There appears to be consensus on the defence of the environment, yet there are still many who are powerful, arrogant and fearless enough that do exactly what they want to do. Lest we forget, Wied id-Dis has been ruined. Wied Filep does not exist any longer. The Selmun garigues have been destroyed. Our natural heritage is disappearing so fast – despite the so-called watchdogs. This has to stop. It cannot go on. The authorities have to act in time. That is why they are in authority. Not to talk or to punish. But to act in defence of our environment when it is not too late to act. Wied il-Għasel has now been targeted for further destruction.

Evening in the valley

It always happens so rapidly.

Shadows grow taller. So suddenly.

The barefoot shepherd almost panics. He is tired. He smells strongly of sweat and raw onions and garlic and carobs. That is what he has eaten today. And goats’ cheese. Dry black mixtures of sweat and soil and particles of animal dung, alternately clog and liquefy in the cracks of his old neck and in patches between the unshaven white hairs on his sunburnt cheeks.

He drags his way up from the thorny shrubs in the deep, darkening bed of Wied il-Għasel. The sun has already set behind the carob trees on the edge of the cliffs at the top. So the higher he goes the further away he gets from the depths of the valley, and the brighter it becomes. But only momentarily, because the sun meanwhile moves further away, and away. It is now beyond the wild asparagus cuddled under the rubble wall, now beyond the wild thyme and beyond the tall straight squills of the garigue. Up the shepherd goes; he is old, he is tired, he seeks the light at the top, but quickly the sun slips behind the undulating hills and then into a distant horizon of sea and of fire. It is the rhythm of life he has known all along. This is the rhythm of his existence. He crosses himself, this is nature, this is God himself, he thanks God for giving him the cliffs and the carobs and the rocks and the valley of his livelihood…

The sheep and goats move in front of him, jumping and shoving each other in a most disorderly fashion, yet tired and eager to return home. The three pigs that usually accompany the flock have already disappeared up the side of the valley. They have learnt the way home. They are the first to start moving as soon as their naked, furless bodies senses the sun plunging down its zenith.

He moves up the narrow passage that zigzags upward from the valley bed along the steep sides, getting wider and wider as it reaches the garigue plateau at the top. The passage is an ancient footpath with rubble walls as high as two metres on both sides. His elders always said that it had been constructed at the beginning of creation, during the biblical seven days…

He has already moved up about 30 or 40 metres. He looks around at the familiar black objects taking life when shadows are born in the countryside. It still gives him the creeps as he beholds carob trees, prickly pears and other Mediterranean vegetation taking all forms over the rubble walls. He can still imagine horny devils and Turks and turbaned pirates ready to jump on him in the darkness. Frequently, he meets farmers returning home pulling behind them tired and stubborn mules and donkeys fuq il-pennell, laden with wicker baskets of figs and tomatoes and melons and grapes balanced on either side of their back.

Then something unexpectedly moves in front of the shepherd on the rocks across the rocky road. He sees the black shadow against the dark turquoise of the evening sky. The shadow runs softly, quickly and noiselessly. Then it stops. It pants silently. It listens carefully. Then there is another shadow. And another. Rabbits. It is the time for rabbits to roam about and seek food around the garigue, all over the valley; it is the time that the valley’s nightlife begins. Porcupines and rabbits and other creatures nibble at the vegetation of the generous valley. The snakes and the vipers and the insects and other night fauna hunt for food.

George Percy Badger

The shepherd stops for some time. He looks at the dark vegetation of the valley. He scans the whole length of that part of the valley below him. His heart swells with inexplicable bliss, a sparkling joy in his chest whenever he sees the different shades of green and the scents and sights and sounds blending into one single existence inside his own soul. He and the valley. His family and the valley. His forefathers and the same valley. The same jagged cliffs and his simple life. This must be the serenity of eternity. He is happy with his lot. He is satisfied with his goats and sheep and pigs. The old shepherd rests against the rubble wall overlooking the evening valley. His eyes are shut. He suddenly falls asleep, deeply asleep.

There is a little light, candlelight, a dim candlelight, weak but very reassuring. It comes from the caves hiding behind the tall trees on the opposite side of the valley. The valley is not dead. It is one of the farmers who live in the caves along Wied il-Għasel. Even at night, the valley is full of life. During the day Wied il-Għasel was very busy with human activity, people tilling the fields further down, others tending their flock, others busy with their hives collecting honey from the mġiebaħ, others are repairing rubble walls. They have their children to think of. Their children’s children. A whole world to bequeath. The ignorant, illiterate farmers know that life is not just living, but also an endless chain to construct. A natural and cultural heritage to bequeath to future offspring. Faceless offspring.

The shepherd has dozed off and dreams of recent sights. He sees a strange man, apparently a foreigner, probably an Englishman, strolling inquisitively down the valley. Close-by, a little boy is helping his father cut bunches of black grapes and placing them inside large wicker baskets they call qfief.

“My name is George,” shouts the foreigner jovially to the farmer. He looks around the beautiful rocky sides of the valley and the vines gracing the scene with magic and charm. “George Percy Badger is the name… How do you do?”

But the farmer does not speak English. Yet, he does not look with suspicion on the foreigner. He smiles, he offers him grapes, the juicy drink of the valley gods.

“No! No!” George insists. “I’ll pay for it, I’ll pay for it! You’ve worked hard to till the land and you took care of the rubble walls. You love your country. You love your wild thyme, you love your shrubs. This countryside is what brings happiness to you. This is your life. You live by the land… Nature is your livelihood!”

The shepherd dreams of the foreigner paying, taking the grapes and then moving happily on. Badger is astonished by the numerous caves and the sheer beauty of nature all along the valley. He is astonished by the harmony of the amalgamation of humanity with nature. Nature is humanity. Humanity is nature. Wied il-Għasel is in the middle of these barren rocks that lie in the middle of this middle sea that lies in the middle of civilization. Humanity at Wied il-Għasel understands the ways of nature, and nature understands the needs of humanity. They love each other. They need each other. They have a mutual respect for each other.

The sleeping shepherd sees the foreigner lingering in front of the cave at l-Isperanza, he sees him kneeling to smell the remains of dry pennyroyal mint leaves. He sees him tiptoeing gently over the rocks, taking care not to tread on the humble majesty and beauty of the tiny colourful flowers that grow abundantly in the valley and on the grey rocks of the garigues. It is a beautiful walk. He sees him walking along the rubble walls, examining the beauty of the workmanship and the mystery of each stone held in place by the push of its neighbour. He sees the foreigner open-mouthed at the huge boulders in some places, all arranged near each other in a row, orderly and in perfect harmony with the topology of the rugged rocks of the plateau. Are they prehistoric remains? George Percy Badger asks himself. Perhaps future generations will be more than simple, ignorant, stupid, illiterate farmers and shepherds, and will go to universities to be able to delve into their heritage. Perhaps future generations will understand the need to know and preserve their heritage better…

The sleeping shepherd sees the Englishman smelling the fragrant carobs and the ripening green olives and oranges and lemons all enclosed in little orchards. He watches him as he silently admires the busy bees in clusters over the shrubs and on the flowers. He sees the foreigner’s face, he cannot understand the gentleman’s expression, nor his contorted features of dismay and mysterious disappointment. The shepherd is baffled, he cannot sleep peacefully, he is disturbed, he grunts, he grits his old teeth, he is suddenly restless.

Morning comes

Then a sudden noise awakens him. He has a very strange feeling. He cannot breathe properly. A strange mixture of awe and repugnance fills his thoughts. His spirit feels suddenly threatened. Impending danger. Sudden funny smells. His throat is dry. His mouth is parched. An ugly taste his taste buds have never experienced before in all his life.

He had seen George Percy Badger that very same morning, and he has also seen him in his sleep. But it is getting late, he thinks. Is it night? Is it day? He shivers. He cannot hear the usual bells heralding the coming day. He is confused. He cannot see properly. Has he been to the evening rosary in the chapel? The cicada has stopped its melancholic, droning voice; its incessant shrill tells him that it is summer, it is hot, it is the heat of the sweet fennel, it spells the smell of the Maltese fleabane. It is the sound of peace to his soul. But notwithstanding, he is puzzled. He is afraid. The sky looks different. The familiar cool summer breeze is strangely acidic, strangely hostile.

A burning sensation in his eyes. He rubs them. He blinks. He is wide-awake. Daytime, suddenly. God! He has been asleep all night long. His wife. His children. The flock, the animals. He must hurry back to his farm. There is work to be done. He is hungry. He is thirsty. He is dazed. He cries in silence. He breathes heavily. His chest heaves with difficulty.

The surface of the familiar wide footpath is suddenly strange and hostile. The surface of the rocks appears rough and deprived of all the familiar soil that smoothened its surface. The carob trees are monsters with dishevelled locks and broken, vandalised branches. Some are burnt, lifeless. He has lost his orientation. He cannot recognise the landscape he has been brought up in since childhood. The rubble walls do not stand any more. He walks up the valley. He sees the long wall caving in under the weight of a mountain of rubbish and white, metal objects and pieces of wood and an old mattress. He turns back and walks as fast as he can down, down, further down, he is now crying, confused, disconcerted, he moans, this is another world. I am still asleep, this is the craziest of dreams, this must be hell, I cannot breathe. God! He crosses himself. I’m dead and I’m in hell already. He looks for his goats. His flock. The countryside. All trees look vandalised, most of the carobs are not there any more, the vineyard that graced the valley with magic and charm is not there; this must be another place. It must be. The bed of the valley looks different, it is covered with dislodged boulders and rusting metal containers and thick pieces of steel and rubber wheels and empty metal drums that smell horrible. No snakes anymore. No vipers. No porcupines. No flora. Nothing. The farmers in the caves have abandoned their residence. Instead, there is the fresh human excreta of a modern society. There are buildings all around in the valley. The humble farmers are not there anymore. He does not see the presence of harmony between humans and nature anymore.

Then he moves up the side of the valley. His thoughts chaotic. The old road is still there. It still zigzags upwards as it did since those seven days of creation. But the walls are in ruins. The big boulders that used to be in an orderly row according to the contours of the garigue have been extracted from their place. Some of them have even been rolled down the valley’s sides. A mysterious, senseless, yet conscious vendetta of an ungrateful humanity. The old shepherd is speechless. Utterly dumbfounded.

He walks back upwards along the ancient road. He has difficulty breathing because the sun is warmer. It is hotter than he has ever known. And around him is less green, he cannot feel the familiar mixture of all shades of green and smells and sights and sounds inside his spirit anymore. He must be dead. This must be hell. This is not a sweet valley anymore. This is hell. The buildings taking over from the carob trees. This must be his punishment for a lousy life of ignorance and sin.

Then his heart sinks. He is afraid of what he sees. The surface of the garigue is ripped open, the virgin white rocky surface has been gnawed viciously by some savage stone munching metal creature that has the power to plough in the rock and upturn the surface as easily as a farmer’s plough tills the soil. It is a mystery to the old farmer. Then he sees the whole garigue, all ruined, all destroyed with a monstrous trench ripping and zigzagging the surface. He beholds new buildings at the side of the valley. New apartments in the valley! He beholds green spray-painted marks. He walks along the trench, along the white rocks of the permanently dug, ruined, jagged surface. The trench leads to a high rubble wall, an old rubble wall, and a huge part of the rubble wall is pulled down, savagely, purposely, so that monsters of rock cutting machines, can get through the wall with ease. He used to repair every stray stone in the wall, yet these barbaric monsters just shove their savage way though the wall. The valley will be full of houses in a short time. There will no longer be Wied il-Għasel.

Is this the work of the devil? Is this the work of human beings turned devils? Can God permit these atrocities without lifting a finger to defend the environment? Why does God not create capable people to preserve the garigues and the valley for posterity? Why not, dear God? Why don’t you at least create stronger people who are able to prevent this destruction happening?

Then the old man sees buildings and ugly streets where the wild thyme used to be and where the flock used to graze. He cannot go home because this is not his country any more. He sees some boys running on machines with two wheels, he sees moving boxes on four wheels emitting smoke, burning and thudding and screeching. But shiny. These humans are strangely dressed, they speak a funny language he cannot quite understand. Theirs is an ugly world full of destruction and rubbish and smells. Theirs is a repulsive environment. Not at all homely. Very inhuman.

He is suddenly angry. His dry lips are tight. He goes to the edge of the cliff. He shouts but no one hears his voice. He curses whoever ruins the garigues. Whoever ruins rubble walls. Whoever does nothing to protect nature and culture. Whoever does not think of posterity. He curses whoever endeavours to break the rhythm of human existence in harmony with nature. He curses people who fail to do their job and protect the environment.

This is not his homeland anymore. He does not want this disastrous rubbish dump to be his homeland anymore. He does not want to be a citizen of this stupid and egoistic society anymore. Then he vanishes into the nothingness of eternity, hoping never, ever, ever, ever to come back.