Telling it like it is

The other day a friend, visiting from the UK, showed me a tourist brochure purporting to avail its reader of "the delights of sunny Malta".

To be frank, I was hard pushed to recognise our island, so over-the-top and blatantly inaccurately euphoric was the picture it painted of our little rock. Stuff like: "Miles and miles of golden sand..." Oh really! And where would that be then? "The isle of smiles". Do me a favour! I reckon we must be one of the surliest races on the planet.

So I decided to do something about this deliberate misrepresentation of our homeland. I reckon it's high time we published a tourist brochure that tells it like it is... in the nicest possible way, of course. I set out to publish an accurate picture of Malta as a tourist resort... warts and all. I'm not expecting too many plaudits from the MTA, but at least the punters will know what to expect.

Let's begin with the packaging. Not for me the glossy cover pic of a dghajsa or a jolly Marsaxlokk fisherman... Oh no. I'm starting as I mean to go on, with a glossy cover pic of a traffic jam in St Anne Street, Floriana, during the morning rush hour... shot from above for maximum impact.

So here's a little taster of Sylvanus' Malta Tourism Brochure. I shall call it "The real Malta (you don't want to know)":

Your Malta holiday experience begins as soon as you touch down at Malta International Airport, with the interminable wait for the aircraft's steps to arrive. Then once you set foot on the tarmac, your vacation proper kicks off. And what better way to begin it than with a trip on a Maltese bus?

It is advisable to fight for a seat on the bus... There aren't too many of these, but it's worth scrapping for one, since it can get quite tiring strap-hanging throughout the 40-minute drive from aircraft to arrivals.

Once at "Arrivals" you will get your first taste of Maltese bureaucracy. This will usually take the form of a surly, brain-dead jobsworth, otherwise known as an immigration official. It is this person's job to examine closely your passport and to subject you to the kind of third degree interrogation usually reserved for card-carrying Islamic terrorists or serial killers.

Assuming you manage to blag your way past this creature, you can then descend the escalator - if it's working - into the baggage reclamation hall.

And now the fun starts:

If you thought the protracted wait on the aircraft's tarmac and in the immigration queue were pretty horrendous, they are mere blips in the cosmos compared to what you are about to experience. I have it on good authority that tourists have died and decomposed to dust while waiting for their cases in the MIA baggage reclamation hall.

Then, when your suitcases do, eventually, come through the carousel, it's time to face the customs grilling. Unless you're feeling lucky and decide to chance it through the green channel.

Things not to try to smuggle through customs:

Any new - or new-looking - clothes.

Any dead birds - stuffed or plucked for the oven.

Any dirty magazines - unless they are ones the customs officers have already read.

Any dirty videos/DVDs - ditto.

Any firearms, ammunition or weapons of mass destruction - unless covered by a valid import licence... (talk to my friend Charlie the forger).

Russian/Ukrainian prostitutes of either sex.

All drugs, from heroin to junior aspirin.

Any exotic animals... from hippos to wildebeest.

And you're not done yet. Having staggered through the arrivals gate, you'd better pray you're being met. If not you'll be prey to a breed of taxi driver that defies expletives. The kindest epithet would be "licensed bandit". On no account should you try to humour or pacify this creature. It is beyond rhyme or reason, and will rob you of your entire cache of holiday money in less time than it takes to drive a creaking Mercedes from Gudja to Bugibba.

And if you still want to visit Malta after that, all I can say is... enjoy.