Lonely Planet Magazine - September 01, 2011
As the bus jolted over yet another pothole a miniature avalanche of oranges and lemons came tumbling down the aisle, followed by a stream of Maltese invective. “Bloody hell,” I thought, “it’s like being trapped with a teenage driver taking his dad's bus for a joyride!”.
Until recently, exploring Malta by bus was a bit of an adventure. Reckless drivers and rough roads made for a bumpy ride, with passengers bouncing off their seats and shopping flying everywhere. Popular lines were standing room only, queueing was a foreign concept, and trying to pay my fare with anything other than the correct change resulted in a torrent of abuse from the driver.
The buses themselves were things of beauty, though - vintage Bedfords, Leylands and AECs dating from the 1950s and 60s brightly painted in a livery of yellow, white and orange and lovingly customised by their owner-drivers. I remember hand-painted scrollwork around doors and light fittings, tailgate slogans like ‘Eat My Dust!’ and ‘Speed of Light’, and enough highly polished chrome to blind oncoming traffic.
That said, most of the old crates were real boneshakers, and in the summer heat it felt like travelling in a portable sauna whilst breathing in evil clouds of exhaust fumes. The new fleet of silky-smooth, air-conditioned Arriva buses in their aquamarine and cream colours will undoubtedly be far more comfortable, clean and efficient. But I can’t help feeling a twinge of regret at the passing of a Maltese icon.
