Malta
Heavenly Heritage
One good reason to visit Malta is the knight life.
The place is aswirl with the ghosts and legends of the armored
swashbucklers. You come upon them in the most literal sense: strolling
through St. John’s Cathedral in Valletta, you’ll be gawking at the
treasure-filled chapels, the meticulously-painted ceiling frescoes
and intricate wall carvings – without realizing that the entire place
is an indoor cemetery for knights. There are 370 heroes of yore buried
here, each one covered by a colorfully painted marble tombstone –
your floor.
This is not your neighborhood shul.
It’s an immense space crammed with gold, silver, onyx, lapis
lazuli, art and artifacts dating from 1530 until 1798, when Napoleon
put a stop to it all. There is space for tourists in the cathedral
only because the bloody Frenchman stole so many more of the treasures.
It’s easy to overdose on such a sensory assault, but pace yourself:
there are 360 churches here – in a country of only 370,000 people.
Malta’s profoundly rich history is not something to be read and imagined:
you step into it and on it, you suck it in with every breath. There
are so many perfectly-preserved medieval buildings that most don’t
even get noticed. My entourage of Israeli journalists was admiring
one home dating back to 1530; Tessie, our guide, shrugged: “The house
next door is 300 years older.”
When we began to lose interest in relics that were merely centuries
old, Tessie started talking in millennia. She steered us south to
see Hagar Qim. A thousand years older than the Pyramids, this temple,
claimed to be the world’s oldest free-standing building, is reminiscent
of England’s Stonehenge. It’s no coincidence: the same sect built
both, more than 5,000 years ago.
Just as we were adjusting our ephemeral equilibrium, Tessie
jolted us even further back, telling us of Ghar Dalam, a cave where
7,000-year-old remains of hippos, bears and elephants were found.
(To put things in perspective, our hotel was 50 years old, our Maltese
liaison Marika, 33.)
It’s hard to figure how so much can fit into a tiny island
no more than 30 kilometers across at its widest. (The country is actually
an archipelago of six islands; the mainland and adjacent Gozo are
the only inhabited ones, unless you include Comino, with its six residents.)
Yet there’s so much more. Mixed in with all the prehistoric,
Phoenician, Roman, medieval and baroque eras are vestiges of constructions
believed to date from the late 20th century CE: discos,
bars, and of special interest to Israelis with money to burn, a lavish
casino.
Malta’s burgeoning tourism industry boasts 40,000 beds. The
stylish Phoenicia Hotel in the capital, Valletta, is the only place
in the world where both Yasser Arafat and I slept. Arch-terrorist
Shkaki spent his last night at the nearby Diplomat Hotel before he
was put to sleep for good by a hail of bullets, probably not for failing
to pay his bar tab.
Among the million annual visitors are about 20,000 air-embargoed
Libyans, who come here by ferry. Maltese officials are quick to assure
that this poses no danger to Israelis. “We’re careful never to place
Israeli or American tourists in the Corinthia Palace, because it’s
Libyan-owned,” explained one official.
Malta’s Arab connection is a large part of its charm. The Maltese
are a piquant mix of Arabian, Italian and British influences. This
is both very distinct – the language originates in the Tyre-Sidon
region of Lebanon; much of the food, architecture and culture drips
down onto the islands through the Italian boot; and English colonialism
left its mark in Malta’s modern bent – and a colorful melange that
can only be described as distinctly Maltese.
Hebrew speakers will detect Arabic origins in many of the words
and place names (I was startled when Tessie described our worn-out
driver as a “miskin”, almost exactly as we would say it, misken.)
English-speakers will be relieved to learn that the Maltese language
is written in Latin letters, and in any case, English is the predominant
written and spoken language.
Perhaps the only major cultural epoch not represented here
is the Ottoman, though the Turks did affect Maltese life – vastly.
Suleiman the Magnificent launched an all-out invasion of 40,000
men in 1565, against a paltry force of 600 knights, aided by 1,500
soldiers and 7,000 civilians. The noble 600 were led by the greatest
fighter of his day, Jean de la Vallette. After surviving the Great
Siege and repulsing the beaten Turks, La Vallette – a cultured man
of great vision – created Europe’s first planned city, Valletta.
His grand plan included impregnable fortifications, which still
engird the city. La Vallette’s great walls proved useless in a later
confrontation, when Nazi Germany relentlessly bombarded Malta by air.
The Germans left their own imprimatur on the country – destruction
– including, ironically, the rendering to ruins of a medieval German
site, the Auberge D’Allemagne.
It all makes for a pretty picture: a walled, medieval town
jutting into a little harbor, surrounded by peninsular suburbs; everywhere
you look a bay, an inlet, a marina, the full gamut of sea vessels;
pastel-colored fishing boats bobbing among luxurious yachts, cruise
ships and commercial ocean liners.
Said Malta’s top tourism official, Joseph Debono: “We’re
sitting on a goldmine of heritage.”
GETTING
AROUND
One
you get there, getting around is another story. The buses are something
to see. It seems that no two buses in the country are alike: they’ve
got relics from every factory in the world, many dating from the 1950s
(though some locals might grumble that they date to the 1500s). But
they’re cheap: 11 cents (less than 40 agorot) for a lurching, careening,
noisy ride.
Taxis, on the other hand, are extortionate: a cross-town trip
could cost as much as nine Maltese pounds (NIS 85). Your concierge
knows whom to call for a fairer rate.
Rented wheels are a good alternative. Because the country is
so small, there is no dead-time travel: you can drive from Valletta
on the east coast to Gozo off the west coast in 45 minutes. (There’s
a 25-minute ferry trip to Gozo). Driving should be fun: intercity
roads are not too bad and road signs are comprehensive. But be forewarned:
they tootle along on the left side.
There are lots of zigzagging, hilly alleys in some of the towns.
Our driver had one complaint: “Suddenly, all these traffic lights!”
It’s a new thing here: the country now has nine of them.
