temple, with the words ‘TEATRU ASTRA’ emblazoned in large gold lettering across the frieze atop the columns.
I finally got to the market, full of the gentle sounds made by street merchants, passers-by, tourists, and the clamorous locals having a gossip over a coffee or tea, the latter sometimes served in a tallish glass tumbler. I even saw a couple munching heartily on little flaky pastries that seemed to be filled with a paste of some kind, which, as I was to discover later, were called ‘pastizzi’. T-shirts, towels, hats and dresses hung up on display fluttered in the breeze. The smells of freshly brewed coffee, baking bread, perfume and sunscreen mingled together like old friends. There, next to a large sun umbrella, stood my aunt. There was no mistaking that hoot of joy as she ran towards me at full tilt, her sandals clacking against the cobbled ground. She enveloped me in a hug of flying blond hair, gauzy clothes and sunglasses that poked me in the eye.
Next thing I knew, we were climbing the steep slope that led to the fortified Citadel. She had parked her car in the square in front of the imposing Cathedral just inside the fortified walls, to spare it from the heat of the morning sun. I dazedly answered her questions and talked to her as we bundled ourselves into the ancient dark-blue Mini, and sped off down the hill towards her house in what I was told was a tiny seaside village called Marsalforn.
