L-Imnarja brings Buskett to life

It was a hot day, even by the usual standards of the Maltese summer. Making our way to Buskett on Friday – ostensibly to cover this year’s edition of the Imnarja festival – my colleague and I squinted our way to the picnicking spot, because the sun was piercing, and our eyelids quickly grew heavy with sweat.

But thankfully, the shade wasn’t too far ahead. As we edged closer and closer to Buskett Gardens by a winding shortcut, we passed through narrow streets, lined by quaint ħitan tas-sejjieħ and protected from the direct sunlight.

And when we finally arrived to the Buskett grove which served as the hub of the festival, we found it to be mercifully canopied by trees offering kind shade... so much so that you barely feel the heat any more.

And that’s the thing about Imnarja, the two-day agrarian festival of St Peter and St Paul, whose name is a corruption of the Latin ‘luminaria’ (‘illumination’) – a reference to how Buskett and its surrounding environs are lit up during the event. Unlike, say, the suddenly popular Mgarr Frawli Festival, it’s a relatively relaxed affair.

Let it not be said that Friday’s edition of the festival wasn’t generously attended – but traffic diversions were minimal, parking was easy to find and once we arrived, we didn’t have to push through a densely-jammed crush of bodies.

But there is a congestion of another kind, when we first arrive. The middle pathway is suddenly obstructed by two trucks – one of which is stuffed with sheep, which, naturally, visitors stop to pet.

Meanwhile, police and security are busily trying to move this inexplicable two-truck monster out of the way – it’s clearly out of place, for whatever reason it’s there. Loud screams of “Move out of the way!” and “Ejja, ħi!” are heard, before the trucks finally move on, and the festival is allowed to continue undisturbed.

Not that the little interruption would have made much difference. Under the shade and embedded in the natural surroundings, the motley collection of animals and indigenous produce, marinated in the familiar twang of traditional Maltese music, feels like it should be there, despite any hiccups.

Even the presence of corporate entities like Melita and Vodafone – the former have a balloon-festooned booth, with the latter sending in their usual troop of clipboard-armed youths – fades into the background, becoming just another feature of this rich landscape.

(Though not all concessions to modernity were taken lightly. My colleague informs me that the night before, as Imnarja was made to compete for attention with the Euro 2012 semi-final – which forced the organisers to install a big screen to show the match – a group of irate għannejja didn’t hold back on lashing out at the organisers, within full ear shot of the visitors.)

Walking through, you’re as likely to step on a stray child as you are an animal. One of the sweetest things about the experience is in fact seeing the kids go crazy on the sheep, and the way parents indulge them: posing for photos as they bounce on the particularly fluffy ones, petting beasts that they’re not likely to see for the rest of the year.

But though they may have a higher cuteness factor, the larger animals are the ones I’m most curious to see.

Making our way to a dip in the grove to visit cows, we dodge through neat studs of poo, dotting the pathway like Hansel and Gretel’s trail of breadcrumbs. We have to be more careful about the poo when we finally reach the cows though, because it’s hard to differentiate between it and the soil.

As expected, it’s the biggest cow that draws the most attention, but beyond its size, there’s not much else to see.

Perhaps one of the most charming features of cows is how bored they look most of the time and here, tied to a tree while bystanders ogle on, Big Cow is the perfect example of that.

Staring back at the bored beast though, I’m reminded of just how little I know about its day to day life.

It’s both funny and sad that the Imnarja, once a respite for farmers, now serves as the only contact point between Malta’s rural world and most of its population.

The line of birdcages is one of the most memorable features of the festival – not least because of the gloriously unmusical din emitted by the roosters among them. It’s fun to parse through them; some have amusing names – ‘King’ is a good one – while others are shaped in the most cartoony ways imaginable.

My colleague and I nickname one particularly tall fellow ‘Nosferatu’ – he looks gaunt enough to be a vampire, and the ruff around his neck is quite aristocratic.

The thing with most open-air events is that they only feel bustling when you first arrive. After you’ve walked through the entire stretch of the event, things flat line into a steady flow of people and noise.

But Imnarja, which wraps around every dip and angle of the Buskett area it occupies, is comfortable to just take in.

After you’re done seeing everything, you can relax with a drink and some food. Any Maltese open-air event would be incomplete without a rich selection of food and Imnarja doesn’t disappoint, with ‘Majjal Malti’ being the most popular stall, attracting long queues for most of the morning.

More conventional savouries – like pastizzi and hobz biz-zejt – were also available – though they expired quick – along with sweets (crepes and biscuits) and wine, with a Viticulture Malta stand attracting the attention of the inimitable Salvu Mallia, who filmed a segment on site as we passed by their stall.

The Imnarja morning ended with a bit of misplaced solemnity. Arriving to announce the livestock competition prizes, President George Abela – accompanied by parliamentary assistant for the Rural Affairs Ministry Philip Mifsud – stood by and gazed solemnly into the sky as the Innu Malti interrupted the looping għana music that had until then been the soundtrack to the event.

The children, of course, ignored this sudden patriotic intrusion, and continued to bother the sheep. A girl even tried to straddle one, before being shooed off by a suddenly irate parent.

And right in the middle, the Innu cut. Abela made as if to sit down, but jolted himself back into standing position when the familiar music started again.

The prizes are picked up by individuals of all shapes and sizes – men, women and even children climb to the balcony to shake hands with the president, who hands them their cup. It doesn’t look like all that much – the comically interrupted event, the rote pageantry of the president’s visit – but it’s a tradition, one that has survived for centuries.

With so much to enjoy during Imnarja, it’s heartening to think that it’ll probably survive a few more.