(NB. This is a purely satirical piece about Gozo and the Gozitans – Keep out of reach of anyone without a sense of humour or lacking the understanding of the word satire)

The allure of Gozo cannot be denied, especially in the summer months. So when we start to get that Gozo feeling we usually call one of our villa-with-pool friends and chat and chat and never hang up until that invitation finally comes.

It is a tried and tested method which I again successfully put to use only last week. I called one such friend err because we hadn’t heard from him for a while and were naturally concerned about him… and yes, bingo! not five minutes had gone by before I landed that much desired invitation.

Three days later, night bag in hand, we descend on him and his lovely abode on our sister island. But to compensate for my cheek, I decided at least to treat him that evening to a dinner at the restaurant of his choice, resulting in yet another rich and highly calorific restaurant meal.

So after many days of constant eating and drinking and sitting on my fat derriere, I made a gargantuan effort the next morning to get up nice and early and go for a long, brisk walk through Xaghra.

So first I walked down to calypso cave, the stuff of pure legend! Yes pure legend because there is absolutely nothing real or spectacular or remarkable about a small virtually unnoticeable hole in the rocks where nobody ever lived except for a gremxula or two. The views on the other hand are nothing short of spectacular and probably why the Gozitans have gotten away with such a ludicrous non-site for decades. Admittedly however, it would be even better if the sun weren’t directly in front of me at the time.

It was also quite windy and the sea pretty rough, reminding me again how weather patterns have changed over the years. Until some time ago it was virtually unheard of to have so much wind throughout the summer, especially in peak months. No I certainly won’t be buying a boat to have to constantly navigate through choppy seas in search of some tiny sheltered spot or having to stay sailing all the way to the other side of Malta to find some calm.

So then on my way back I encountered a little jewel of local custom and kitch which symbolizes this little island so well. A small insignificant house with gold aluminum apertures and gates, a small scooter outside, undoubtedly for maximum fuel economy, the ubiquitous hasira covering the front door, which has also been adorned with a frigging kangaroo and a badly drawn map of Australia. And so as to also cover the last remaining element of local concern which is religion, the house was aptly called God Save Australia! Wow I never imagined that one single small house could encapsulate all of the Gozo psyche so well.

It is now beyond any form of argument that the once decent roads in Gozo are now in such a pitiful state that they are even worse than those in Malta, which is a pretty amazing feat in itself. Marsalforn Road in Xaghra, which was recently closed for road works for ages, was reopened in an even worse state than it was before, with tarmac only being laid on a tiny section at one end. Matters very much beyond belief. The pavements alone are so bad that several residents decided to use up their extra bathroom tiles to pave them, adding to the overall surreal situation. All that was missing were toilet paper holders along their facades.

While I was walking I encountered many a moustached housewife washing the pavement and even the street. There were two opposite neighbors who met exactly at an imaginary central line right in the middle of the street, where they both stood, mops in hand, going at it in pure and harsh ghawdxi. Until I stopped to talk to them at which point they instantly switched to perfect Maltese. It always tickles me when they do this. They are in a way ashamed to speak in ‘normal’ Maltese to each other, lest they be considered pretentious, while they are ashamed to speak Gozitan to us Maltese.

As I walked past the open windows I heard several radios tuned in on holy mass, often with the residents praying in unison. Not exactly the sort of thing you’d hear that often in Tigne Point or Portomaso…

When I got back there was our friend’s gardener cum handyman of sorts. A typical bloke also from Xaghra. In somewhat expected local style, he runs around in the same old shorts and vest every day of his life, always barefoot, has never been abroad, eats out at a restaurant at most once a year and all this according to him because he doesn’t have the false pretences of il-Mweltejn. Because wearing shoes is pure vanity, as is changing your clothes every other week or so. But then as expected this guy is as loaded as a Gozitan hunter’s shotgun. He has 12 jobs, one of which is of course with the Government, runs a couple of shops, does a bit of gardening and maintenance on the side, deals in property and owns 145 flats in various prime locations.

Yet again proving that everything in life is relative, when I told him that the night before we had dined in a restaurant at San Lawrenz, after his initial disgust that we arrogant swine dine out, he also commented that he would never travel so far unless it were a true emergency. For those who are not in the know, the Gozitans have an East West divide whereby the residents of the East are somehow meant to be equivalent to our North in Malta in a sort of puliti upper class sort of way, while the West are meant to be more peasant like and backward. So according to him he simply hated anything beyond the aqueduct arch just outside Victoria on the way West. Apparently this is where this most massive of divides is clearly marked.

And he too is yet another Gozitan convinced that a bridge connecting both islands would only result in all the Maltese criminals making regular trips to Gozo raping and pillaging in historic Turkish style.

I am also very happy to say that in spite of us sojourning in Gozo for over 24 hours and driving around in a disgusting showoff Maltese pig flashy red convertible car, for the first time ever we neither got a parking ticket, neither got spat at once by the various hoards of naked children you often pass, working in the fields. Unlike the roads attitudes must be slowly improving.

Finally on the ferry on our way back home, my darling wife insisted on having a drink as soon as we boarded. So I queued for ages at the bar as naturally every single person was hungry and god forbid if they ever go for more than five minutes without stuffing their face. When it was finally my turn I realised that the suave and stylish bloke behind the counter was constantly picking his nose while he was serving, besides the obvious handling of money and boxes and picking dirty stuff off the floor, and this just before he pulled out those ice cubes with the same fingers and chucked them into my wife’s drink. Yes of course my very first reaction was to give him back the drink. But this would have undoubtedly resulted in much more waiting. So to deal with my admittedly insignificant self-reproach, I simply put it all down to karma, for her having made me queue for such a long time. I paid, even smiled and said thank you in a slightly devious way and proceeded to present my dear wife with her drink.

All I have left to hope for now, is that she doesn’t read this discourse, as I cringe to think what devilish revenge of chefs gone wild and kitchen pranks style she will be up to while preparing many of my forthcoming meals.