We finally made it to Malta and the excruciating heat (not much change there). An early morning three-hour drive and a damned stomach bug, which kicked off its effects from 4am, did not prevent us from getting onto the Malta-bound plane from Frankfurt. Funny how you can drive for three hours without a problem in Germany but have a very adventurous 20-minute trip from Luqa to Paceville, slipping back into cussing mode with self-drive rental car drivers.
All that Jazz
Having slept all afternoon on Thursday, I forewent the traditional first dip and only regained my senses in time to get to the jazz festival (on Thursday, missed the first acts though). It’s a well-organised festival of sound, mind you, and you could tell the enthusiasts from the hangers-on from a mile away. It all depended on how they twisted their face. The ones with their face screwed up in rigorous attention looking as though they would burst into orgasmic ecstasy following an epiphanic progression of notes and melodies were definitely the jazz buffs. They looked Sterner than Stern and would only occasionally switch to an appreciative swaying or clapping – most of the time the concentration on the deepest intricacies of this genre that grows on you (presumably like a wart but nicer) led them to bearing Lascaris-like faces.
Then there were the others whose faces were twisted as though in the eternal suffering of some recently scratched purgatory. Their expressions varied from “bring back the vuvuzela” to “who the hell gave those kids their toys and why do they have to practise on stage?” They gathered in inconspicuous circles and confessed to each other that they couldn’t quite fathom what the fuss for this ruckus was really all about, and concurred that if they could, they would revive the Hector Bruno eighties mass meeting act on stage as a merciful compromise.
I say “they” but surely (and shamefully) I should say “we”, for I must confess that I formed part of this ignorant clique whose presence could only be explained because they form part of the chain of junkies of all things remotely labelled as “cultural”. Yes, we were there because the event came with a ticket, the venue was naturally and historically spectacular and even the food on offer in the stalls was more than a few marks above the clichéd concert nosh. And we enjoyed it in spite of several notes and riffs and other such noises creeping up behind us as unexpectedly as a JPO Divorce Bill and releasing bursts of cacophonic ear-bell nauseating sounds. It was, in its own way, very emotional.
Forni Gate
We walked back to our legally parked car past Valletta Waterfront and I noticed a number of tourists still looking for an extension of their night out. The majority of the Waterfront shops had already gone into sleep mode. Where’s the fun in summer with bars closing at 12.30? Does a tourist not deserve a quiet cocktail on the Valletta waterfront in the silence of the early hours of the morning? Maybe not, but in any case my intention was not to complain about bar opening hours but rather to mention my linguistic discovery on the way to the Waterfront from Ta’ Liesse.
As we ambled from concert to car, taking in the latest developments in this area that is planned to receive thousands of tourists every year (maybe hundreds of thousands), we noticed, for example the “Magazzino” embarkation place for tourists. It fits very nicely into the surroundings and adds a nice touch to the foot of the bastions. Before the Magazzino though (I think) we passed one of the many gates serving the mooring posts by the port. The clear signage announced to anyone who cared to read it that this was… drum roll here… “Forni Gate”.
Now there’s an ironic gate for a tourist to walk through on arriving in Malta. A rather misleading encouragement I would say. Shouldn’t they add a postil or something? Something like “but not in public and definitely not in hotel rooms in case some MP or other develops a sudden interest in your private activities?” Even better we could add, “You might try but we care about this more than you would ever like to know”.
An international gate consisting of an imperative to copulate? OK, the word association made after a few hours of jazz-related disorientation is a bit childish but, hell – it is rather ironic, isn’t it? I’d heard of the Austrian town of “Fucking” (google it… I’m NOT making this up), I’d driven by the German town of “Katzen” and read of Titty Hill (England), Bald Knob (Arkansas) as well as Twatt (Scotland), but I was quite sure that the country that had opposed the acronym O.S.C.E. (rejected) would make sure that no such unfortunate slips would occur in its topography.
Censored ships
Let’s face it. Were this any other time in our variegated history, the (childish, I repeat) issue of the unfortunate naming of a Valletta entrance (resulting from an Anglo Italian corroboration) would not be worth writing about. The combined effect of various moralistic issues being presented from the platform of hypocrisy and ingenuity does lend itself to parody and satire of the not too refined kind. As I type, a local paper reports that Anthony Neilson’s play Stitching has been awarded a 14 rating at the internationally famous Fringe Festival in Edinburgh. The hard-nosed protestant Scots (stereotype warning) will allow 14-year-olds to watch a play that was rated in Malta as being “unsuitable for any audience”.
Forget the criminal code. This is not a question of protecting the infants, is it? It is really a question of being unable to look outside the cave and beyond the shadows and reflections for fear of noticing that there is a whole world out there (and in here – though we cannot see it) that we cannot contemplate with our limited philosophy. I’m sorry if I have to harp on this matter for a second week, but surely we must realise how dangerous the path is that we have chosen to tread.
It’s the intolerant attitude that is absolutely flabbergasting. Forget penises in paintings in some art gallery in Gozo. The issue is much wider than that. The issue is that in this particular corner of the world there are people who would want to impose their life choices on others. It is not so much an issue of majority versus minority as it is an issue of crass interference. There is another ironic own goal to be registered here: the craving for legislation banning anything that goes against a particular set of morals also reflects an innate weakness in the bearers of such morals. What they are saying in effect is that if such things as provocative art or legislation to dissolve marriage contracts were available, then they would be too hard an attraction for them to resist. The solution? Ban them.
Summer politics
Which brings me back to the divorce question. I’ll set aside the detailed arguments for my blog. All I need to point out here (again) is that divorce should not even require any debate. The contradictions are that our two representative parties need to shuffle their legs and drag their feet while amusing us with musings of consultation peppered with quasi-fatwas of moralistic fervour. We will have a government that has no qualms regulating cohabitation while still opposing (at least in its majority) the introduction of divorce because of the deleterious effect it has on marriages.
We have a mad hot summer to discuss the possibility of divorce legislation ever happening. Some are already giving up as the ugly head of intolerant conservatism begins to bark and rant. I suggest we focus on a wider question – the very common line that runs through both the divorce and censorship issues. Are we really too scared to look in the mirror and see what we really are? Do we really want to bury our heads in the sand and continue perpetrating the myth of this “catholic nation”? There is nothing wrong with trying to be a catholic nation – if it were one that can proudly count among its citizenry a subset of people with a set of values that can only strengthen our social backbone then it is all well and good. I start to worry when the catholic fortress turns out to be a shambles that can only be saved (can it really?) through coercion and imposition of lifestyle choices on everybody else.
‘Bieb l-iFran’
It does not have the same ring does it? I kid you not though. Forni Gate does exist and you can snap your Facebook photo standing beside it on your next visit to the waterfront. This holiday has started quite well and I do not mean to be mean to the jazz enthusiasts – my lack of interest in the genre is surely my loss and not theirs. I’m looking forward to the next week of hot sun and sea back home and this weekend will start with a visit to the sister homeland, where J’accuse began.
www.akkuza.com wishes a happy feast to the Stilla crew in Victoria. Send creative snapshots of Forni Gate and we will publish them on the blog.
