When the power cuts come: Let them buy boats!

The power was out. I shuffled around a dark house, trying to find my keys. I had to get to Marsaskala by 10pm. I drank what was left of the cold water and took off. Down the dark streets, past the chapel, to the bus stop. I sat down beside an old woman and waited. The bus was late.

“Which bus are you waiting for?” I asked. The elderly still trust the schedule printed on every bus stop, which is meaningless in 2026.

“The 106,” Rita replied. I learned her name was Rita. “I have an appointment at Mater Dei, but I don’t think the bus is coming.”

I pulled out my phone and checked for the 106.

“You’re right, it’s not coming.”

“I guess I’m going to have to walk it again,” she said in resignation.

“To the hospital? In this heat? I can barely get to the bus stop without feeling exhausted,” I blurted out.

“Well, I’m 79 now,” Rita chuckled. “Just imagine how exhausted I am.”

“Don’t walk it. Catch the 54 and stop at the roundabout. There are plenty of buses that go through there. You might still make your appointment.”

So, that’s what she did. I couldn’t tell you if she made it.

Last week, I heard about a man with cancer who uses a wheelchair and had to miss a doctor’s appointment because of a power cut. His wife posted about it on Facebook. The lift in their apartment stopped working, and, in her words, she couldn’t carry him down four flights of stairs. Isn’t it crazy that she thought about it? That’s real love.

I hope my nanna’s doing okay. There’s another outage in Santa Luċija. Or that’s what I’ve heard. The Enemalta website says there’s stable electricity all over the island, but everyone here knows that’s a lie. Just check Facebook. Nanna’s a year too young to be allowed into the cooling centres. She always tells me she’s okay, but I worry.

I spoke to an elderly neighbour of hers when I went over last Monday. Let’s call her Mary.

“The electricity goes out for about three hours every night,” Mary said. “What are you supposed to do? Stare at the ceiling? There is this ringing. This loud ringing. It lasts the whole three hours. I call Enemalta to find out what’s going on, but they never answer the phone. I don’t hear it anymore. I take my pills and go to sleep.”

Mary also told me her government apartment building has a chronic drainage problem. Every few months, her toilet stops flushing. Reasons unknown. Probably old pipes. The day before we spoke, she had finally managed to get someone from Public Works to pick up.

“The woman on the phone said, ‘Leave it up to me.’ All this time I’ve been calling them, I never found someone as kind as her. She told me, ‘It’s not the government’s fault.’ Everyone says it’s because of the government, but it’s not their fault.”

The 72-year-old woman has been waiting for a plumber to show up since 6 July. Mary is very patient.

Anyway, my nanna’s doing okay.

I got to Marsaskala sometime around 11pm. Got off the bus near St Thomas Bay and walked down beside the seashore, by the ice cream truck and the small beach hidden behind it. The reggae joint is across the street. It’s a 15-minute walk to the boathouses.

I was about to take the turn up to Jolene’s street, when I heard a familiar song. It couldn’t be. They don’t play The Doors at bars. But they were. People Are Strange. There wasn’t even a bar there. But there was. I noticed an unfamiliar sign stuck to a pole: COLD DRINKS SOLD CHEAP. Can’t argue with that. Jolene would just have to meet me there.

And she didn’t mind one bit. Apparently, she had been meaning to check the place out for a while. Two brothers had converted a steel shipping container into a bar. You can get a rum-coke for €2.50. They play good music too. Those aren’t things you find everywhere. Their little sister sat nearby, playing in the sand.

Jolene arrived in a red dress and ordered an Excel. Also €2.50. I was never one for beer, but I can appreciate COLD DRINKS SOLD CHEAP. We sat down at the makeshift pallet tables and Jo lit a cigarette.

“So, how have these power cuts been treating you?” I asked.

“Well, I don’t have it,” she laughed. “I’m kind of just chilling.”

I’m not sure if that was meant to be a pun.

“Didn’t you say your water tank is filled with green water?”

“That has nothing to do with electricity and everything to do with the heat. As much as I’d like to blame the government, I don’t think this is their fault,” Jolene said. Fair enough.

“What about your fridge?”

“I feel like I’m being personally attacked right now!” she said, still laughing, and took a drag of her Rothmans cigarette. Jo went on to explain that the electricity repeatedly going out and coming back had killed her fridge.

“So now, therefore, I have lost my ribeye steak and my will to live. No really, I mean this. You want me to be vulnerable and honest? I lost my ribeye steak. Do you understand the effect that has on a girl when she’s on the first day of her period? Is this what you needed to hear?”

“What do you think about how the government is handling…”

She cut me out. “The government?!” Jolene interrupted, without a second of hesitation. “I think the government is fucking stupid. It does not require much wisdom to understand that this happened last summer, and the summer before that, and the one before it. As a leader, your job is to anticipate what’s gonna happen before it does. So, if you know something is going to happen, and you know your people are going to suffer, why not do something?”

Her bottle of Excel slammed back down on the wooden table and she leaned back into her chair.

“Why do you think the government doesn’t do anything?”

“They don’t want the best for Malta,” she said. “I don’t think so… I mean, everyone knows that, right?”

One of the brothers, the elder one, who owns the steel container, walked up to us and asked if we wanted anything else from the bar. We resigned ourselves to one drink for the night. It was a Monday, after all.

“I’m locking up, but you can hang around if you want,” he said.

So, we did, and he switched off the lights and the Michael Jackson. It was dark again.

A few days before, Prime Minister Robert Abela pointed to the number of boats being purchased as evidence that regular Maltese people are really feeling the country’s wealth. People have money in their pockets, he argued. Just look at all the boats.

“Look in front of us,” Jo told me, pointing out to sea. “Look at all the boats, that’s what we swim in. I went swimming in it yesterday. It’s oil.”

“Let them buy boats!”

“It’s not particularly the government’s fault, but still.”

“Of course, it is,” I said. “Who the hell else can change it if not them?”

The little girl dusted off her feet from the sand and took her spot on the back of her brother’s motorcycle. She put on a helmet twice the size of her head and grabbed onto her brother. She smiled and waved goodbye. So did he.

“Have you heard about Manoel Island?” I asked.

“The padel courts?”

“Apart from that,” I scoffed. “Next, they’re gonna announce a tender so the ocean there becomes a yacht marina. You know, like the one in Msida.”

“That’s great. It’s just what I needed, another yacht marina. I’m so glad the government is finally gonna make that happen. I’m so glad it’s anticipating the country’s needs and building another yacht marina. While I’m being grateful, Maltese people also really needed 30 padel courts. I really don’t know how we lived without them!”

“The government just needed another place to play with each other’s balls.” I stole that joke from a friend of mine. A fellow journalist, and a good one at that. “The padel courts made me sad, but hearing about a yacht marina… that really…”

“What about Kalanka?” Jo said.

“What happened?”

“Hotel.”

“Seriously?”

Jo nodded. “If you go there right now, all you’ll find is a massive ‘Fuck You’ sign and a hotel under construction.”

I gulped down the rest of my drink.

“You know what, man?” I said, leaning back and looking out at the sea again. “I wonder how long it’ll take for people to start setting shit on fire.”

“That’ll never happen,” Jolene remarked. “It’s in our DNA to be submissive, controlled, dominated… What’s the word I’m looking for?”

“Raped?” I suggested.

“No, like, in a political sense.”

“Politically raped?”

“No!” she laughed. “What did the British do?”

“Colonised!”

“Yes, exactly. Maltese people have always been colonised, so we just accept it. We’ll never be angry enough to change it, we’re just getting angry enough to leave. I feel that way… That makes me sound like a hypocrite, and I hate it, because I love Malta. But it’s beyond our control now. The only solution is to leave, and that’s the scariest part, because if all Maltese people leave, who will be left to defend Malta?”

Both our drinks had finished. That was the sign. She stood up and started walking. I grabbed the cup, the can, and what was left of her cigarette, then threw them into a trashcan. You can see the stars from that part of Marsaskala. I met her by the stairs.

“But you know what, man?” I said, as we climbed back up to the street, “As long as the numbers say the country is getting richer, people will throw away anything.”

“How much money is worth destroying a nation?”

I took a taxi home at around 2am. The power was still out.