J'accuse: Empire of the Sun

This article and accompanying Bertoon appear in today’s Malta Independent on Sunday.

The clouds descended on the archipelago as the cut-with-a-knife humidity morphed into a stickiness that was pregnant with electric anticipation; meanwhile the millions of servants of Beelzebub set about tormenting the inhabitants in every cafe with their irrequietous presence. The sun vanished temporarily from the aestival horizon as sundecks and sunglasses were relegated to the position of superfluous accessories. The first droplets of water fell upon dust-encrusted vehicles and thirsty fields alike in a premonitory warning of the wet pleasures to come as the new season sent its early heralds on this reconnoitring mission.

It was not really a storm, more like a quick rendezvous with the autumnal elements – a Hollywood teaser for the Fall. It always happens around this time – while the citizens of the suburb of Paceville prepare for the Belgian saint who shares the same name with 39 other saints (as mentioned in the Roman Martyrology) and we gear up for the feast of Il-Vitorja (the victory) on the 8th of September.

It’s an annual appointment and test for the Road Works Department – the alluvion that hits the islands on or around the eighth day of the ninth month. It has been known to flood valleys and incapacitate traffic flows in a manner reminiscent of a latter day epochal event that should, for all intents and purposes, culminate in a Technicolor covenant spanning across the sky – a deistic affirmation of the more mundane “Lest we forget”. Incredibly, all temporal powers manage to inevitably screw up the preparation for the inundation and before you know it, the end of the silly season is being proclaimed live on TV by a Minister who is baffled by the lack of preparedness in the battle of Man versus Elements. Plus ça change…

Standing on the shore

If Freemason Franco Frattini were to stand on the shores of Birzebbuga on one of the last remaining summer evenings, he might be unlucky enough to witness first hand the plight of the immigrants arriving by the boatloads to our shores. The moving description of the man who lost his life at sea after having leaped, overjoyed, into the sea notwithstanding his inability to swim is probably not enough to convince the hordes of commentators about the utter desperation of these refugees of the 21st century. Pregnant women, children, and the man who leapt at the sight of the Promised Land only to drown in the cemetery for hopefuls that is the Mediterranean, are the most human face of this unhappy exodus.

Not for Freemason Frattini though. Freemason Frattini sees the whole issue of immigrants as a sabre-rattling opportunity with which to taunt his tiny neighbours as being incapable of handing the patrolling situation. The last time Italy claimed some form of right over our archipelago or its waters, il Duce was at its helm. At the time, people like Freemason Frattini could not indulge in the sort of “scratch-my-back” camaraderie among fellow lovers of the arcane and invisible helping hands. Freemasonry was not allowed in Fascist Italy and only flourished when the Christian Democrats came into power and had its dark moments when the termite mound of the P2 was finally unearthed.

Of course with freemasonry being what it is we will never know for certain whether Freemason Frattini really exists and whether he has a funny sort of handshake and a certificate of membership somewhere in his attic. What we do know is that ultra-Catholic Buttiglione (an Italian version of our own Carmelo – Mifsud Bonnici not Borg Pisani) was firmly convinced of Frattini’s membership of the order of the compass and friendly favours. I wonder whether Colonel Ghadafi too could boast membership of similar circles thus facilitating an entente cordiale between our two neighbours prepared to bury the hatchet of discords old and work together on some new project that goes far beyond Italian companies building the main roads along the coastlines of Libya.

The Catholic Church’s monitory note that appealed to politicians to treat the human questions before issues of pride or issues of who is right or wrong could not have come a moment too soon. Just as I am the first to point out that the Church’s voice is always to be considered as but one of the many voices that form our civil society and must be respected and dealt with as such, I am glad that the weight and moral authority of the Church on the matter of human life is being brought to bear on the main participants of this immigration saga.

We Are The People

This is the first time in five years that I return back to Luxembourg with a heavy heart wishing – in the words of Frankie Valli (and the Four Seasons) – that I could have stayed just a little bit longer. There are so many plus points about the whole art of living in Malta that I had almost forgotten about – chief among which is the art of complaining when you don’t really mean it. I can’t remember which comedian it was on Live at the Apollo who theorised that Brits are positively charged by the negative complaint. Whenever they complain about something they instantly feel better. Well… we must have got that off them during the time that they spent on our shores. Don’t we just love to complain? We also have no sense of proportion.

It’s crazy really. It’s worse than the Maltese complaining about the hypothetical rip-off they are bound to receive while in Gozo. It’s a general complaint that permeates the whole island from the moment it is woken up by the boom boom of the useless petards and the chug-chug of the illegally operated building site (Paceville… somewhere in between Triq Salvu Privitera – weren’t building sites supposed to stop in summer? and in any case not operate at 7.30am on a Saturday morning?). They will complain about the weather, about the warden patrolling the streets, about the car that is parked out of place and about the bus driver that drives his chariot too close to pedestrians’ heads for comfort.

They will blame the immigrants. They will curse unmarried couples and jinx homosexuals. They will look at the latest hole in the road with an air of resigned nonchalance combined with a twitch of affected anger. They will obligingly conform with the “in” crowd and flock to the latest eatery only to complain that the service was too slow, the food undercooked and in minute portions and the bill definitely overpriced. Above all, they will complain that it is all the fault of the government and the government only.

Have I got news for you. We are 400,000 odd individuals lumped with the same 316 square kilometres. Like the unrepentant Catholic Couple, we are doomed to share the same space for better or for worse until death do us part, and we had better get used to that idea because unless some earth shaking geological movements push the islands higher up or extend their surface in some way there is not much we can do.

Half-mast

What really happens when we build up all this “complain energy” (as in “nixtieq naghmel complain” – “I’d like to make a complaint”) is that we act in the most irrational and perverse of ways endangering each others’ lives in the process. We drive like maniacs on roads that could never satisfy our irrational need to get to our destination at an earlier time than that of our departure. Driving on our roads is generally OK until you encounter the random idiot who needs to overtake at all costs while flashing all the lights available. He will overtake even if this means that he will have to slip behind the next car and will not gain any time at all on his trip.

There must be something macho about this overtaking business that I cannot fathom. It’s not only overtaking – it’s also parallel rows of cars moving in the same direction. Suddenly the row narrows to one lane. I’ve seen it happen numerous times in Luxembourg and France – the drivers suddenly develop a gentlemanly conduct as the cars from both lanes alternate turns for slipping into the single lane. Not in Malta though. People will inch their car’s bonnet closer to yours and initiate a game of “chicken”, as though giving up a millimetre of space would bring shame to you and your family. The utter ridiculousness of the situation does not even enter the antechamber of the brains of these bullies of the road. They are the very same bullies and gents of bravado who imperil the life of everyone in their vicinity.

The prize for stupid, irrational driving goes undoubtedly to those ungentlemen in the cars with white livery and the word TAXI emblazoned on the side. To begin with, they must have an automatic immunity to traffic cameras and road regulations. I have in my possession the number plate and record of time and place of various traffic violations by white taxis. There was the halfwit who zoomed past me on Manoel Dimech Bridge in the area where the speed limit is 60. There was the energumen who invented the third lane on the Coast Road and there was also the low life that not only exceeded the speed limit but also did so while zooming past a zebra crossing as pedestrians attempted to cross.

Will we mourn all their victims? Will we be sorry for the loss of life? Will we not be responsible too for having allowed such lowlifes to patrol the road in their machines?

Walking on a Dream

Two and a half weeks of holidays have been like walking in a dream. I almost cannot wait for the first storm that will wake me from the hot stupor and get the brain cells revving again. The signals of the end of the silly summer season were not just natural but also came from the world of sport. Serie A is back for a wonderful season as the great bianconeri attempt to break the fabricated dominance of the nerazzuri. Serie A still instinctively means Novantesimo Minuto with Paolo Valenti and a hot cup of tea after a day out at Ta Qali. Novantesimo is no more, Paolo Valenti has long since moved to commenting on matches in the sky, and I am not sure whether kids still show off their moves on the hallowed turf outside the stadium.

It’s back to work as usual for most of us. August has lived up to its name as a wonderful moment of soporific relaxation. I’d like to end this last of the summer articles with a few pointers. First of all the subtitles of this article come to you courtesy of the band “Empire of the Sun” and their album “Walking on a Dream”. If you have not heard it yet then do – I am told that Pirate Bay is back and up and running… which is a good thing in my books. Also, I am not normally one for adverts and plugging commercial companies but I am very pleased to read of the new airline that will link Malta and Sicily in an affordable and practical way… I wish it many a happy trip and happy customer.

That’s really it for now. Anything I add at this point would be like a “tewma fuq soufflé” as fellow columnist Kenneth Zammit Tabona likes to say. This is the last article on my travels. As of next week the usual missives from Luxembourg will be de rigueur. Enjoy the last of the summer wine… and drive carefully!

Jacques will be back in Luxembourg tomorrow and still blogging at http://www.akkuza.com. Here’s to hoping that we will have a new blogging season full of interesting interaction.