I have been writing a letter from Malta every month and decided to post it here as it seems to have become popular with readers.
So
this weekend we are going to see some real democracy at work. The government
appear to have realized they are not going to be in power and all departments
have been closed. Our landlord warned us not to venture outside over the
weekend and especially Monday when the results are going to be announced.
Drunks and brawling in the streets have been predicted as the Labour party
celebrate their victory. I was told by Salva (our landlord) that we should
think of Manchester United fans on the rampage and multiply the number by
three. He has a wonderful imagination. Personally I am pleased for the
islanders. They are a nation of shopkeepers and fishermen and deserve better
now they are part of the EU.
And
now for something really fun. I woke up last weekend, grabbed a coffee, and
walked out onto the balcony to get some air circulating around the brain.
Looking down I found a long line of Mustangs of all vintages and design.
Evidently we have a Mustang club who meet every so often and last weekend they
met across the road at a seafront coffee shop. It was great to see all the
interest and reminded me of my nine years in the USA. Of course while these
guys were doing their thing a couple of muscle cars – the opposition – roared
back and forth showing off. Great stuff.
Sunday always sees a lot of the Maltese walking along the front. When I
say Maltese I mean Maltese families. Sunday means church and a walk along the
promenade, meeting friends and, as Bill, one of my best pals in Washington says,
‘shooting the breeze’. They are
beginning to grow on me as I get to know them. It takes a little time but after
a while it means a lot when they smile and shake your hand and spend a couple
of minutes chatting in the street. I have one fisherman pal who plays snooker
with me and has taught me a lot about Maltese humour.
Of
course for the British who love to be comfortable all the time, the bus service
is their main topic of conversation. You will remember I wrote about the old
yellow buses that used to race around the island, driven by a crowd of loveable
Maltese drivers. Well, we now have different buses, including the bendy buses
but they are far from comfortable. When travelling out of towns or Valletta the
state of the roads has little changed. A pot hole appears and maybe eventually
will get filled with a little asphalt. So – a bus ride to one place or another
always proves to be an equivalent to a visit to the chiropractor. Bones get
shaken and stirred and end up back in the right place as you leave the bus.
Poor brits, I do feel sorry for them, having to hold on tightly to poles and
seat backs to avoid sprawling across the floor. That’s if they are lucky enough
to get a seat. I’m not saying they do it on purpose but the drivers seem to
find every pothole in the road. I have a sneaky feeling they are trying to make
sure the white legged and red faced brit doesn’t come back.
As I write this letter we are in the midst of a
revolution on the political front. For twenty five years the same party has
ruled this island and according to the press and most of the islanders with
rife corruption in just about every government department. Things are so bad
now that even building inspectors are taking bribes or licences are held back
for months while a shop or hotel sits unused. Ten years ago the government had
the opportunity to have a gas pipeline laid from Sicily by a giant Italian company.
It would have brought the islanders cheap and cleaner fuel. It would have also
meant the power station here would have benefited too. At the moment it runs on
oil – and that is where the problem lay. Ministers here were taking so much
money from the oil companies in back handers that they expected the same hand
out from the Italian gas company. The Italians said up yours and so we still
run on dirty oil. This and a lot more has fired up
the working class people who have had enough. They still get terrible wages and
rely on tourism and tips for support. Thanks to the EU development fund the
aqaurium just along the road from us is going to be a great attraction next
year when finished.
THEY’RE
BACK!
The bloody brits are here again, spreading
themselves all over the pavement so I have to pull my shopping trolley around
them in the road. I don’t begrudge them a holiday on Malta but I wish they
would stop walking around acting as if they own the place. You can hear them
from the bottom of the street or have to listen to boring conversation about
how the hotel is ripping them off or the price of a bus fare should be cheaper
for them if they are over sixty. Really? Living here is so cheap I am surprised
the tourists are not charged more.
One last comment on the hospital service here which
I think is worth mentioning. For those who have experienced or read about the
National Health Service in Britain the following is an example of how the
Maltese tackle the problem of budget cutbacks that put the UK to shame.
I had to go to hospital a couple of days ago for
blood tests; a simple and normal routine affair. I got there half an hour early
just to make sure I got a seat as each department is always packed and the
normal thing to do is take a packed lunch or you will die of starvation before
you get to see anyone. Anyway, there I was waiting my turn and watched
fascinated as one patient after another was handed a polythene bag with phials and
stickers inside and told to go through a door. Minutes later they emerged and
headed for the lifts outside, still carrying a bag. When it was my turn I
walked to the reception desk and was given my bag full of goodies. Ten minutes
later and devoid of blood in my right arm, I was asked if I had brought my pot
with me for a sample of jungle juice. I remembered the first visit several
months ago when I had been given a pot and asked to fill it. I thought at the
time how strange it was that they emptied it and gave me the pot back to wash
out. Little did I know that the pot is my personal property care of the
government and I should keep it clean and produce it each time I go for a blood
test. Forgiven for my ignorance, the nurse then told me to go to the diabetic
clinic across the way and ask for another pot. Having done that, go and find a
gents somewhere and fill the pot. After that, take the pot and go downstairs to
the Pathology Lab and deliver it to the appropriate personnel. In two weeks I
would get the results. So look at the savings – 400,000 residents have their
own pot to pee in that doesn’t need to be replaced each time they go for a
test, they can pee wherever they like so no extra expense on a special toilet
being built, no extra staff to transport the aforementioned elixir of life down
to the Pathology Lab so wage savings there and last of all – no postage because
you have to go back and pick up your own results.
Life is good – just get used to doing things for
yourself.
Caio, caio until the next time my friends.
