A Toast To The Humans Of The Triton Fountain Kiosks

I don’t mean to alarm you, but your Capital City is about to undergo major surgery.

It’s cosmetic surgery, mind you, so the results are bound to look good. More streamlined, less messy… but possibly also, less human. 

Nobody has kicked up much of a fuss about the removal of the old Valletta bus terminus kiosks. It was decided for us that it would be in Malta’s best interest to fix up and look sharp in time for 2018, where our very own Valletta will be wearing the crown of “European Capital of Culture” for the world to see.

And maybe that’s a good thing. We’re getting a big open space neatly lined with trees, modern, minimal, and most importantly European-looking, to enhance the dramatic effect of entering our walled Capital City from its moated main entrance. It will be elegant, sleek. A far cry from its garishly colourful past.

Until recently, upon entering Valletta through City Gate you’d be bombarded by a sea of kitsch signage, advertising everything from cigarettes to milkshakes in fonts that have been outdated since the 50s. Our own mid-century miniature Times Square, with yellow buses instead of yellow taxi cabs.

The current plans are to smooth out the kinks in the shape of ramshackled old kiosks. Some are nondescript stone buildings and some are no less than immobile trailers, clad in shiny retro looking chrome, aluminium or even corrugated iron.

It would be a farce to pretend their appearance was traditionally aesthetically pleasing. They mustn’t be glamourised or sexed up in our stories in years to come as if they had anything on the sari stalls of India, or the spice stalls of Marrakech.

But for all they lacked in beauty, they possessed a certain charm, even if as a local you’d disagree. You definitely felt like you were in a real city, that’s for sure. It was a diverse place but had its own identity, a melting pot of cultures; and on listening to the sounds of the locals, you could tell by our language we’d come from a rich, long lineage of Empires.

But the kiosk surroundings were dirty and unkept, the stench of stale urine was unfortunately customary to anyone who’s ever walked through our City Gate, and we all knew it wasn’t just coming from the working horses.

Jostling through leering taxi drivers, commission-based salesmen and market stalls selling a variety of synthetic handbags was normal, all part and parcel with a visit to “il-Belt”.

You’d keep your head down and make your way into the city on your way to whatever appointment you had lined up, a concept seemingly alien to the sometimes unsavoury looking characters loitering around. They had all the time it the world, it seemed, to smoke and chat and sit about on metal chairs or beer crates, belly out, drinking tea out of glass. But you had more important places to be.

The longwinded makeover has presented itself in many stages. We dropped our old “new” City Gate, the one that was propped up when the last one fell in the War, acting as a stand-in for its sorely missed predecessor.

It was a handy shelter from the rain and served as an impromptu “convenience souk” but did nothing for our image. It simply wasn’t beautiful.

It was obvious our fai