Because of the size of our group, we were split into three sections; ours would head first to the Hypogeum, an underground temple complex discovered in 1902 that was found to contain the remains of six to seven thousand bodies. The complex is a labyrinth, consisting of chambers built over three levels, and descending to a depth of nearly forty feet. Dating back to nearly 3,600 B.C., it is far older than either the Pyramids or Stonehenge. It is, in fact, the oldest known structure of any kind in the world, and had been carved from the limestone using the simplest of tools: bone, flint, and hard rocks.
Combined with the ruins in other parts of Malta that we’d visit—the Tarxien Temple, which is the oldest known freestanding statue of a deity, and the megalithic temples aboveground, which are the oldest freestanding stone buildings ever discovered—it represents one of the earliest advanced civilizations in the world. Yet no one knows who these early people were, where they came from, what happened to them, or where they went. The civilization seems to have vanished as mysteriously as it arrived.
Despite this fascinating history of the lost inhabitants, it was Malta itself that Micah seemed most interested in. As we drove along paved roads in which everyone obeyed traffic laws (by then, it seemed downright strange), I could see Micah smiling.
“You know what this reminds me of?” he asked.
“What?”
“My trip to Italy,” he said. “Right after I graduated from college, when Tracy and I went biking around. It looked just like this. Well, parts of it anyway. That trip was a blast.”
“Gee, really?” I feigned surprise. “Exploring, meeting new people, having fun? That doesn’t sound like your kind of thing.”
He smiled, no doubt thinking back to our Mission Gang days. “Did I ever tell you what happened when we first got to Europe?”
I shook my head.
“Well, Tracy and I flew into Madrid, but because we each had free miles on different airlines, we weren’t on the same flight. We were supposed to land at about the same time, but when I went to his gate to meet him, he wasn’t on the plane. The thing was, Tracy had everything in his suitcase—the guidebook, directions, maps, even the tools I needed to put my mountain bike back together. And I’m in a foreign country. No one spoke English, I couldn’t read any of the signs, I couldn’t even figure out who to ask to find out why Tracy hadn’t arrived. I didn’t even know where the city was in relation to the airport.”
“What did you do?”
“I finally found some guy who spoke English and he helped me. I found out that Tracy got delayed, missed his flight, and that he’d be coming in the next day. But I still had nowhere to go. I didn’t even have a credit card back then. I finally found a couple of mechanics who helped me put the bike together, and after they pointed me in the direction of town, I just started pedaling. It took an hour to get downtown, and I still didn’t know where to go, where I was going to sleep. I finally found a Hard Rock Cafe, and figuring I could at least find something in English, I went to get something to eat. And after that, things got a little easier.”
“Why?”
He shrugged. “I asked my waitress if she wanted to go out that night. So I went out on a date.”
A little while later, Micah turned back to me. He’d been busy videotaping the drive; in the end, Micah would shoot six hours of video that he’d never end up watching. On the trip, however, you would have thought he’d been filming a documentary.
“Hey Nick—have you ever heard of the Hypogeum?”
I nodded. “I’ve read about it.”
“Isn’t it just supposed to be a tomb?”
“For the most part. But it’s the oldest one ever discovered. That’s why it’s special.”
He seemed lost in thought. “You know what I want a picture of?”
“What’s that?”
“A picture of me lying down in the tomb. You know, pretending I’m dead. Wouldn’t that be cool?”
“I think it would be kind of disgusting.”
He gave me an airy wave. “Disgusting, cool—same thing.”
Alas, Micah wouldn’t get a chance to have his picture taken amid the dust and microscopic remains of the humans once buried in the Hypogeum.
The Hypogeum was entirely different from any other site we’d visited to that point. For starters, it was located beneath a building entirely unremarkable on the outside. It could have been a restaurant, business, or home—like the buildings on either side of it; the only reason we knew it was a museum were the words stenciled on the glass doors.
Inside, we were met by a very serious guide, who explained what we could expect: The Hypogeum was essentially sealed, to prevent decay by the elements. We would walk down the steps, and should watch our heads. We would be told where remains had once been discovered. We would see a short movie about the Hypogeum first. Tours were scheduled every hour and it was imperative that we all stay together and move quickly. We should try not to interrupt, for there wasn’t enough time to answer questions. We would not be allowed to take pictures. If we did, he would confiscate our cameras.
“This guy’s like a prison guard,” Micah whispered. “He doesn’t even smile.”
“Who? Mr. Cheerful?”
“I think he’s sizing us up, trying to figure out who’s going to follow the rules, and who isn’t.”
“I think he knows you’re in the latter group. He keeps looking at you.”
“Yeah,” he said. “I noticed that. For such a happy guy, he’s really pretty perceptive.”
We were led into the climate-controlled, computer-enhanced, video-monitored control room and told to sit in the seats to watch the movie. There was no choice in the matter. You had to watch the movie. Our guide was taking attendance.
This, essentially, is what we learned over the next fifteen minutes: Not Much. No one knows who built it. No one knows why. No one knows what happened to the people who built it. No one knows where they came from originally. No one knows why it was designed the way it was. No one knows what the civilization was like. All they knew was that it was built long before the Pyramids.
The lights came on.
“This way, please,” our guide announced. “Come, come. We will start the tour in one minute. You don’t have much time, so try to stay together. Do not ask too many questions, it will only slow us down.”
And with that, we were led into the Hypogeum. It’s essentially a cave, and we weren’t allowed to touch anything. We walked on a ramp that had been built six inches over the floor, ducked our heads, and listened to the guide talk nonstop for the next forty minutes. And this is what we learned: Not Much.
Everything he’d said seemed to have been lifted from the movie.
Nonetheless, it was a momentous feeling to wander through the oldest ruins known to mankind. And adding to the sense of gravity was our group itself. Our guide had intimidated them all. It’s kind of eerie standing in a cave with twenty people—most of whom were friends by now—and not hearing so much as a whisper for an extended period of time. It was the quietest moment on the tour.
From there, we went on to the Tarxien ruins, which were located right in the middle of downtown. This time, however, instead of a building, we were led to a small vacant lot, with a few large stones scattered throughout. Machu Picchu, it was not.
“This is it?” Micah asked.
“Oh, come on. It’s not that bad. At least you can shoot video now.”
“There’s nothing to shoot. This looks . . . boring. How long are we supposed to be here?”
“I think an hour.”
“That’s a long time, considering no one knows anything.”
He was right; it was a long hour, despite the fact that we had a new guide, who actually seemed pleased to see us. Every description began with the phrase, “We think this might be one of two things . . .” or, “We’re not exactly sure what this was used for . . .”
We also began to frequently hear the word replica.
As in: “This is a rep
lica of the pillar, which we think might have been important because of . . .”
After the first few minutes, and no fewer than a dozen “replicas,” Micah raised his hand.
“You keep saying the word replica,” Micah observed.
“Yes,” our guide nodded. “It’s a replica.”
“You mean it’s not real?”
“No, the real pillar is in the museum. Most of the real pieces that have been discovered have been removed to indoor museums so they won’t be further destroyed.”
“And those things you just showed us?”
“They were replicas as well. But they were crafted to look exactly like the originals did.” Our guide beamed. “Isn’t it amazing?”
“How much of these ruins are replicas?”
Our guide motioned around her. “Almost everything you can see. But you can tell what a wonderful job they did.” Our guide motioned off to the side. “For instance, we think that this wall may have been used for one of two reasons . . .”
Micah and I quickly lost interest. We weren’t actually seeing the Tarxien ruins, we were seeing . . . fakes. It was like being shown a picture of the Mona Lisa when visiting the Louvre, instead of seeing the actual painting.
“I can’t believe it’s not real,” Micah said, looking around. “It’s like a movie set.”
“Exactly,” I added, “and to be honest, not even a very good one at that.”
We were on our own for dinner that evening and Micah and I chose a restaurant near the hotel that served pizza and beer. As we always did when we were together, we found ourselves reminiscing about our early years.
“Do you remember Blackie?” Micah asked.
“The demon bird? How could I forget? Or Horrible Mention . . .”
We laughed uproariously.
“Or how about that time we loaded the van with so many books the van looked like it was being launched . . .”
“Or when we pretended to be falling off the edge of the Grand Canyon . . .”
We laughed even harder.
“Or the BB gun wars—that time I shot you in the back and we had to dig the BB out using a steak knife because it was so deep . . .”
“Or when Mark and I knocked over that mailbox and those guys beat the daylights out of us . . .”
“Or when grandpa ran the hose over my head . . .”
“Don’t forget the infamous Band-Aid treatments . . .”
We told the same stories we always tell; for some reason, we never seem to get tired of hearing them. As we doubled over and slapped our knees, people at other tables stared at us, trying to figure out what was so funny.
That’s the thing, though. Our stories are funny because we lived them, and we survived them. The worse the incident was when it was happening, the funnier the story had become to us over the years.
In time, Micah grew quiet. He held a warm, almost soulful look in his eyes.
“Now those were good times,” he said.
I nodded. “The best.”
After dinner, Micah and I ventured to the casino to try our luck. We played blackjack (Micah won, I lost), and though the casino was far smaller and quieter than those in Reno or Las Vegas, we were pleasantly surprised to learn that a band would be coming in to perform. Our dealer assured us that it was both good and very popular.
“They’re local. They’ve been playing here for years.”
“This will be fun—listening to Maltese music. I can’t say that I’ve ever heard it before,” Micah said.
“Oh,” the dealer said, “lots of people will come in tonight to hear the band. It will get more crowded later. There will be dancing.”
Micah smiled. “Sounds even better.”
Later, we could hear the band setting up behind us; because we were concentrating on the game, we didn’t turn around to watch. A few minutes later, we heard the first chords being struck. At first, we couldn’t quite place it—we knew we recognized it—and just as we began to identify the song, the lead singer suddenly began belting out the lyrics from “Coward of the County.”
Kenny Rogers? When we turned around, we blinked in disbelief. There, in an upscale casino in Malta, was the local band, dressed in cowboy hats. Singing American country-western songs with their boots tapping to the beat. People in the crowd were cheering and singing along. Micah and I glanced at each other, then burst out laughing.
A moment later, joining in with the chorus from the rest of the crowd, we gave each other a what-the-hell shrug and began to sing along.
Just when we thought we had the trip all figured out, something like this would happen. The world, we’d discovered, was always ready to surprise us. Never in a million years would I ever have imagined that I’d be singing a Kenny Rogers song while attempting a Maltese accent.
In the morning, we visited Hagar Qim, another replicated set of ruins. Set near a cliff, the view was more interesting than the site itself, since nothing we saw was actually real. It was, however, a good place for pictures.
From there, we traveled to see two of the main medieval cathedrals in Malta; as in Cuzco, they were amazing. With high arched ceilings, enormous gilded altars, and hundreds of paintings, the detail was overwhelming. The floors are mostly marble; each slab actually the top of a tomb in which various knights had been buried.
For lunch, we dined at a seaside café; the food was traditionally Maltese—heavy in fresh seafood and bread—and from there we traveled to the walled city of Mdina. Originally built as a fortress on high ground, miles from the main city of Valletta, the streets were paved with cobblestone and boasted a viewing area from which it was possible to see a great portion of the island.
Mdina is also home to St. Paul’s Catacombs, and that was our final stop of the day. The catacombs were once the burial site of hundreds, if not thousands, of Maltese citizens, and unlike the Hypogeum, we were allowed to touch and photograph anything we wanted. Hundreds of now empty crypts had been carved into the rocky walls. The bodies had been removed and interred in cemeteries years earlier.
Micah, of course, raised his hand.
“Can I have my picture taken in one of the crypts?”
Our guide stared at Micah as if he was insane.
“You can if you want to . . . I guess. No one’s ever asked before.”
“Really? How many years have you been working here?”
“Seventeen.”
Micah winked at me. “You know what that means,” he whispered.
“What?”
“I might be the first guy ever to do this,” he said. “After the dead guys, I mean.”
He crawled in, grinning while I snapped his picture.
As we were walking along the cobblestone streets leading from Mdina back to the car, Micah surveyed our surroundings.
“I think Christine would like Malta.”
“How about the other places we went?”
He glanced at me. “You couldn’t drag her to India or Ethiopia. Or Easter Island, for that matter. For her, traveling to foreign countries means going to London or Paris.”
I smiled. “I think Cat would have liked all the places we’ve gone. But since she’s never been to Europe, we’ll probably go there first.”
“When the kids are older, you mean.”
“Of course. With the kids still so young, it wouldn’t be that much fun anyway.”
“You know what we should do? Next summer, we should rent a big house in Italy for a month, and bring both our families out. We can make that our home base, and travel around from there.”
“We’ll see,” I said.
“You don’t think that sounds like a good idea?”
“I think it sounds like a great idea. It’s just that I don’t think it’s all that likely. And not just because of my five kids. By then, you’ll probably have another baby.”
“You’re probably right. But we should get some information anyway. I’d bet that most of the people on the tour have been to Italy a few times. We can find out the
best place to stay.”
“You really want to do this?”
“Yeah. We should live a little.”
“And you don’t think traveling around the world is living a little?”
He thought about it. “We should live a little more.”
I laughed. “Would you ever have believed we actually went around the world together and seen all these places? By our age, I mean?”
Micah shook his head. “Never. But then again, if you think about it, we’ve lived a whole lot of life already.”
After his comment, I walked in silence, remembering.
In early 1998, Micah was running two businesses, working long hours, and making plans for his wedding. Along with Bob, he also took over my father’s role regarding my sister’s health. He began attending all the consultations, and took notes; in the evenings, he would consult the Physicians’ Desk Reference and peruse medical journals online, to ensure that my sister was receiving the best care possible.
Micah called me with the news as soon as he got back from the oncologist’s office.
My sister’s tumor, invisible only three months before, had grown to the size of a grape. While it wasn’t as large as the original tumor had been—the size of an egg—it was located deeper within her brain, in an area responsible for both memory and vital motor functions. Because of that, surgery wasn’t an option; there was no way to get to the tumor without causing terrible damage. My sister would be left blind and paralyzed in the best possible scenario; more likely, she would either become a vegetable or die during the operation. Nor, we learned, was radiation an option, for much the same reason. The risk was great, the possible benefits almost nonexistent. Instead my sister would be treated with chemotherapy.
After the initial consultation, my sister would be given a combination of three different drugs that had proven to be the most successful in treating the types of tumors afflicting my sister.
Three Weeks With My Brother Page 27