Well, it had to happen. They’ve spoilt pretty much everywhere, so Comino had to be next in line. An application has been cooked up to build a hotel and a bungalow village on the so-far unspoilt islet of Comino. Because, as is known, construction is the motor of the Maltese economy. And the economy reigns supreme in this land of dosh and glory.
The population’s psychological well-being certainly doesn’t top this country’s priority list. It’s all a matter of private profit at public expense. By “public” I don’t mean only the State – but quite literally the public. We have to sacrifice Comino’s beauty for a few businesspeople to make easy money.
It is easy money. There’s “empty” land and you build on it. It’s not the creation of sustainable wealth-generating business, the kind that brings a continuous but sustainable stream of income. Tourism, if done properly, is a business that can generate long-term wealth and is necessarily predicated on sustainability. It has to be sustainable; otherwise, if the population ruins what’s left of the country’s beauty, the product (culture, history, scenery) ceases to attract potential costumers (tourists).
So, we’re being asked to sacrifice Comino’s natural beauty not to create a steady flow of income but to allow a few businesspeople a one-time killing... very much the story of the goose that lays the golden eggs.
We’re being asked to sacrifice the natural beauty of Comino... which means we’ll have one place less where we can go to relax free of charge. Nature in its natural state is free of charge. But for certain businesspeople, nature is an opportunity for making money – by “beautifying” nature, say, or by obliterating and replacing it with man-made structures aimed only at fleecing a docile, helpless population.
We’re being asked to sacrifice a place where we can re-charge our batteries, refuel our tanks, without having to go abroad. It won’t just be the bungalow village that’s being proposed that will gobble up Comino’s land and beauty. As the Għajnsielem Local Council astutely observed, the sumptuous bungalow village overlooking Santa Marija Bay will end up opening the door for land speculation on Comino. For how can the extraordinarily malleable Planning Authority say no to further development once it allows this bungalow village?
This is the huge problem engendered by this myopic rush to make money out of real estate. Once you say yes to one developer, you’ve got to say yes to all the others. Joseph Muscat had understood this and said it openly. Paradoxically, however, Muscat (on October 6, 2019) also acknowledged that the industry’s main problem was greed.
That was Muscat. What about his successor?
On September 28, 2021, Robert Abela reiterated his belief in the construction industry even though his Finance Minister had just wisely warned that the country needs to seek alternative paths to economic growth and wean itself off its dependence on construction.
Yes, it does sound a bit like a schizophrenic government. But by now we’re getting used to Prime Minister Abela’s way of doing things – trying to please everybody and ending up pleasing nobody.
But, truth be told, Minister Caruana was right. The country needs to diversify, to seek the creation of wealth through other industries, such as manufacturing and services. We need to be creative and gutsy. Of course it’s easier to make money by destroying nature, by raping Comino. But long-term, it’s also suicidal. We need businesspeople of vision, not businesspeople driven by greed. On this – and believe you me, it pains me to say this – Muscat was right. (At least, his words were.)
But we also need politicians who aren’t dependent on fourth-floor “donations”. To achieve this, we require the public funding of political parties.
Ultimately, political parties are rendering a service to the public. Without competing parties there’s no democracy; we’d end up with a one-party dictatorship. Funding political parties isn’t funding ego-trips of otherwise failed politicians. Funding political parties means assuring democracy.
Leaving political parties at the mercy of lobbies that seek to build (their) economic growth on the destruction of nature is a risk that, as time goes by, is increasingly becoming lethal for the country. The only way for things to change is for the “common people” to make their voice heard.
In the meantime, we non-greedy, non-real-estate-tycoons are morally bound toward ourselves and future generations to save this country’s natural beauty. Actually, as is laid down in article 9 of our so-far useless Constitution.
We need to resist the rape of Comino, to resist the degeneration of that islet from Little Paradise into Big Obscenity.
By the bye, that’s why this opinion piece is titled “Oh! Comino!”... as a reference to Oh! Calcutta!, a theatre piece of the 1970s some people still consider obscene.
A Friend Pays a Visit
An Inspector Søren Farrugia Story
As he put on his uniform, Inspector Søren Farrugia was definitely not looking forward to the day ahead of him. Usual routine expected: hard work pulverised by uninspired members of the judiciary. As usual, a few lower-quality judicial apples would spoil the bunch.
He kicked off a conversation with his imaginary friend about the new gender-neutral uniform supposed to render PCs and WPCs indistinguishable.
“It’s a theological leap,” said Farrugia. “From andras and gynaika to anthropos.”
“It’s all Greek to me,” replied the Imaginary Friend.
“That’s because it is Greek!”
“And what does it mean?” asked the Imaginary Friend.
“From man and woman to human being,” explained an annoyed Farrugia. “In a sense, it’s the culmination of the Liberal’s dream: the elevation of Man to God.”
By now the Imaginary Friend should have been impressed. Instead he dismissed it as show-off-ism, and Farrugia got even more annoyed.
But then the phone rang.
“’Allo! Montalbano sugnu!”
Montalbano?
Farrugia’s heart skipped a beat!
It was Commissario Andrea Montalbano, his dear old friend the tough Inspector from Tivaga, the foremost port-town on the western coast of Sicily. He was coming over to take part in a joint investigation with the Maltese police, and wanted to meet up with Farrugia.
They had last met some five years before – a lot of catching up was in order. Thing is, with a real friend, even if you meet again after a lifetime, it always seems like yesterday.
Søren caught a glimpse of himself in the mirror on the wall and approved of the big smile painted on his face.
* * * * *
Inspector Farrugia booked a table for two at the Ristorante Il Capo dei Capi in Paceville, where a Nepalese slave-chef prepared genuine Sicilian food.
As soon as they saw each other, they hugged, like two brothers Destiny had separated. Indeed it felt like a family reunion.
They sat, ordered (Montalbano behaved stoically as he knew what Malta’s Sicilian cuisine really was), and felt at the centre of the Universe. The deep bond forged by real friendship is hard to describe. Only those who have experienced it know what it feels like.
“Søren, carissimo, I cannot find the words to express my happiness at meeting you again!”
“It’s been a long, lonely, lonely time...”
“Let’s rock and roll, then!”
They chuckled. But then Søren felt the need to fine-tune. “Actually, it’s more Eric Clapton’s Cocaine over here in Malta than Zeppelin’s Rock and Roll...”
* * * * *
The evening sailed by smoothly, like a yacht on calm water.
“I’ve been busy,” said Montalbano. “A history professor died a couple of months back, unexpectedly and suddenly. But no foul play according to the dieners.”
Montalbano, the master fisherman, knew how to pique anybody’s interest. But Farrugia had long taken the hook.
“He had some connections over here, in Malta. I think he paired up with different Maltese to apply for EU funds.”
“Is that why you’re here?”
“No, professors are usually small fry.”
“So what’s with this dead professor?”
“He was a professor by day and a pimp by night.”
“I see. Expound.”
“In his spare time, he kept himself busy with a foundation run by some monks, devoted to medieval history. But he was also the go-between between the two Ms.”
“I see: dead professor but not dead fish.”
“Spot on, carissimo,” said Montalbano, with a grin and a twinkle in his eye as he sipped some more wine. “He participated a lot in the hanky-panky. Served as courier between Cosa Nostra and one particular renegade Lodge that specialises in recruiting politicians and other top brass.”
“Is there a Malta connection?”
“That’s what I’m here to investigate. So far, we’ve established that he was most proficient in greasing dubious applications for projects on pristine nature spots.”
“The skunk.”
“Indeed. He would indicate to the guys at the Lodge which projects to approve, and the Mafia would build in what you here jocularly call ODZs, killing many birds with one stone.”
“Meaning?”
“They create upmarket real estate on cheap land while disposing of bodies during construction.”
“It seems to me you read too much Sciascia.”
“You mean, I read too much into Sciascia...?”
“No, I mean what I said.”
“Then, my dear friend, you’re wrong,” Montalbano gently said. “Things might have changed in Sicily, but only for them to remain the same.”
Farrugia smiled. He adored these quasi-literary evenings with Montalbano.
“OK. So he helped corrupt politicians get their kickbacks to bend planning laws. It sounds familiar, believe you me. But what’s the Malta connection?”
* * * * *
As the clock struck midnight, the two friends decided it was time to hit the sack. They drank the obligatory postprandial liquor and Farrugia accompanied Montalbano back to his hotel. They agreed to meet the following evening (Montalbano’s last on the island) for Part II of their conversation.
* * * * *
The following morning, Farrugia woke up feeling recharged. The previous night’s conversation had rejuvenated him, refuelling his tank. His feet twinkled over the ground during his morning routine – a thorough shave, a cold shower, a quick coffee, and the funny dance as he put on his trousers while buttoning up his shirt – and then sped as he rushed to the lift to go down to the garage.
But then he froze in his steps as he opened the daily newspaper on his mobile and read the headlines, overwhelmed by disbelief.
The phone rang. It was from HQ: he was the last person to see Montalbano alive. The Italian Inspector’s body had been found in a pool of blood in his hotel room and there were many questions to be answered.
Søren suddenly felt a spell of dizziness – vertigo so strong it nearly knocked him out. He called Sergeant Laus to drive him to HQ, as he didn’t trust himself behind the wheel.
But, in reality, could he trust anyone?