Sail-World's Blackwattle in Malta

by Nancy Knudsen on 10 Aug 2006 (NOTES FOR CRUISERS AT END OF STORY)
After a six night sail from Crete, we are delighted to find a long guard of honour of giant ships lined up perfectly both sides, and we’re just about to call on the VHF to say ‘You shouldn’t have gone to so much trouble’, when we realise that they are all just waiting for permission to enter the harbour. What a popular harbour – or is there a strike?

As we arrive closer we find there is a sailing race taking place just out of the harbour, with lots of Kevlar and spinnakers on show, many legs dangling on the windward sides, and a lot of shouting going on at the buoys. Some things just cross all cultural boundaries…..

Closer and closer, we can see island walls of a sandstone colour, grand buildings and church spires, more sandstone colour – in fact everywhere we look there’s nothing but cream to yellow buildings, grand in size and generous with sweeping arches and opulent doorways.

The Municipality owns Msida Marina, so there’s little service. We moor bow-to with the help of a delightful English couple, Oscar and Stephanie who become our informal guides for the next few days. (When they leave, we’re amazed and happy to find in their place Sail-World’s ‘Letters from the Med’ sailors, Ian and Andrea Treleaven).

Maybe there's no service in this marina, but the location is splendid. Delighted by the fantastic view of the citadel walls of Marsamxett Harbour and out to sea, we plan to spend a few days here, before continuing on to Tunisia.

However, Fate has other ideas. First, we cannot connect to shore power without blowing all the marina’s fuses.

'I can’t work it out,' Ted is muttering, 'It worked all right in Crete! Mmm..I guess I shall have to call an electrician.'

Next, 'A-oh!' I hear from the depths somewhere.
'What!' (I know the sound of that ‘A-oh!’)
'There is a smear of diesel in the bilge.'
'So?'
'I hate to think…'

So a few hours after arrival in Malta we find we need a new fuel tank to replace the one that is leaking, and the electrical job turns into a major catastrophe because in spite of many requests, we had never received a wiring diagram from the Sydney electricians. This hinders and extends the time to trace the problem.(In the end Ted chooses to have all the wires traced and a new electrical box fitted.)

We’re going to be in Malta for quite a while!

There are always side benefits – we get out our beloved folding bicycles and go riding between the workmen’s visits. A hundred metres from the marina is a swimming beach – er – rocks – and the water is clear and refreshing. At the end of each hot and humid day a swim in the Mediterranean is just the ticket.

There are other advantages – a nice restaurant with a view to die for and a free wireless internet connection, although it’s me that gets very wired, with all the coffee I feel I have to order.

And Malta? Well, it’s very rocky! The only country in the world ever to be awarded the George Cross by Britain for bravery during the Second World War, the inhabitants showed themselves at that time to be as tough as their island. Today, they’re still tough – or brusque might be a better word. So used to the smiling and generous hospitality of the Turkish people, we are at first affronted by the curtness of the local Maltese. However, their curtness is a delivery style rather than unwillingness to help. 'Give me your question quick – I’ve no time to waste – here’s your answer quick, and goodbye!' is our general impression.

One character we meet says with a twinkle, 'Australians are you? Do you have any relatives in Malta?'
'No I am afraid we don’t'
He shakes his head disbelievingly, 'That’s very strange, very strange. I can’t understand that - everyone in Malta has relatives in Australia.'

It’s a world of walls – huge fortification walls from many past eras in every direction – all in the local limestone, as are the houses, grand buildings and churches – timber is nowhere to be seen. It’s a dry and dusty place, with only occasional trees. Malta, in fact, has a severe shortage of water, and must augment its water supply with desalination plants. The locals have a high standard of living, and entered the European Union just two years ago.

One of the funniest and most charming aspects of this thriving small country is its buses. For a modern city, the buses – and their bus drivers – seem anachronistic. Leftovers maybe from the 1940’s, they trundle along, rattling and swaying. Well-dressed local passengers don’t seem to see anything funny, as we giggle our way to town. On one bus, the driver has a penchant for noise. He plays his old tape recorder with his favourite honky-tonk music at full blaring volume, so loud that it is impossible to have a conversation in the bus. The music has a country and western lilt, and all the way he mimes the words, occasionally bursting into song when overcome by the emotion of it all.

He punctuates this performance with a horn that also plays its own discordant tune, frightening any vehicle that has the temerity to get in the way of our musical bus driver. The rest of the audience, locals all, seem undismayed by this unrequested entertainment of horn and honkytonk, so we assume that it’s ‘normal’ and try to keep straight faces as we sway and clank our way to town.

We roam the old streets of Valletta, grandly elegant, but now smirched with the detritus of the 20th Century. Every majestic arch is filled with a souvenir store, every imposing building filled with arcades of shops and supermarkets. The magnificent plaza outside the huge ancient gate of the old city is graced by an enormous fountain with three god-like figures and high-flying water sprays. But this wide and wonderful plaza is now given over as the main bus station of Valletta. And swarming like a cloud of bees over every horizontal surface are tourists by the thousand – we are here in the peak of the holiday season.

We visit the Grand Harbour Marina in search of more Cruising Guides, but are very disappointed, expecting to see a sophisticated modern marina. Currently there are fewer facilities than Msida Marina, yet the price is double. [Sorry, this content could not be displayed]
We also visit the superbly located Royal Malta Yacht Club in our twin limousines, and celebrate Ted’s birthday there in style…

…..

The Festa of St Laurence:

One of the most engaging aspects of visiting different countries is the local people that you meet.

She arrives on the wharf, dark curly hair bouncing and sunshine face, calling out to Blackwattle. 'Hi, hey! I hear you are Australians! Guess what, so am I! I am a Maltese Australian, but I live here now! I’m Rosie!' Her accent is delicate Maltese, overlaid with a strong Ozzie drawl.

We talk together, share sundowners and meals together, and, as it’s Festa time in Malta, she takes us to one of the most popular Festas. It’s the Festa of St Laurence at St Laurence’s Cathedral, near the Grand Harbour of Valletta.

Thousands of people of all ages throng through the cobbled streets – from tiny babies to running children, bare-midriff teenagers to the very elderly pushed in wheel chairs. Every grand building is garlanded with coloured lights; every stone house is lit up, with windows opened to floodlit religious adornments inside. Smart military bands are playing on temporary stages, and the noises of the people and the music of the bands mingle with the urgently chiming Church bell signifying that something momentous is about to occur!

Once a ye