There are so many things and pastimes and special people and objects which are hugely underrated in life. Imagine all those great scientists and researchers who through their spectacular discoveries have saved millions of lives, yet who remain totally unknown. Yet no matter how hard you try and how deep you delve, you will never ever find anything that even comes close in underratedness to being a father.

Being a father is being simply everything. Basically it is being a mother with a penis. Sure we don’t menstruate and bite people’s heads off for no reason. Many of us too have massive bellies but the only difference is that we have to carry ours for much of our lives and not just for the rare nine month stint. And you don’t hear us complaining about them and walking around like a moaning zombie, holding our backs with one arm.

We too have boobs which bounce up and down painfully on horses and speedboats. But we just grin and bear it and we don’t even bother wearing a bra.

We love and feel for our children as much as mothers do, but are always given second place for somehow we simply don’t count as much. And we don’t have the luxury of having baby food on tap, where all we have to do is drowsily turn over and pull down a flap in our bra in our sleep. We have to get out of bed, go to the kitchen, heat up some water, mix in the powder, shake, stir and then wait for the ideal temperature – cause even that comes automatically in mothers!

So we have to largely compensate through hard work and effort, for all the biological shortfalls our male bodies have been bestowed in such matters. And while they were originally designed for a quickie and a runner, a sort of penis and testicles on fast legs, leaving all parenting duties for the deserving mothers, society has now ruled otherwise. So we have had to greatly hone our nurturing skills, which many of us have even mastered to great levels. In many a case even more than the smoking, drinking, coke-sniffing, partygoing, still working, not very much caring, tattooed, mother.

Although admittedly there are certain mothers who seem to adhere to the old school of using the male of their specious simply to spawn their young and to move on, after of course signing a small paper document with each one of them, a situation that also brings them ‘relief’. I have heard that the best formula is three, each from a different father of course…

But whatever happens mummy is always right. She is always assumed of loving the children to a much greater degree. And if she is up in Paceville all night partying, while daddy is home tending to the kids, it is only because she needs some well deserved relaxation. And if she prefers running around with her friends for coffee and cakes, while daddy takes time off from work to look after the children, then it is her we need to support and to pity, for she too needs to rest after coming back home so late.

So the daddies just take it in their stride. Don’t worry honey, mummy will soon be home, she had to go out to meet someone important. Hi mum, oh she just had to pop out to get some shopping but don’t worry everything is fine. Yes your honour I would like to have joint custody as they are my children too after all.

Having said all of this, I think it is now opportune to state that I simply adore mothers and that the above was only to portray the extreme. Fortunately for us most mothers remain by far the one most precious thing in our lives. However by exposing such real scenarios I wanted to highlight the other side of the story, for as usual in life there is always one.

Fathers are so often at best just taken for granted. They are simply there. They are considered an accessory to the family, provided of course that they are always there without fail. They are there for trivial things such as opening jam jars, carting gas cylinders around, fixing punctures, changing light bulbs, hanging up picture frames, hovering over the plumber pretending to understand and checking out the house at night for ghosts and intruders. And more so for the bigger things in life such as educating, giving the best example, entertaining, giving advice, laying the foundation for stability, taking the front line in times of trouble, bringing in some, much, if not all of the bread and of course one of their commonest and most important roles, playing at bank.

But do we curse and complain? Oh no, we’ll leave that to others who are much more talented and qualified in such matters than us. Men really don’t mind being treated simply as a work horse and labelled a provider in life. They even take pride at such notions which would certainly be totally unacceptable to most women. Men want to protect and provide for their families and most do it with pride and joy.

We don’t mind our wives getting all the attention and support and compassion and sympathy and concern. All we desire is one small word and not much more, just a tiny bit of respect would suffice, that’s all.

So we continue loving our wives and children dearly, even our daughters who suddenly mysteriously hate us with a passion, once they hit their teens. We simply wait patiently until they just grow out of it and start talking to us again, as if nothing ever happened. It only takes about a decade or so. We love our wives dearly even in the hardest of times, when they hatefully glare at us and evilly menstruate in glee. We accept their hormonal imbalances throughout their lives and even as they grow older and find yet another excuse to be nasty in their middle age menopause. And when old age finally sets in, this is often accompanied by an unimaginable bitterness, transforming them into nasty verbal poison spitting machine, which we also somehow endure.

Men have problems too, they have mood swings and depressions and hormonal imbalances and they need attention too. They bear the brunt of so much stress and problems yet somehow they deal with it in a totally different way. While women choose the path of bringing everyone down with them and nagging their way to insanity for all those around, men tend to go to the garage, hit a few nails on the hand, chop up some firewood and talk to themselves for a while, until it all goes away. When we are down we don’t persecute our partners and families, we pick up our gear and go quietly fishing. Or we pop down to the pub for a drink with the lads, which is an instantly effective cure for anything under the sun. In other words we simply tend to get out of the way and leave everyone in peace and work out our problems and frustrations alone.

For it surely isn’t women who are the biggest victims of PMS and puberty and post baby blues and adolescence and menopause and old age bitterness, if you think properly about it…

And in the same way that religious merchants have long learned to explain away a visibly evil god simply by claiming that he works in mysterious ways, women too are brainwashing men that all their faults and weaknesses are simply signs of man’s inability to understand them. As if kindness and patience and respect and good humour come in different versions based on gender and time of the month.

But we love women all the same. To the extent that we cannot live without them and no matter what they do, they are the mothers of our children and for that alone we will always adore them. They are the only means of transforming a night of flighty pleasure into a grown human being, our flesh and blood, our heir to all of life.

And even if you no longer want our surnames, nor us to open your doors, we still look at you as the fairer sex and love you just as much.

For most of us are compulsive daddies who relish sharing absolutely everything we have and earn with our dear families. We don’t mind getting an extra job and sacrificing most of our leisure time, sometimes even missing out forever on the best moments of our children’s lives. And we also don’t even mind being accused, in the process, of not caring for our family due to our absence, when all that we’re doing is caring for them even more.

For we are only the father, a necessary evil of sorts. And should one cross even a tiny imaginary line, then he can instantly fall into great disrepute. Evil husband, wife beater, pedophile, abuser of kids. An unfaithful, cheating, rapist of sorts, only so often empty accusations bringing much sympathy to a female devious mind.

And daddies also somehow learn to endure all the verbal aggression, the psychological warfare and the mental abuse, contrasting wildly with the big puppy eyes and the fragile high pitched voice of the occasional needy. As they do with the constant bullying interspersed with crocodile tears.

Men are not perfect and dads can always do more. But in the end most of them try very hard and do their best to care for their families, devoting their entire lives for this one only purpose. Sometimes they manage to amass considerable belongings, only with their children in mind. They continue well into old age waking up early in the morning to ensure that once they pass on, all who is left will have plenty. If they can, they will all help their kids along the way with virtually anything they need, being studies, weddings, vehicles and apartments as well.

For dads assume their role perfectly and focus their entire existence into giving and providing for all those around. Even in cases where the children aren’t theirs but their loved ones, they will still treat them in exactly the same way.

And just as a lovely ode towards mothers should be cherished and praised, one on fathers should not be belittled or scorned with examples of the few nasty ones, for this too can go both ways.

I adore mothers and I respect fathers and I love them both just as much. My dad was my hero and today I miss them both just as much.

(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.

Come here you little sweet

Let me sweep you off your feet
And unwrap your furry coat
To tie it tightly around your throat

– a quickie of no consequence

So here’s a ‘quick’ funny story which really happened to me just a few days ago and which I would like to share purely for everyone’s amusement. I again strongly insist with all our readers that absolutely no message on class, snobbery or anything else is being alluded to here. These are satirical, tongue-in-cheek pieces which should be taken literary and not literally (although admittedly they are true tongue emoticon )

Upon the very sad demise of my parents, I had the massive fortune of inheriting an enormous estate transforming me into the hefty property mogul I have become today. This fortune consists entirely of a tiny pidgeonhole – not to use the more vulgar faeceshole, totally lost in a tiny backalley, off an alley, leading from another alley, off a small lane, off a small side street in Rabat. As the originally American saying goes Disorientation, Disorientation, Disorientation! Or something like that…

And as our family has always been into stability and financial soundness, this illustrious mansion has been successfully rented out on a long-eternal basis to the last 75 generations of the same family since 1918 or something… However over the years and more so in recent times, with the glorious revision of related regulations, we have managed to astoundingly increase the rent to a whooping € 32! Yes €32, although admittedly this sum is not payable every day. Nor is it payable every week. And nor is it payable every month! But stability is what we are after, of course.

So once a year I go specifically to Rabat, spend about € 6 in fuel to get there and back and hey, as my wife who normally accompanies me usually says, we don’t come to Rabat that often any more, so let me check out that shoe shop while we’re here and yes I’ll take that pair please for € 80 and oh look across the street that’s a nice top and it’s only € 45. And somehow, for us at least, no trip to Rabat seems complete without a stroll into the enchanting Mdina, by which time we are always mighty hungry and thirsty. And having just picked up such a massive amount of money, we never fail on choosing one of the better restaurants there to treat ourselves to a sumptuous meal.

After this eventful rent collection day, I am only left with two problems. Firstly how do I go about seeking the most lucrative investment for my -€220 (that’s not a dash or a hyphen, it’s a minus sign) negative capital. And secondly, and I’ll have to share a secret here… in reality this property is not only mine but also belongs to my sister… so how do I go about not forking out an additional €16 to my sister on top!

But that is only the financial suffering I have to endure, then of course there is the psychological torture part of it, which is much, much worse. These are extremely good folk in their late sixties and of a very simple, humble, traditional, respectful nature, in an old school sort of way. So it all starts a few weeks before the daunting day, with several phone calls and reminders from their side, the first seven or eight of which I totally disregard, in full knowledge that there will ensure many more. Then as the days and weeks go by, well after the expiry date of their contract, which always leaves them totally perplexed as to why I haven’t even bothered collecting my awaiting fortune, they normally start to panic. So with Sur Bonello’s here and Sur Bonello’s there – something I hate with a passion especially from people who are going to cost me over €200, I finally make the effort, go to the closest ATM to withdraw enough money to cover our rent collecting outing expenses, and make my sad way to Rabat.

We finally get there and naturally have absolutely no choice whatsoever, other than to crouch down to enter through the tiny front door, descend a few steps, turn right, go up a few steps, turn left, crouch even lower, descend a few steps again and to sit at a formica table on plastic clad purple velvet chairs, secretly hoping that these items of furniture are not part of my inheritance.

And there in front of us, no matter what time of day or night it may be, every single year, will be waiting a bottle of White Label whisky and a transparent glass plate covered with Morning Coffee biscuits. Pure joy! Only once did we venture there at 8:30 in the morning, resulting in cancelling all my hick, appointments for the hick, day.

As you can imagine, there is simply no way on earth that you can say no. If you brought out a doctor’s certificate testifying that three or four large glasses of whisky first thing in the morning will most definitely kill you and that you don’t particularly crave for such biscuits, their eyes and ears will simply shut, and with shaking heads they will totally ignore you and politely ask you to shut up and happily drink and eat. And in their minds this is all done for your entire pleasure!!!

But the irony of such situations always seems to know no bounds. Only last week when we faced the last of these annual episodes, following my wife’s suggestion, we planned to visit them just before lunch time so as to proceed to lunch immediately afterwards. And just to make sure that I return home with an even more enormous hole in my pocket, we somehow decided to dine at the De Mondion Restaurant at the Xara Palace in Mdina. Not only because it is probably the most expensive restaurant in the entire central Mediterranean region, but also because we haven’t been for many years and because I have been wanting to write a review on it in my restaurant page.

Very luckily for me, this establishment is only open for dinner, so I managed to get away with something less than €250 a head! But it was with the De Mondion firmly in mind that somehow as I guzzled my third or fourth whisky and attacked my second Morning Coffee, that the conversation somehow turned to eating out. Naturally we mentioned that we love wining and dining, without even thinking of making any allusion of reviews, haute cuisine and De Mondion’s. They firmly insisted that they too occasionally eat out but that however their last meal was quite a let down. And I kid you not, I had to listen for the next ten minutes or so how on the last Saturday night they decided to make their monthly outing a culinary one and proceed to the McDonalds outlet at the airport to satisfy their wildest dreams.

I am the first to advise that my writing should not be taken literally, but the facts and the details I recount are virtually always true. It is more the seemingly harsh and judgemental opinions that are only there to adorn the story. So this too is very true that they went on and on about how their burger and fries was a let down, although the Coke was quite large and how they had to make a sandwich when they got back home. Their moral to the story was that restaurants these days do not satisfy your entire hunger and that more should be offered in such meals either in the form of a much larger burger or whatever they had in mind.

And this is what I have to go through every year to collect, or should I say to spend, my money. Now if anyone is asking, yes I did check with my legal advisors what could be done to increase the rent while firmly maintaining the same doses of White Label and Morning Coffee. I was distinctly told that at most I could hope to one day double the rent, but only after forking out around €300 in legal expenses to do so. So with calculator in hand and keeping my poor sister in mind, I worked out that by the age of 465 I would not only have covered these legal expenses but also start making a profit. Well no actually, taking in consideration the clothes and the meals you’d have to add on a couple of thousands years I’m afraid.

– my best Lapp dance ever

I looked down from my window onto the frozen landscape below. Everything was white. So many different shades of white and nothing else. Yet still so beautiful and surreal. The flight from Stockholm up North, right on the Arctic Circle into southern Lappland somehow looked more like a local bus. Village folk were sitting with boxes and baskets of supplies, various farming implements and even apparently a few cages and traps of sorts. And everyone also seemed to know each other well and mumbled quietly amongst themselves, in typical local exceedingly discreet fashion.

It was only our small group of multinational travel agents who stuck out like a sore thumb in this small plane, as it landed and took off at successive tiny local airfields, servicing this part of central and Northern Sweden.

Besides for myself, I remember that my companions were individually from Italy, Spain, Belgium, the Netherlands, Germany and the USA. All being incoming travel specialists in our respective countries of origin. This was the reason why we were selected and invited by the Swedish Tourist Board on a four day travel incentive trip in Southern Lappland, which they were then trying to open up to tourism. We were then asked to present our recommendations and constructive criticism on the various aspects of the trip.

So as we skidded across one tiny ice covered runway after another, we all sat there in anticipation for a trip which, in spite of its short duration, will remain for me at least, one of the most memorable in my entire life.

When we finally landed in Storuman it was late evening and we were all rather tired and hungry. However our journey didn’t end there. We were greeted by our guide and companion throughout the four days – Sven, who was a middle aged rugged outdoor type of man, in a Davy Crockett or Crocodile Dundee type of way. He was polite and also entertaining in his own quirky way, displaying a very subtle cutting and dry humour, which I very much enjoyed. Compared to everybody else there he was very outgoing and talkative, although this would still be equivalent to the most quiet, reserved and introverted Maltese!

For people there barely talk, let alone discuss and argue and god forbid anyone ever contradict them in any way, as this would be considered very confrontational.

When they had taken our particulars in Stockholm, they had also asked for our clothing sizes, which we all assumed was to present us with branded tee shirts or jackets. However being January, with temperatures hovering at around minus 35C, the first thing Sven did was to order us out of our coats, trousers, hats, gloves and shoes. Luckily we were not in the hands of a Nordic pervert, nor did he want us to perish from instant hypothermia. He insisted because according to him, our useless city folk clothes were far from adequate for such an extreme climate. We were all in fact wearing the thickest and definitely the warmest clothes we could all get our hands on, but as he handed us each a set of special clothing, scientifically designed for the extreme cold, he simply stated that what we were all wearing was not at all suitable. Having spent a mini fortune on the warmest Winter clothes I cold buy before I left on this adventurous expedition, I gently persisted by politely asking why? He turned towards me and with a small glitter in his eye he softly and calmly replied “Because you die”. Haha, nice one I thought – this guy has lovely humour. I think I like him already.

So we all huddled up into this large 4×4 and off we drove into the white frozen wilderness, over deep ice tracks and then over puffy virgin snow. Over large frozen lakes and various sized rivers, through frozen forests with towering icicled conifers. Then it started to snow. Enormous white fluffy flakes which floated down ever so slowly all around us, adding to the surreal and enchanting surroundings we had all been suddenly transported into.

Throughout the journey Sven mumbled on various facts and figures and filled us in on our trip. Part of us wanted this trip never to end, while part yearned for some comfort in the form of a nice hotel with a lovely hot dinner and a couple of drinks to warm the heart.

About two hours later we finally arrive in Vilhelmina, a tiny village lost in this perfect picture of a Winter wonderland. By that time we were all more than happy to arrive at our destination, which I must admit turned out to be rather odd. At that time at least the accommodation options were extremely limited. So we were accommodated in a small disused school. Upon our arrival we were shown to our rooms and informed that dinner would be served in 30 minutes.

Needless to say 20 minutes later we were all there impatiently waiting, totally famished from our exhausting journey. It was a large hall, visibly originally used for assemblies. Although still rather bare it had been smartly converted into a dining room, in the centre of which was a massive table stunningly prepared. Adorned with two massive silver candelabra, each placing had loads of cutlery, different sized glasses and various pieces of crockery, all making for a truly impressively laid table.

We rushed to our seats virtually salivating, awaiting the splendid banquet to come. With the seven of us sat Sven and the young couple who were hosting us in this surprising establishment. In the centre of the table they placed three average-sized trays of crispbread with various toppings, such as salmon and smoked reindeer. By the word ‘yourselves” in the phrase “Please help yourselves” the trays were as bare as a Lapp Winter, as we all swallowed down these tasty titbits. We looked up towards them and waited. Then we waited a little bit more. But absolutely nothing at all happened, until after several awkward and terrifyingly long minutes the harsh and horrifying truth slowly descended upon us.

I looked at a panicking Italian, who in turn glanced at a distraught Spaniard. A ravenous German and rather chubby frustrated American looked hungrily at our petite Belgian companion licking their lips with very obvious intentions, while our rather lanky new Dutch lady friend was nearly fainting from hunger.

Now you can all guess who was the most boisterous throughout the trip and who kept everyone laughing within the group. So within seconds they all slowly turned towards me and nodded determinedly towards me with menacing eyes. So as the selected spokesman, I was left with no other option than to make my rude request in typical Oliver Twist style. Although my words were softly spoken and politely chosen, when they had fully sunk into the ears of our guests they sent them into a mad panic. They frantically ran in and out of the kitchen, made phone calls, exchanged tense words of alarm with Sven, but alas it was all in vain. They had nothing else in the kitchen and the one or two shops in the village had long closed.

As my cowardly friends slowly slid down in their seats in shame, seeing the utter commotion we had caused, all deviously pointing fingers at me to our hosts behind my back, passing the entire blame to me, I was forced into justifying my previous request. I tried to explain that for us Southern Europeans at least, our food was very important. Dinner for us was the main meal of the day and we were cold and hungry and had eaten virtually nothing all day.

They were visibly shocked and embarrassed for their massive oversight and sheepishly explained in their singsong Swedish accent, that for them the opposite was true. Because of the extreme cold they start the day with a massive breakfast, followed by a medium sized lunch and ended with just a very small snack in the evening. They promised again and again that as from the day after they will ensure that their kitchen is properly stocked, as they poured water, juice and soft drinks into our glasses – AND NOTHING ELSE!!! For this part of Sweden was virtually dry with very strict licensing laws and naturally as a converted school there was no way they could ever obtain one. There was only one licensed establishment in Vilhelmina which we later found out only served beer and an unrecognisable liquid they called wine.

I cried for much of that night alone in my bed. Hunger and alcohol withdrawal pains ravishing my sobbing body. Was this going to be the trip of a lifetime, or a nightmare straight out of hell?

The next morning as we all gradually congregated for breakfast, we were greeted by an extraordinary site. The massive central table was covered in dish after dish of amazing food. Breads, crispbread and pastries, eggs, hams and sausages, hot soups, stews and all types of meats including bear and reindeer, salted and cured fish of all sorts, yogurts and cereals and more.

We ate ourselves through the entire table, as they looked on in utter shock and amazement. And by the end of it we all slumped down in our chairs, brimming with Scandinavian food and relieved satisfaction.

When Sven finally managed to round us all up for the day’s activities spirits were high. There’s nothing worse than going to bed with an empty stomach, but the morning’s banquet had largely made up for the previous night’s omission and we were now all rearing to go.

In Sven’s subtle style, he would only sketchily explain what he had in store for us. He had vaguely alluded to heights to unveil any possible phobias, but once we all gave him the green light his face did take on a cheeky grin. So we drive out onto the endless frozen lake just next to the village and I ask him if there was any danger of the ice breaking through. In his true fashion he looks at me slyly and replies that the clothes he provided us with were waterproof too.

So he drove and he drove far out into what can only be described as white nothingness. Until in the distance there was a black dot in the middle of the frozen expanse. As we approached the dot became gradually larger, until we finally arrive next to a small group of men on several snowmobiles, with large parachutes attached to their backs and unfurled on the ice, dozens of metres behind.

Yes you guessed it. That morning’s activities was their take on Winter parasailing! So with shaking knees and murmuring our last requests to the creator, they each put us on skis, strapped us in a parachute harness and before we could scream “couch potato” up we went high up into the sky. The fear was intense as was the pain on my face from the freezing wind. But once I had climbed high up over the frozen lake, the staggering views were simply awe-inspiring, making all the pain and the cold and the apprehension quickly fade away.

Far down beneath me was the large white expanse of the lake, with the tiny black speck which was the snowmobile projecting me forward. To the sides were endless frozen forests with the occasional clearing covered in white virgin snow. I could see the village in the distance with its many wooden buildings and in all directions dreamy hills and mountains glimmering in a light pastel pink in the weak wintery glow.

As I was rushed through the freezing air somehow trying to fully take in this heavenly sight, there were little ice crystals in the air all around me, sparkling and shimmering like tiny pinpricks of magic stars as they reflected the morning light.

Once we got back down we were all speechless and gasping for air. Not from physical exhaustion but from the pure excitement of one of the most exhilarating experiences and most spectacular visions of mother nature one could ever be blessed with.

Sven came along equipped with a beaming smile and baskets full of supplies. We looked in amazement as he threw down a canvas sheet onto the ice and brought out sandwiches, dried fish, raw salmon and cured bear. “I only once made a mistake twice” he quipped, “but now I will certainly never marry again”. And with that superb and timely joke he also handed around small individual fruit juices with a straw, which suspiciously seemed to have their seals broken and then slightly clumsily re-affixed. At that point his face really lit up and he said in his normal singsongy way “juice is cold but it will still warm you up”. He had gone as far as to lace it with vodka to satisfy our every need. What a pity that gay marriage was still not available at the time in Sweden, cause I would have thrown this handsome Swede onto the closest snowmobile and sped him to the local town hall, picking up a bone or wooden ring along the way.

Throughout our entire stay Sven proved to be exceptionally resourceful and attentive to all our needs. In spite of his outward bristly appearance and somewhat distant self, he always knew what we wanted and always somehow came up with the goods, each and every time.

We were definitely never again left hungry, as he had taken the habit of packing supplies which he carted around everywhere and repeatedly asked us if we were hungry or thirsty without fail. The little ‘juices’ were also always at hand and helped to soften the biting cold and the miserable lack of alcohol during meals and at all other normal occasions. In fact funnily enough, we somehow ended up with exactly the opposite drinking habits that we would have back home. Our meals were accompanied by juices and soft drinks and we met at lunch time or in the evening around a large bottle of Coke. But then when we were driving or walking in the snow and ice, or doing activities and climbing hills, we frequently stopped for a swig of vodka and juice. And one of Sven’s favourite tricks was always making a funny big thing about the choice of fruit juice he would serve to each one of us. “Now who prefers orange, or pineapple? And I have a pear or an apple as well”, knowing very well that nobody at all cared about the flavour, it was the vodka we all wanted and nothing else.

One of the most spectacular features of this magical landscape was most definitely the light. As we were right on the arctic circle in January we never saw the sun. But the sky was constantly lit up with this soft heavenly glow, shedding a range of smooth silky wisps of light subtle pinks and lilacs and purples and reds and blues all over the forests and mountains around. And this lasted throughout the day, mysteriously dressing up the snow and the ice in enchanting fairylike colours. I very often said to myself, if heaven does exist then it would definitely look something very much like this.

We had a full and truly exciting programme with many a euphoric activity. We visited a small authentic tented Lap settlement, as well as a reindeer herd. We engaged in Nordic pastimes such as target axe throwing, splitting wood and target shooting. We were taught how to drive snowmobiles out in the wild, along icy tracks and down frozen waterways. We followed spectacular snowy trails up hills and mountains. But by far the most mind blowing experience for me at least, was when Sven took us dog sledding.

We were given snowmobiles and followed our majestic leader blindly deep into the woods. Until we come to a very large clearing on quite a steep slope which must be transformed into a large meadow in Summer. And there were several large Scandinavian men holding possibly around twenty sleds, each with eight beautiful huskies harnessed up in front. This first sighting alone was beyond belief in its everlasting expression of something you might dream about or see on TV but never expect to actually experience yourself.

We were each assigned a sled and asked to acquaint ourselves with our dogs. They were beautiful furry creatures of different sizes and colours. Some had deep blue eyes, while others were brown or black. They were not excessively friendly yet still gentle and benevolent. These are hard and toughened working dogs, not pampered house dogs used to caressing and constant fondling.

We were given a rather worryingly brief crash course on how to handle the dogs and the sled. We had to stand at the very back, leaning back and pulling hard on the cords. To stop the sled we had to put the entire weight of our body on a pivoting blade-like metal flap which ran along the width of the sled, driving it deep into the snow. The dogs knew the trail well and didn’t really require steering per se and in any case there were instructors on their own sleds in front and behind us to guide and assist. The only one thing that kept on being repeated was to hold on to dear life and to do everything to try not to fall off.

Sven’s last words which came with his now customary glint, were in response to the visibly shaken tiny Belgian girl’s desperate and rather shrill query. She asked what would happen if she did indeed fall off. So in his usual brusque self he replied “we try to find you”, with a slight emphasis on the word ‘try’.

The dogs which until this moment were perfectly still, suddenly stood up to attention and the moment we all stepped back onto the sled all burst out into a deafening chorus of barking and howling. They went absolutely wild with excitement instantly snapping into their main role and purpose in life. We were all told to step hard on the brakes until it was our turn to join the long queue of speeding sleds and were signaled by the instructors to do so. But even for me, holding them still was a considerable effort. Little Miss Brussels started slowly sliding down the hill, not only far too soon but also somehow entirely in the wrong direction. She screamed and she squealed as she soon lost grip and tumbled down the slope, setting free the dogs who leapt forward and chased off unbridled after the departed sleds.

My turn soon came and one of the instructors waved frantically at me to get off the brake, lest I miss my crucial slot. The instant I did, the dogs took over madly and I set off swiftly behind the others, holding on desperately to the sled. Initially it was hard to hold on. The pure force of these eight powerful dogs was like a freight train heaving with force. The speed that we travelled over snow and over slopes and swerves and bumps, took a lot of force and balance not to be thrown off. And when going downhill we had been instructed to step hard on the brakes.

Although I had my share of hair raising moments, after a while I settled into it rather comfortably. We sped through plains and clearings, over flat frozen waters and through magnificent forests and all the time the dogs were eerily howling.

I slowly became transfixed by it all. Totally mesmerised by the entire experience. I felt I had transcended into an entirely different dimension, a very rare feeling I have seldomly lived through in my life. As I slid effortlessly through these wondrous landscapes I become one with nature all around me. I felt like I blended into the hypnotic pastels of blues and yellows and pinks and golds. The whooshing cold air numbing my face and the haunting howling of the dogs penetrating my soul. The intriguing snow and ice formations all around me. The onlooking trees silent and speechless and frozen in time. It was like watching a supernatural movie, like being deep inside a glorious dream. All my senses were highly perceptive of the endless details around me, while being transported forward mystically in space and time.

Up to this day I am not quite sure exactly what happened to me. But I literally cried like a baby when it all came to an end. I was so moved by the whole experience that even after returning to Malta, I was constantly told by those around me that I looked totally spaced out for many weeks.

Had I somehow taken a glimpse into my past or into the future? Was it all just a trick of the mind? Whatever the reason may be, I have kept somewhere within me such magical memories of this phenomenal experience that it has also somehow contributed to the person I am today. A life-changing experience which I will cherish until the end of my days.

He was a great man and not because he did great things but possibly because he didn’t.

My late father was the embodiment of honesty and respect, the archetype of exemplary behaviour and the epitome of stability, humility and kindness. He had no wild ambitions, no crazy dreams, no vices and absolutely no arrogance whatsoever. His only goal in life was to raise a decent family in the most just and flawless way and this is what caught his entire attention throughout his happy life. He was the ultimate teacher, both at work and in life.

He was always secretly my hero, my mentor, the person I always wanted to impress. And in his final years I did my best to give him back what very little I could, compared to everything he gave me.

But alas he too finally succumbed to his disease as we all shall do.

I was utterly heartbroken, devastated, as may be expected, seeking solace in anything I could. He had lived a long and happy life and passed away surrounded by his most loved ones. And his final suffering was very painful to watch, making that final moment a slightly less bitter pill to swallow. So in typical fashion, being the gentleman that he was until his final moment, he waited until we had all left his side that evening and once we were all gone he quietly slipped away.

He was 87 years of age when this happened and my mother, ten years younger, was totally shellshocked and ridden with grief. We all tried desperately to contain our tears and to somehow console her. But she was lost without him. She had spent her entire life with him and knew no other man. For 60 years they we together and he was her first and only love.

Throughout their marriage they were always together, totally inseparable. I am not quite sure whether in all those years they ever slept once apart. They simply adored each other and devoted their entirely lives to themselves and to us.

My mother was everything a child could ever wish for. She never had a professional occupation but simply excelled at being a mother in a caring and nurturing way. Not once could I remember that she was too sick or too tired to care for us all in every single way. She looked after the household and her family 24 hours a day. Always sheltered, protected and provided for by my father, she focused entirely on what she knew best, and proved to be an outstanding mother, whose only concern was us.

She was soft and gentle and kindhearted and far too good, innocent and even naive to ever contemplate any wrongdoing, even in the remotest of ways.

But she tried for a very short period of time, in her own way to cope, and to find a small place for herself on this earth without him. But alas she decided after only nine months that she’d much rather be with him. So very early one morning without much warning she too left us having lost the will the live.

It is an extraordinarily bewildering feeling when from calling them up for every nothing, and automatic detours to their house when in the vicinity, and helping them around the house, and running errands for them all the time, and lunches together at home in the garden, and happy family occasions from time to time, there simply comes nothing!

An enormous void. The two most important people in your life, who created you, who made you what you are, who were always there. Yes they were always simply there. There. Whenever you needed them they were there. And in their later years when they needed you you were there, but above all they too were still always there.

Then all of a sudden both of them were no longer there.

Is it worth mentioning what is so obvious? The paramount importance of loving your parents dearly and cherishing them while they are still here. And above all of telling them “I love you”, the three most important words in life. Tell them. And then tell them again, even if in certain cases you might feel awkward, then all the more you must tell them before it is too late. And for the unfortunate ones who may have had problems with either or both of their parents, then tell them even more! It could be that by uttering these simple words that you lay down the road to reconciliation, for no matter what happened between you they are your parents and they won’t be around for ever. If you don’t work out your differences now you definitely won’t after they are no longer here.

We all somehow try to find comfort and consolation in times of great distress. We look for reasons, for purpose for justification. We try to find ways of making sense of it all and to clutch at any positive we might ourselves create in our minds to overcome our desperation.

Well I must say that in my case in spite of these terrific incidents life did give me back a lot. Call it luck or destiny or karma. But I must admit that there was a huge silver lining to this otherwise devastating tale.

On the exact day my father passed away a baby was conceived. And as my mother in turn decided to leave us nine months later, this baby was born when she passed away, on the day of her funeral to be exact.

And this baby is our first grandson.

A gorgeous healthy happy baby with stunning looks and an enchanting smile who stole my heart from the day he was born. He has special significance for me in so many ways and we are both happiest when together. I want to love him and look after him and guide him and amuse him for as long as I can.

Luckily in life there it always another, more positive side to every story. In our case it was obvious and staring us right in the face. Let us always focus on the positive and let dark thoughts blow by.

For life takes but life also gives back.

Just some absurd and aimless jibberish…

I came in riding my comet
Kicking asteroids on the way
Shouting yeehahs and yahoos
Landing at Paul’s Bay

I got a taxi to Valletta
But the driver just refused
We don’t accept anti matter
I really wasn’t amused

All I wanted was a Fanta
Hard to get in outer space
I thought I might find one
In the capital of this place

But alas I had no Euros
Just a space dollar or two
Exchanged at my constellation
From where I just flew

So I picked up my meteors
And tried to fly home
But before I even knew it
I found myself in Rome

After so many travels
They finally pin me down
At the remote island of Reunion
Then at Toulouse town

For I am Malaysian Airlines
Flight MH370
Floating around the universe
But now it’s time to go home

I thoroughly enjoy writing about our travels. But then again I enjoy writing about everything under the sun. And also a bit more which I make up along the way. But having a twisted mind also means that I love to add that little extra twist to my stories. And the twist here is that although the main topic clearly deals with heat, I have also tried to look at this factor from a cultural perspective.

Let me start my tale on the 11th of September 2000, when we were standing right beneath the Twin Towers in lower Manhattan, admiring their enormous majesty. Yes, exactly one year before the tragic event, day for day, we marvelled at their immense and staggering stature.

For it was from New York that we flew to Los Angeles to stay with my cousin Peter and his family in their 45,000 acre estate which is called California. Has anyone ever heard of it by any chance? California? Yes that is theirs! Well in reality they have a very typical and lovely house South of LA in a smart, quiet and leafy suburb, along with large garden and pool. What else could one want in life.

And it was from their house that we hired a large American car and headed out for a long and exciting trip visiting the Mohave Desert, Las Vegas, Death Valley, the Sierra Nevada, Yosemite National Park, San Francisco and the Pacific coast including Bug Sur, before returning to Los Angeles.

As the main topic here is heat, very obviously inspired by the annoying heat wave we are currently having to endure, you can probably guess that the point of attention here is Death Valley.

This is the lowest, driest and hottest place in North America and one of the very hottest places on Earth. As we were there in September, we were expecting it to be extremely hot, however just by chance when we were passing through it just happened to be rather cool. If I remember correctly it was only somewhere in the low to mid 20’s, so really not hot at all.

However as we drove through the stunning and harsh landscape of endless flat shimmering white salt plains for as far as the eye can see, interspersed by gentle pale yellow sand dunes in the distance, there was one thing we just couldn’t help noticing. That at very frequent intervals there were large signs warning visitors about the heat and its many dangers.

The signs told travellers not to go for walks, not to get out of their car, not even to open the doors or windows, but to remain at all times inside their car, keeping it constantly shut, with the air conditioning switch on.

As it was a very pleasant temperature when we were there, even bordering on coolish, all these warnings seemed very amusing to us. We were later told that similarly to much of this type of signage in the U.S., this also serves as a form of disclaimer in a ‘you have been warned’ sort of way.

We saw many such signs in various places, sometimes even seemingly in the middle of nowhere. We would be walking in what we thought was virgin wilderness when we came across a sign saying “Do not leave the path”, or “Watch your step, rough terrain ahead”. Even swimming can be a complicated affair and unlike what we are used to in Malta and most other places, you cannot swim where you want, but only in specifically designated sections of the coast.

Yes the U.S. Is full of such physical and spatial limitations and as most people know it is fraught with indemnity, risk and suing procedure issues. So warning signage is a standard feature wherever you go.

Back to the heat topic, the Americans also do not accept the notion of feeling hot. In their book one should never feel hot. So air conditioning has long been a standard fixture whereby they prefer to live in a regulated environment rather than a natural one. For most of them feeling hot and sweating is not something modern man should ever be made to endure. This is the national psyche and the norm for much of the U.S. If it’s hot you don’t open the window but you close it and switch on the climate control. In the same way that if you need something you do not walk but you jump into your car and drive there instead.

Personally I am more of a cold weather person I suppose. I seem to function much better in cooler climates and even enjoy the extreme cold for short periods of time. On the other hand I simply love deserts. There is something wild and enchanting about them, even spiritual I find. Their magnificent grandiose landscapes are captivating beyond belief. I have often found them to very much resemble the sea in so many ways.

I have been lucky enough to experience several desserts around the world including the Libyan desert which is truly a wondrous place. In my much younger days I had the enormous pleasure of driving around it quite extensively, allowing me to take in and experience its raw and spectacular beauty, which varies in so many ways from one location to another.

My main comparison with Death Valley however, interestingly paired up with harshly contrasting cultural aspects, concerns Namibia. We traveled to this magnificent far off land in 2008, where we had the immense fortune of acquainting ourselves to the Kalahari and the Namib Deserts.

From what we saw at least, the latter was far more spectacular, especially with the coastal dunes running down the Southern Atlantic seaboard and catalogued as being amongst the highest sand dunes on Earth, elevating them not only in sheer height but also to World Heritage Site status. Many of them have even been named and have been endowed with a particular gender and also a character of sorts, such as Dune 7, Big Daddy and Big Mama. They rise well above 1,000 feet, with Dune 7 at approximately 1,250 feet measuring exactly one and a half times the height of Dingli Cliffs at its highest point from the sea far down below. Their majestic and spectacular beauty is tremendously enhanced by their striking red colour, especially at specific times of day.

Unlike Death Valley when it was just my wife and myself, there were six of us in Namibia traveling together, three couples in all. We had arranged for a stunning custom planned itinerary with our own vehicle and driver/guide throughout our three week stay. This included deserts and safaris and swimming in the cold Atlantic surrounded by huge bobbing seals.

Our guide’s name was Lefi, a local of fully black African origin and I say this as there are many different looking races and tribes including the bushmen who are very different, as well as many white Afrikaners similar to neighbouring South Africa.

He was exactly what you would imagine when you think of a Kenyan athlete. He was tell, very slender, yet sinewy and muscular. They still have to invent a word for this level of fitness and being in his mid twenties he was most definitely in his prime. I could easily imagine him popping up to Cairo and back in a quick sprint for a bottle of milk.

He was sweet and gentle, quite soft spoken and had many dreams. In typical African fashion he discussed his personal life, his feelings and emotions in their refreshing uninhibited way.

So half way through our itinerary we were visiting Sossusvlei which is the Mecca of the Namib Desert and where many of the highest spectacular dunes are found. While dining at the stylish lodge that night, Lefi informed us that we would be leaving very early the next morning. These trips were best when you left long before dawn to get there at sunrise when the dunes are showered in red and golden light.

Our only problem was that it was the birthday of one of our party so we couldn’t not have a drink or two. Well here comes the shameful part of my story, for alas there always seems to be one. This is deep in the Namibian desert, it is not Ibiza or Costa del Sol where lager louts tend to congregate. It mainly attracts adventurous individuals who love nature and exercise and the great outdoors. Well we happen to love both!

So being the boundlessly eclectic individuals that we are, we descended on the lodge’s tiny understocked and unsuspecting bar before you could even say meerkat. And this very experience was my one true and absolute defining moment in life, for the expression ‘drinking the bar dry’.

Although the six of us started together, the more sensible and cautious couple abandoned us relatively early, thinking of the ungodly hour we had to wake up. But the other four of us went for it with a vengeance and besides for ourselves we bought countless drinks for the lodge’s owner who we literally had to carry to his room at a certain point and continued drinking without him, serving our own drinks. There was also a constant trickle of bewildered guests who we managed to rope in for a couple of quick ones and a lewd joke or two. You see the drinks there were ridiculously inexpensive and we found that wherever we stayed they always forgot to put anything on our bill! In each successive lodge we used to make bets between us if anyone’s bill would have something or another of all the extras we had consumed, and in most cases there was nothing at all. Not a very lucrative business I thought, running a lodge in Namibia with such staff managing it for you, but sorry it wasn’t really my problem. In this particular case even the owner was drunk and had left his entire lifesavings in our hands, poor sod. His name was Cristos and he was a large rugged white Afrikaner, but a light weight in the bar, especially compared to our exceptional talents.

So while he was still there we started on white wine but quickly downed the couple of bottles he had. So then we drank all his red wine, before we hit all his spirits bottle by bottle, of which he mercifully only had one of each, until there simply was nothing left. I really don’t know what got into us, but it was one of those unexpected nights where we were simply having so much fun that we didn’t want it to end. Cristos joined in and in typical absence of business mindedness, for each two rounds we bought he bought us one, then along came a resident who bought us one too. And all this until the owner literally collapsed and we carried him to his room and tucked him up in his bed. We returned back to the bar and all that was left were some beers. So we looked at each other, shrugged our shoulders and said, might as well finish this job to the end.

So we downed the last remaining beers and had literally drank the bar dry leaving no alcoholic beverage left. I very vaguely remember staggering wildly akin to being on a ship in rough seas. And by the time we made it back to our ‘cabins’ the clock said half past three. Lefi had told us to be up by four for coffee, before we left for our morning’s activities.

It was one of those moments where you desperately want to somehow put the clock back at least by a few hours, but what was done was done.

Just half an hour later there was mad banging on our door which somehow managed to wake us up. Get up, get up cried Lefi. This was meant to be one of the main highlights of our trip and having traveled across the world for this we really didn’t want to miss it. For we are outdoor people and love nature too tongue emoticon

So by some unknown and powerful force of magic we all somehow managed to get back out of bed, obviously still totally drunk, as we would remain for much of the day, and made our way on all fours to the breakfast room. Only there was no early breakfast for obvious reasons, which were snoring drunk in bed.

So we somehow get into our vehicle together along with our cheerful wide eyed early retiring couple and start off with an hour’s bumpy journey over rough tracks through the initially pitch black wilderness. How I didn’t throw up remains a mystery, especially as I was all the time so close.

Lefi had luckily brought a couple of flasks of coffee which we gratefully sipped along the way.

By the time we got there I thankfully felt some small signs of recovery, but when I turned around and looked at the birthday girl she was green. As expected, as soon as we arrived at our destination she brought everything back up on the sand. And she sat there under a baobab tree as white as Lefi’s teeth, passing in and out of consciousness, as her husband poured cold water over her head and neck.

So they stayed behind as Lefi hopped along at the speed of greased lightening, or should I say black ice. He darted up and down enormous sand dunes and dashed across hard open spaces, expecting us to keep up. By late morning when we retuned next to our abandoned friends, we were all looking and feeling the same way she was earlier that morning. Gasping for air and soaked in sweat we explained to them our tiresome but wondrous adventures bestowed upon us by the gorgeous red dunes. While we desperately were trying to catch our breath and guzzling down gallons of water, Lefi was doing press-ups and sit-ups out in the sun just for fun. I imagine he was still warming up after only some 4 hours of backbreaking strenuous exercise, because believe me he still hadn’t even yet broken out in a sweat.

Now this was January which is the height of their Summer and it was virtually noon. He carried a thermometer with him everywhere, probably just to scare tourists and sure enough it was exactly 40 degrees in the shade! Yes it was dry, which was most certainly the only reason we survived. But 40 degrees is 40 degrees and we were constantly trekking up and down enormous steep dunes in the sun. And don’t forget that we are talking of very loose sand here where with every step your foot sinks in up to your ankle.

I cannot describe our state when we returned, while Lefi looked like he was sitting in a fully air conditioned boardroom of sorts. But much to my disgust and horror this was just the beginning and the worst part of the story is yet to come!

One of the worst decisions I have been known to make, was not even the one to stay up all night drinking, in spite of the day ahead. It was at this moment when Lefi said that he was taking us to see the neighbouring renowned dry lakes which at this time of year were bone dry and covered in white salt. He posed a very simple question, asking us if we wanted to drive or walk. He was taking the vehicle there anyway, but according to him it was quite a long way round, while if we walked it was a short trek in a straight line.

I confirmed with him twice that it really wasn’t far, before I made one of the worst decisions in my life. So my wife and the birthday girl took the vehicle there while the other four of us decided to walk.

We walked and we walked and we walked and we walked. Did I say that we walked? Yes and then we walked a bit more. It just went on and on for ever. Through tracks and dunes, around rocky outcrops and across immense dry lake beds we walked in the terrible heat. And of course all this in the early afternoon sun when it was 40 degrees in the shade. We were obviously totally lost and just heading aimlessly in any direction. We even lost the other couple somewhere along the way and it was just the birthday girl’s husband and me.

It was one of the roughest moments in my life. Towards the end of it I couldn’t think straight, my vision was blurred and blackening and all I could hear was load ringing sounds in my ears. My friend Danny helped me struggle slowly through the sand, literally propping me up in a spectacular two men struggling across the desert before they die – epic movie scene.

All we had left was one tiny bottle of water, which by then was hotter than tea, to the extent that it was not even drinkable. I didn’t even hear Lefi calling. My mind had totally shut down and I was very simply on my very last few steps. But Danny somehow brought me to, insisting that Lefi had finally found us. I couldn’t even see him there, but somehow my survival instinct pushed me to continue, along with both of their helping hands.

When we finally got back to the vehicle I collapsed on the seat and was fed gradual but copious amounts of water….

So back at the bar that evening, and I am not joking of course. For very luckily my excesses have been largely based on an exceedingly quick recovery mechanism. But we did not drink so much of course. Mainly because Christos was now avoiding us like the plague and had spread the word amongst all the residents that we were very dangerous individuals. So we were only served one or two drinks at the bar, by a frowning, rough and scary big black mama, who was obviously briefed to hit us across the face with her massive arms if we ever got out of line.

But I managed to grab Lefi and sat him down next to us. And I explained to him about the signs in Death Valley. About fat lazy first world air conditioning dwelling couch potatoes. I tried to make him understand that his oneness with nature, with this climate and terrain, his extraordinary fitness, his unparalleled tolerance to the heat, his ability of never even drinking any liquids throughout much of the day, was not shared by many. I explained that as a tour guide of such physically inadequate individuals as us, he must come to understand the inexplicable differences between him and us. And I said it all with a gin and tonic in hand and a wicked sparkle in my eye.

He looked at me blankly and I’m not quite sure how much of my sermon stuck. But hopefully my following emails to him when I got home will have some impact and even might save the life of a tourist or two. I sent him photos of the signs in Death Valley, reminding him that the temperature there was only 22.

We were only young lads then, not even in our teens. When during the Summer months we spent all our Summers in Xemxija. Three long months of carefree fun and enjoyment. Of children’s idle games and worry free activities.

Like any other place on earth without exception, Dubai has its positive and its negative sides. So let us start with the negative to get this out of the way before focusing on the positive of this truly unique destination.

In fact Dubai is unique in so many ways, most of which are due to the fact that it is a totally artificial place, entirely created by man, in the middle of a scotching desert, to serve the sole purposes of greed, ego and visions of unparalleled grandeur.

It lies in one of the most inhospitable places on earth, where temperatures are often around 40C and can even soar to a dangerous 50C, ensuring that you are constantly confined indoors in an unhealthy air conditioned environment and unable to even get any fresh air. In any case you are immediately told that even in the middle of winter when it can be slightly cooler, Dubai was not in the least way conceived with the pedestrian in mind, but entirely for motorized vehicles. So in some form of warped consolation, you are informed that you cannot walk anywhere outside anyway.

And if you were thinking of heading straight to the beach to cool off in the ocean, you have a very big surprise coming, as swimming there is akin to having a really hot bath and about as refreshing as pouring boiling water all over your already sweltering body.

So you spend your entire time being shuttled by air conditioned taxi from one air conditioned building to another, virtually always in the form of a hotel or a shopping mall, which are the only forms of buildings there. For there is virtually no history or heritage or historical monuments in this once insignificant and tiny fishing village, before oil was discovered mainly in neighbouring emirate Abu Dhabi.

So Dubai has gone to truly extraordinary lengths to attract tourists through its man made constructions which include the highest building on earth and countless skyscrapers plonked at random around the desert, running parallel to the coast. In a mad megalomaniac lego-like game, they have also built islands in the shape of palms, which nobody can even notice, unless you live in outer space.

But what can you do there, you may be asking, especially if you cannot even go outside or engage in any seemingly basic activity such as walking, swimming and sun bathing, which are all out of the question for much of the year?

Well you can definitely go shopping as Dubai has built some extraordinary malls where you can find all the shops and brands and items you can find virtually anywhere else on earth, even including Malta nowadays. But wait, before you ask what is then the purpose of shopping here, if it is all exactly the same, let me assure you that it certainly isn’t. Only the brands and the items for sale are exactly the same, the prices on the other hand certainly aren’t. These are about double what they are anywhere else, so there! Also in Dubai they have built truly massive malls to ensure that you can rid yourself of great amounts of your hard earned cash in the shortest time and with the least bit of effort possible. In a last stroke of genius, their national airline Emirates, also allows for an extra 10 kilos of luggage per person when compared to most other airlines, ensuring that you can shop till your credit rating will drop, without the least bit of concern.

Ok let’s recap. So you can’t swim, you can’t walk, you can’t visit anything of interest simply because there isn’t any, and you can’t shop unless you enjoy paying a lot of money to get there, then paying a lot more to buy stuff you can buy for much less back home, before again paying a lot of money to get back home. But hey don’t forget the world class wining and dining. True that these are again all based within hotels and malls as virtually nothing else exists there. And true that they are all prefabricated concept style copies of different aspects of world cuisine as authenticity there does not exist beyond the rear end of a camel. But the choice is virtually endless. You could eat yourself silly through every hotel and mall if you really wanted to and especially if you don’t mind spending amounts of money which anywhere else would buy you not a meal but the entire restaurant itself. Suffice to say that a bog standard bottle of wine which in Malta would cost say €5 in a supermarket and perhaps a maximum of €15.00 in an expensive restaurant, would cost you at least €100 in Dubai! And a standard spirit such as a whisky costs roughly €15, as does a small glass of wine.

So extravagance in Dubai may be deemed as that first moment when you simply order just two drinks and the barman casually inquiries whether you want singles or doubles and you even more casually say oh yes let’s go for doubles, only to be given a bill of €60. And once the realization has traveled all the way down your body and reaches your anus, it independently decides to drop its little mouth open in utter amazement letting out a bit of fecal matter straight into your trousers.

But the good news is that while drinks cost around 6 to 7 times what they do in Malta, food is only about double or treble the price. So if you are mad enough to have a proper full three course meal with a very average bottle of wine this will set you back around €400 for two. Otherwise you might want to skip the wine and the starters and the desserts to somehow desperately try to keep the bill in the realm of the imaginable, while eating much less than you normally do back home. But don’t worry, your holiday will soon come to an end, so you can start eating and drinking normally and no longer live like a pauper, as soon as you get back home.

For both Russia and Japan, which are renowned for their exorbitant pricing, pale in comparison with the cost of simply anything you might buy in Dubai. We had countless jaw-dropping, backside dripping, cashpoint experiences, culminating on our last night when we were in one of their faux souks, for yes, sadly even their markets are reconstructed modern copied versions of the real thing. We stopped to buy some loose nuts and admittedly asked the vendor to fill up two fairly large bags. When the bill came so did my anus in a pseudo orgasmic way. The price was an astounding €75 which can only be described as nuts! Yes, we had just purchased two largish bags of mixed nuts for €75.

The staggering stupidity of this deed must have reverberated all the way to Malta, as in spite of virtually wearing out my credit card all over the world for an entire month, entirely without incident, that night I receive an SMS from BOV card centre informing me that my credit card had been blocked ‘following a dubious purchase’. So I call them back on their 24 hour emergency number and the girl there tells me that they saw a purchase of €75 for nuts, which they suspected was illegitimate, so they blocked my card. It was one of those pretty hard to explain moments for me. How do you intelligently explain that you agreed to purchase €75 worth of nuts without sounding nuts yourself? So at least I had the imagination of telling her that there were in fact many other items not just nuts and that I did approve such an outrageous purchase after all, so as to have my credit card unblocked.

And before anyone starts screaming – Garbage, we’ve been to Dubai and it is not that expensive – listen to this. We also have been to Dubai before, and no it was not that expensive. It is only very recently and apparently mainly due to the very unfavourable rate of exchange which has become very unfavourable. Whatever the reason and whatever the case, we were there last week and that is what counts, not what we used to pay 10 years ago, or even 7 or 5 years ago, when admittedly you didn’t have to take out a bank loan to purchase a drink.

But before I move onto the more positive aspects of Dubai, it is also worth mentioning a few other interesting aspects of this overrated, boring, expensive-as-hell destination. Firstly, in spite of the empty glitz and the artificial soulless modern facades, supposedly representing all that is cutting edge, this remains firmly a Moslem country. So you are clearly required not to show any PDA’s (public displays of affection – yes they even have a word for it!) such as holding hands or kissing or hugging, all disgusting infidel actions as far as they are concerned. So for couples such as us, who usually enjoy expressing our love towards each other simply by holding hands or putting our arms around one other, plus enjoy the occasional kiss and a hug, we have to constantly check ourselves and subdue these natural albeit most evil and obscene of instincts. So many a time we stared at each with looks of love, all from a safe distance and obviously never making contact, galvanising those precious, romantic and distant moments for ever.

That’s when you’re in public places. Now on the other hand when you are hidden away in private, the state also dictates to you exactly which web sites you can access and which you cannot, as anything which is deemed of sexual content is totally blocked and simply inaccessible from any of your own personal devices. So it is not up to you to choose what is and what isn’t suitable for you, but it is the government’s prerogative to do so. No wonder men make love to camels here as a special treat.

There’s plenty of pork and alcohol around if you’re willing to pay super sucker price. But until the government figures out a way of discreetly taxing porn, then it will continue to save your soul from the totally unnatural thing which is nudity.

The place isn’t either on any kind of show circuit because of the perceived sexual content of anything we consider normal. In neighbouring Abu Dhabi they have been discussing opening up a world class art collections museum, but cannot come to terms with any form of nudity, even being that in classical art, so the project is at a total standstill. This is the real Dubai and unlike the more progressive Arab states where their women are allowed to wear European style clothing, there they are required not only to wear a veil but to entirely cover themselves up, face and all leaving, only a tiny slit for their eyes and only wearing black.

There are many more nasty aspects about this place such as the way they treat their workers, which in many ways is akin to slavery. Similarly if you ever have any form of problem or dispute whatsoever with a local, then you better head straight to that airport, because it can never ever be their fault. You see their reasoning goes that had you never come to their country, then this problem would have been avoided, so it is always automatically your fault. And I won’t even mention the really bad aspects such as the sandstorms and Ramadan just to keep this discussion light.

But enough about all the negative or you might start to think that I somewhat dislike the place! Let us now talk about the positive side of Dubai, which in summary boils down to the fact that you are not at all forced to go there!

There, that was a very positive aspect of Dubai and possibly the only one that comes to mind. But there is also bad news to this one statement I am afraid. For alas if you are transiting from the Far East and want to break up the very long journey, then in reality you probably do have to stop there after all. Also, as in my personal case, if you have a deranged sister who insists on living in such a dumb-assed place and keeps trying to convince you how cool and wonderful that place really is and ends up convincing you every few years or so to try it out again ‘because it has now really changed in all the years since you’ve last been here’ and forgets to add the last part of the sentence ‘for the worse’, then you have a second reason to visit.

Oh and there you go I just managed to find yet another positive thing about Dubai – their power sockets are square like ours!

But just in case anyone is still wondering whether seeing such a weird and unlikely place at least once is worth their while, I would firmly recommend the following. If you want to see tall buildings then go to New York, it is infinitely more interesting with infinitely more things to do and on an entire different scale of enjoyment altogether. If it is a man made playground built in the middle of a desert that you want to experience, then for fuck’s sake go to Las Vegas, where prices are a fraction of those of Dubai, you can hold hands, your wife doesn’t have to dress like a nun and can happily display legs and cleavage and above all, there at least you have the shows, the casinos, the fun, the clubs, the porn, the hookers and at very least you are allowed the most basic of human functions, opening your favourite porn site and having a good old therapeutic self-indulging jobbie!