Malta 1

Back in the days when I was married, with kids, I used to take ‘holidays’. Whilst it’s true that I would always write down some thoughts, take plenty of shots and draw some meaning from the places we visited, the emphasis was naturally on relaxing with my family. For the last few years however, I’ve gone on ‘trips’ rather than holidays, more photography-based with added purpose, venturing to new places, working on projects and meeting photography-friends. This trip to Malta was no exception.

PS) I couldn’t resist including a couple of random shots. One of a smiling lady happy to be caught on camera and another from the plane. As we were preparing to land, the container port looked magical at night and was a salient reminder of how reliant this island community is on trade with the outside world. Strange to think that this small nation Malta, lying on a latitude more southerly than the capital cities of two north African countries, is part of Europe, its membership of the EU a privilege that Britain squandered with the Brexit vote.

SUNDAY: RABAT & SELMUN

Martin Agius, a valued member of the Progressive-Street administration team, is Maltese and a genuinely nice guy, who I’d already met in Milano at the time of my exhibition and the ProgresFestival back in 2022. I thought it would be good to meet up again and told him I was planning to travel to his homeland in the second half of October, when it wasn’t so hot. When I realised his exhibition ended 29 September, I tailored my plans in order to catch the last day. I’m glad I did. Martin was a marvellous host and after meeting me at the airport and dropping me off at my digs in Valletta, collected me the following morning to take me to Rabat. Rabat, Malta not Rabat, Gozo or Rabat, Morocco, I hasten to add. Martin lives close by and works as a Freelance Photographer for one of the two political parties. He is well respected as both photographer and artist, being the Artist in Residence at the impressive Wignacourt Museum. I’ve followed Martin’s work for sometime and was already very familiar with the images on display but I have to say that there’s nothing quite like seeing the photographs printed, framed and hung in a setting as classy as this. I include just a few of the images from Martin’s exhibition but invite you to click on the link to view more and the background information:

The exhibition was wonderful and seeing all 20 images together added to their impact and beauty. Wowed, I dwelt a while longer and saw others appreciate his work before I ventured round the classic building to peruse some of the other exhibits - iconic oil paintings of religious scenes- before heading out into the midday sun.

I have to admit that although Malta is a lovely place to visit, it’s not a typical destination for street photography. This trip was a bit of a hybrid as it’s where I spent my toddler years, my dad having been stationed on this island with the Royal Air Force. So after a cappuccino and establishing that the Maltese were indeed a friendly bunch, it was time to find where I used to live. Before flying out Martin had kindly translated the old English street name into Maltese and eureka, I’d found the place on Google Maps. Unfortunately the house he’d helped me locate didn’t match the memory of my elder brother Paul. Martin had said I’d be lucky to find it still intact, and perhaps he was right. After all, much of Malta’s buildings have been torn down and rebuilt in recent years and maybe the street view images were out of date. However, after a flurry of messages between Paul and I, the what3words navigation app revealed that it wasn’t just the street name that had been changed but the numbering system and the house was still there! I’m not sure the entrance at street level and the upstairs portion that comprised our family home were actually painted pink back then but they certainly were now. A glorious sight though, which brought back many of Paul’s childhood memories to add to those I consider my own, even though strictly speaking they’re more my mum’s, me being so young at the time. Nevertheless, given that I’m pulling together many anecdotal stories from my childhood, I was mightily relieved to have found the actual place I’d lived in from age 11 months to three and a half years old. I was a mischievous child it seems, referred to endearingly by our Maltese cleaner - and sometimes childminder - Doris, as Xadina, meaning monkey, but that’s another story. This was the house in which Andy, one of my younger two brothers, started his life, after being born in the Royal Navy hospital at Mtarfa, nearby. I took my time taking shots and checking out the adjacent buildings and in so doing attracted one of the neighbours. Despite a language barrier I established that he was 70 years old and remembered ‘army’ people moving into that building all those decades ago: us presumably. I took a quick portrait before he went back inside.

Satisfied with the way the morning had gone, I headed back to the museum to persuade Martin that we ought to eat something before he drove us out to Selmun, site of an old Army Barracks used by British troops during the Second World War and long since fallen into disrepair. This was an interesting place, with commanding views over the picturesque St Paul’s Bay, unfortunately blighted by many high rise hotels built to accommodate the burgeoning tourist trade, vital to Malta’s national economy. After allowing me to indulge in these ruined buildings, left in precarious condition, often collapsed by the removal of so many materials used by people for construction elsewhere, we headed back to Valletta. Martin very kindly offered to pick me up again on Wednesday, leaving me to my own devices for the next couple of days.

MONDAY: SLIEMA & VALLETTA

Today I needed to buy a replacement for the lightning cable, left at home, that I use to transfer images from my SD card to my iPad. No biggie some might think but I prefer to import my photos each day, not only to begin the selection and editing process but also, more importantly, to ensure that what I’m capturing is good enough. I’d not come over here with any strict plan so I walked from my apartment late the next morning, boarded a ferry and hopped across the clear calm waters of this natural harbour to Sliema.

At the risk of sounding like my good friend Niklas, I’ve found I like to punctuate the day’s travel and shooting with food stops. To this end I grabbed a pizza and an espresso from a tiny fast food outlet and looked for somewhere to sit. I saw a seat nearby, checked the space was free and sat down. Having eaten my lunch and carefully wiped any residual grease from my hands, I struck up conversation with the lady who occupied the other end of the bench, grabbing a portrait as we spoke. It transpired her name was Simone and she lived in the next town, St. Julian’s. For the last few months her husband had been hospitalised because of hip problems and she came by bus to Sliema each day to visit him. She liked to rest awhile in the sun until it was visiting time. She’d stay with her husband until 7 in the evening and then return to what she described as her empty, lonely home. “The clock ticks too loudly” she said, her eyes lacking for a moment their usual vitality. She missed him. Their kids had grown up and left many years earlier and things didn’t feel right without him. We spoke, amongst other things, about the responsibilities of parenthood, marriage, my reasons for visiting Malta and after showing her the old sepia photograph of Doris that I kept in my small leather writing book, she expounded on how things had changed so much in Malta: her views on people getting tattoos, the proliferation of new buildings, immigrants and such. Having invited me to share her bench next time I was in town, she bid me a warm farewell and pointed me in the direction of the beach, urging me to take care of the crashing waves. Funny, I thought, the waters had been so tranquil in Valletta.

Long before I hit the shore I could see why Simone had forewarned me about the sea, the water was whipped up by the wind into a frenzy and there were no swimmers as such, merely sunbathers who got a shock as they climbed into the cold water and hung onto the rails for dear life as the waves hurled themselves against their backs. I got the impression that one or two locals also used this place for their daily ablutions and having moseyed around shooting more waves and some of the abundant graffiti I chatted with a bloke who told me about the three people who’d repaint the walls every 2 weeks. He was a nice guy, gentle, seemingly at peace. Although, despite the half smile while I took his portrait, his eyes seemed troubled. I couldn’t help but notice the litre carton of wine beside his rucksack-cum-pillow but he wasn’t inebriated, he just spoke of the impressive graffiti and mentioned that sometimes he slept here and would on occasion say to himself “Oh, they’ve painted my bedroom.” He said it in a sweet way. After I’d finished conversing with him and had ambled round the shoreline a while longer I returned to ask his name but he was asleep. I rarely take shots of homeless people but he struck a chord, no sign of aggression, desperation or even loss. His meagre possessions were neatly laid out around him and his shoes placed tidily in front of his hard concrete bed. I clicked a few respectful shots and left some money beside him.

Having caught the return ferry from Sliema, I decided to try my hand at some more obvious street photography as I climbed up and down the steps of Valletta but it is very touristy and I wasn’t feeling it. I did spy one young lady though, wearing black, slouched in a dark doorway and took her portrait. Something about her smile made me think of her as my ‘Malta Lisa’. Anyway, in the mood now, I felt cheeky enough shoot a girl over the shoulder of the friend she was talking to and was rewarded with a lovely hand-to-mouth expression of surprise. This is the buzz I get from street.

Right, it was time to get back and make sure the new cable worked. It did and I downloaded many images, getting to bed late in the process. I’d decided to take a longer ferry ride the next day, to the island of Gozo. I knew that Martin wouldn’t care to go with me as there was a good reason he spent many years in the Maltese Army rather than the Navy, he got seasick, lol.

TUESDAY: GOZO

Well that wasn’t the best day out I’ve ever had. I didn’t catch the ferry until late morning and I didn’t feel like going to the beach on my own, that was more a holiday thing, so I made the Citadel in Victoria (also known as Rabat) my priority. En route, around lunchtime as it happens, the bus’s suspension failed on one side and it limped slowly and carefully into the nearest town. I grabbed a plate of lasagne and an espresso at a backstreet stall before returning to the bus stop just in time for the next one. Lucky. The sleepy town on the hill finally arrived at, I asked a local for directions to the citadel. “Up, keep going up, always up” he told me helpfully. I did, making sure I grabbed a delicious ferrero flavoured ice cream as I plodded on, to maintain my energy levels. Quite frankly I found this ancient fortress and religious centre immensely boring but I should point out that many people would disagree with me and I did get a shot of rooftops I liked. Nevertheless, after kicking my heels around various empty streets and poking my head through as many museum doors as I could be bothered with, I decided enough was enough. On my way back down the steep cobbled streets I stopped again at the gelateria and complimented the vendor on the wonderful taste of the aforementioned ice cream and remarked on how it hadn’t triggered my lactose intolerance, promptly pushing my luck by ordering another one. After a largely uneventful bus, ferry and pedestrian journey home I took a shot of the beautiful nighttime vista outside my apartment. I looked forward to meeting up with Martin again the next day.