Goat Milk Extract

16.08.25

"SSHHUUTTTTTTT UPPPPP!!!!!!!!", one of the twins yelled.

The horse was by far the loudest animal when it came to bedtime. The night's shadow had now fallen on the field as the sun set behind Rabat.

We were having tea around a weathered circular wooden table. I positioned myself to overlook the valley, where the field was situated, Mdina now illuminated by the setting sun. The view was framed by two tall palm trees on either side and a recently built rubble wall at the bottom. I struggled to imagine how such magnificent fortifications and bastion walls, as the ones in Mdina boasted, could have been built.

A chunk of earth flew over the rubble wall, distracting me.

"SHUTTTT UPPPP or I'll throw it at you!!", the man yelled as he levelled out the land. 

The man digging out the pieces of the ground was my second cousin's boyfriend, or her preferred term, "my farmer partner". Farmer was a stretch, yet some two months ago, my second cousin had her dream come true, or at least she began to pursue it.

Two children (aged six and two), farmer partner, my second cousin, two cars, six luggage pieces, twelve garbage bags, three turtles, three salamanders, a fox, a fridge, a sixty-four-inch TV, two bedframes, a sofa bed, loose furniture and a moving truck's worth of belongings had relocated to a farm in the valley between the old Capital, Mdina, and Rabat. Two seaview penthouses and ten thousand euros,, in cash, were exchanged for two tumuli of agricultural land, fifteen goats (including one buck), milking equipment, a milk cooler, a horse, a mule, and fifteen solar panels. I had admired my cousin for managing to relocate her and her family's life, sell her property, and move to a farm. It made me aware of her tremendous effort and sacrifice in pursuing her dream, as well as her idyllic way of life. 

The field was generous. During a quick tour, she explained that one of the buildings allowed for their living quarters, which included an open kitchen/living/bathroom layout. The other block was divided into stables for goats and a milking area that required restoration. The plot was bounded by a rural road, allowing for vehicle access, and two neighbouring fields, which conditioned their field into an irregularly shaped triangular slice. She pointed out how they intended to sell off the horse and the mule, and instead get more goats.

We ascended a rusty ladder atop their living quarters. Her farmer partner was on the roof before any of us. I had not seen him climb up the ladder. He was short, almost as tall as my cousin. He grabbed his youngest over his shoulder, upside down, balancing her on his chest. He opened his arms, turned to me, and said, "Imagine the views we will have up here, perit!" 

I did not know the man too well. Yet, his mannerisms and firm, yet friendly, handshakes made it seem as if we had gone way back. The first thing that struck me weren't his tattoos marking his body from the neck down, but rather his free-spirited nature. I had first met him coming out of a cave. His white shirt turned muddy. I recall him wrapping his arm around my shoulder and ruffling my hair. "Any cousin of my girl is a cousin of mine!".

He was always smiling, as if buoyed by the joy of doing whatever came to mind without consequence. Hiis smile had never been as wide as it was now, on this roof.

"I can't wait till we move up here. What do you think of the membrane works, perit?" 

I was soon to graduate from university, and had spent more time in the library than on construction sites.

"Looks good, did a Maltese person do this? And what do you mean, move up here? Here, where?" My disguised back-to-back questions allowed me to avoid alerting the man to any reservations I had about the construction in this strictly agricultural area, and to assert my architect status. My question cleverly alluded to a wealth of experience that allowed me to judge local membrane works by sight.

"It's easy. We will live here, and the animals beneath us."

I looked at their children running around freely on the roof; the man was more concerned with my opinion than the children's safety.

"I mean, it would be great for you guys. Just make sure you don't have too much glazing, especially on south-facing areas. You can also achieve passive ventilation and enjoy beautifully framed views of the fortified city. Let me know how I can help you!" 

The thought of creating renders and sections with the roughness of animal quarters at the bottom, and a modest, vernacular-like, clean, domestic dwelling atop, excited me. "My question is just, well, how can you develop and add an extension on agricultural land, in an Outside Development Zone?" I had just finished a chapter (academic rant) in my thesis, which tackled the banal loopholes and policies. I paraphrase a crucial phrase of such policy; 

‘development cannot ensue within Outside Development Zones, unless...’.

Unless what?!... My critical tone prevailed throughout my thesis narrative. The answer to my rhetorical academic question came from my cousin's Farmer Partner.

"Ah, you see, the contract for this farm stipulated the purchase of fifteen goats. With another thirty-five, we can apply for an extension. It's that simple".

 I was baffled by two things: the lack of a connection between the number of goats and the need for an additional floor, and the fact that my cousin had her hands full. Besides being a mother of two, she was a recently registered full-time farmer and a part-time veterinary assistant four days of the week. Adding another thirty-five goats might break the camel's back. If that wasn't enough, she ran the farm mostly by herself, while carrying out daily maternally appointed chores. I had seen her nurse an unexpected newborn kid on her kitchen floor, after one of her goats was unknowingly pregnant and gave birth overnight.

"It's a Ministerially driven plot, you see. These became common some ten years ago. Everyone does it”, he explained. In any other circumstance, this would be enough grounds to ensue one of my academically enforced rants. Given his stocky build and our blossoming friendship, I bit my tongue. We were on good terms, and in good spirits.

That evening, I drafted up their plot in 3D and a schematic of what their extension on this ODZ land could look like. I created a Pinterest board and began exploring the many possibilities one can exercise on the facade. I must be clever with it, I thought, to respect the nature of the agricultural land, and to justify my design. Excited, I shared it with them, and a short design clientele relationship ensued.

_______

06.09.25

"Chase me! Chaseeeee meeeeee!!!!!", my second cousin's daughter blurted out, as she ran barefoot through the arable land. 

The field looked much better than it did following my previous visit. Enthusiastically, Farmer Partner showed me around, pointing out the recently added exterior wall lights, interior strip lights, high-end finishes and an elaborate irrigation system. 

"What do you think, you like it?" he asked as he walked me through the field. All the weeds were cut, olive trees trimmed, and rubble walls fixed. The place indeed looked great. 

"What are these structures?" I asked out of amazement. One of the side walls of the field was lined with an impressive steel and glass greenhouse and three animal cages.

"This is a greenhouse. In this one here, here I keep turtles, come see!" 

He rummaged through the row of ornate bonsai trees and picked up a thick, small tortoise. 

"These are (a scientific species name), they'll live hundreds of years, and cost three thousand euros each". 

"Three thousand! That's a large amount for su—", 

"...and in these we keep bunnies, and in the other doves. The fox just runs around and does what foxes do, you know". 

Given that I had never seen this fox, I assumed that they hid away.

"Do you need a permit for these?" I asked. "Well, for non-permanent structures, no, but these ones, yes. They have a concrete footing, to which the steel columns are bolted. I intend to build three more." I then asked if he applied for a permit, to which he said he was still considering it.

My second cousin organised a small BBQ for her birthday. She placed the BBQ between a row of recently trimmed olive trees. We sat around two wooden rectangular tables, moving the chairs to get the seats as parallel to the ground as possible. The BBQ and the wooden furniture had seen better days, the wood and steel beaten by the intense heat of the sun.

"Whhiiittttt", twin two whistled. 

He was Farmer Partners' identical twin. Their tattoos were similar in location and theme: an animal on their neck, a tribal sleeve on their right leg, insects on their elbows, native American symbols on their knees etc. He was calling his K-9 dog, now running towards him. The dog, Sparky, crashed into its owner, chewing on a rubber shoe. He flung the shoe into the air, the sole separating from the shoe, and the K-9 decided which part to chase after on its owner's command.

I bent down to shake his hand and introduce myself. He held his cigarette in his mouth to wipe the dog's saliva on his jeans. 

"Hi, it's nice to meet you". 

He was as friendly as his twin. Identifying them would prove harder than looking for the fox, if it weren't for the cap.

After exchanging pleasantries, a loud siren went off in the distance. Jokingly, the twins looked at each other and considered getting their guns out. Puzzled, they read my facial expressions and asked if I "want to see her?" 

Following them up to the roof on the now upgraded narrow staircase of their 'tool shed', he showed me a concealed "semi-automatic AR-15 style rifle, thirty rounds, aluminium frame with polymer handles. Do you like it, Perit?” 

I reserved my usual line of questioning on inquiring about the particulars and legalities of how they obtained it.

"Could you see my farm from the scope?", twin two asked. He lifted the rifle up towards the old Capital. 

"No, it's too dark. I think that's the outline of that large tree, though!", he exclaimed, lowering the rifle from underneath his jaw.

The few moments in silence we shared as twin two continued to observe through his scope were broken, and a convoy suddenly appeared over the hill. The sirens got louder, as the array of bright blue, red and white lights lit up the roof, however slightly. The twins, unfazed, nudged each other on the shoulder and asked if they would finally get the opportunity to use her.

"Ah, wait. Do you want to see it?" twin two asked as the emergency lights disappeared into the darkness of the agricultural ODZ area. My mind wandered. "It's just a road away..." he continued.

We walked up the road from my cousin's field. Sparky, impressively, walked in between its owner's steps, a manoeuvre I had seen on Military YouTube pages. "C'mon, Sparky, up!" commanded twin two. The dog jumped into the open window of an old model of the Kia Sportage. Farmer Partner opened the door for me and hopped in the back.

We drove up the road and into the heart of a small hamlet. The tight, meandering road didn't challenge the driver, but then again, what did? 

The road opened to a view of the valley, supposedly overlooking his brother's farm. It was too dark to tell.

"I built this wall, see it?", twin two asked, pointing to a boundary wall with one hand, steering wheel and cigarette in the other. The wall seemed relatively new, clad in chipped limestone blocks. I sought to answer all rhetorical questions to follow in a safe, assertive manner; after all, I was an Architect. 

"Ah, it's new, I see. Did you really do it?"

We walked into the driveway, and he explained that it was a concrete wall clad with masonry, similar to the rubble walls that terraced the slope of his linear plot. "Ah, I didn't know you could clad a concrete wall to look like a rubble wall". 

"You can", twin two expressed, "but you're not allowed to. That's why we hid it, not us insoma, the workers ."

He opened the main door of the small, one-storey room. He quickly switched on the lights and cleared all the rubbish the gypsum workers had left, apologising and explaining his intentions behind his seven-thousand-euro limestone island and intricate soffit. The twins had envisioned an interior of mid-range luxury, standing in stark contrast to the rugged, untouched fields immediately outside. The textured plaster feature wall was the most prominent element in the room. He explained how he would attach fake grass to give the illusion of a cave wall. I refrained from commenting.

As we stepped outside, he pulled over the synthetic grass mat and opened the hatch to the reservoir. Leaning his chest over the entrance, he shone a torch inside to show me the extent of his excavation efforts.

A fresh breeze rushed over the field, ruffling the leaves of a large evergreen tree. The field was bound by a cliff face, atop which overlying farmhouses were to be turned into apartments, and a road. 

"See, I own this road, so I paved it with the eco-concrete, mark my territory", Twin Two exclaimed. 

The eco-concrete, I discovered, incorporated soil into the grouting mix, enabling 'greenery' to grow between the paved linear slats. 

"I had an issue with the owner of the previous field you see, he didn't want me to buy this field, but we're friends now, I spoke to him". I caught on and, looking to impress, explained the difference between "a right of access, and a right of use", uttering the words my boss had explained to me a few days prior.

I fixed my gaze on the swaying canopy of the large tree, the leaves' surface glimmering in the moonlight. The tree, in the middle of the plot, marked the entrance of a cave. Twin Two explained how he did not know where the cave led, and how he didn't unravel anything during his thirty-minute journey into the cave. He explained that he turned around only when the ground became very muddy, as he didn't want to become a victim in the unknown depths of the cave. He now intended to go back and fix a gate, only after he finished his concrete patchwork to reinforce the side of the fissured cliff.

The field had a certain charm, a tranquillity to it. I imagined the views farmers must have had working this land, views without the old Capital, or during its construction. Views of a changing landscape, a landscape oppressed through generations. The vivid images I painted in my head drew inspiration from delicate antique sepia paintings found in many Maltese grandmothers' homes. I imagined peace on the island and to the people who lived off the land, ignoring the reality of many colonisations yet to come. A homogeneity of limestone and small-scale villages reigning over the built environment.

We made our way back to the car, the engine still running and the lights on. As I climbed up the slanting vehicle, holding the door open with my arm, twin two asked me to check if the overlooking properties had been granted a development permit. Looking to impress, I reached for my phone to find the remote location on the e-applications server.

We were greeted with a burger upon arriving at the field. I sat on the wooden bench, grabbing the burger with a tissue since I didn't have time to wash my hands. The burger was still warm. As I ate, I browsed the server for any applications. 

My cousins remarked how there was a shooting close by moments earlier. Allegedly, an elderly man had shot two of his in-laws on the steps of a Chapel in the nearby village. He fled the scene and was apprehended at a nearby fast-food chicken restaurant. What a bizarre night, I thought, as I now had an explanation for the convoy earlier.

I had managed to find the application for the nearby property and showed it to the twins, who had already eaten while playing with the dog. The contrast between grabbing a burger with dog saliva-covered hands and using a tissue made me feel somewhat wimpy. They were impressed by how quickly I found the publicly available plans. They assumed I had found them through my architect connections or perks.

Arriving home, I wondered how conditioned I had become. How delicate and protected my environment was compared to theirs. The same outdoor environment I had designed, broke up, merged, excavated and intervened on digitally thousands of times before. I wondered which of us had a more fulfilled, richer life. Yet, who was I to compare? The two realities were incomparable, as were our physiques.

Sliding the shower door open, I reached for a new bottle of bodywash. My mother had always bought an Italian brand of soap, which came in a vast array of scents and colours. I enjoyed smelling the bottle next in line, finding excitement in not knowing what I would smell like for the coming two weeks. I grabbed the new translucent bottle and turned the black label towards me. The label read "New, GOAT MILK EXTRACT, pamper yourself, vitamin e, 600ml".