Where have all ‘my Maltese’ gone?

It would probably be called racist, these days, to say it, but years before I came to Malta I could recognise a Maltese in much the same way as I could identify a Sikh or a Pole, a Caribbean, a Ugandan Asian, a South African, an Australian – or any other immigrant in the UK.

It had nothing to do with skin colour or accent, but rather – for want of a better word – by their presence, and it is no exaggeration to say that it was always something of a relief to meet one.

My job involved frequent travel. I spent a lot of time in hotels and restaurants and at airports with my indulgent employer picking up the bills.

And that was how I met – and was pleased to meet – so many of “my” Maltese.

They were working in what we used to call the “service industry”: hotel or restaurant managers, head waiters, chief receptionists, housekeepers, airline ground staff and cabin crew, casino managers and croupiers: that sort of thing.

I guessed that it must be some sort of national trait, presumably hereditary, with skills passed down, no doubt from their family’s employment in colonial times – not so much serving as looking after the British, and learning to do things the right way, while maintaining an outlook, not necessarily of happiness, but at least of contentment and confidence in the knowledge that they were doing a job well.

And some, I learnt first hand in conversation, had actually been employed in that way (or their parents had, and had taught their skills), working in large British homes in Malta, and some of them picking up jobs as stewards on passing cruise liners, tankers or cargo ships and disembarking at British ports. I was lucky enough to find them in Germany, Switzerland and Holland, too.

(I am of course aware that Malta also produced its share of ships officers and engineers, but I wasn’t then likely to meet them.)

So it came to pass that I needed to stay in Leeds to cover a corruption trial and when I found out that Scotland Yard had booked the Fraud Squad into the Dragonara Hotel, it seemed sensible for me to do the same thing. I had never heard of the place, but it had four stars so met my criterion.

In fact it outdid my expectations because it employed the full set: the manager, head waiter, two receptionists and the housekeeper were all Maltese. So I knew I was in safe and friendly hands.

A couple of months into the trial (it was, with its follow-ups, to endure for five) I picked up a story about a Maltese connection to the trial and decided that it was worth pursuing at its point of origin. I knew of course by now that the Dragonara was Maltese, and the front desk staff were certainly flattered when I asked them to make a reservation in the sister hotel in their homeland. They booked what were to be my last BEA-badged airline tickets, too.

And the following day I was there – or, rather, here – in a country of generously kind and helpful people, all of them (except the guy I went to interview about bribing politicians) apparently pleased to welcome a foreigner.

What’s happened in the years since then? The attitudes have changed totally. The Maltese are happy these days only to take money from visitors. They don’t even do that with good grace.

No longer do I encounter Maltese on my travels: the service industries are now run by eastern Europeans. Even in local restaurants and hotels Maltese staff seem to be outnumbered by foreigners. Surprisingly (to me), that appears to go for on-line casinos, too.

It's as if the nation has risen and proclaimed that they are no longer servants: “We are the masters, now!”

But service – at least, Maltese style – was never a menial occupation. The generation of which I speak was actually running things, guiding other people, passing on their knowledge, being asked for opinions and being able to help.

In other words, they were in control.

There is a difference, at least in English, between being a servant, which suggests menial work, and being “in service” which implies being a necessity and in honourable employment (like, for example, my grandmother who had been a nanny for one of the world’s greatest explorers – something of which I remain inordinately proud).

But that pride in employment seems to have by-passed the current generation. Who wants to be in control of anything when you can become a government servant without any effort?

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