Part 10: 30th March – Ougadi day; Flic en Flac; Tamarin; Black River

Thursday 30^th March

A day for family picnics on the sand

Today is the festival of “Ougadi” – the Telegu New Year. So it is a public holiday. Funny, it actually does feel like a Sunday. I thought that strange phenomenon only occurred at home. I mean come on, I have to be honest – it’s not as though I’m exactly being over-worked here; so technically most days ought to seem like Sunday. But they don’t, for some reason.

Today is different, and I can’t put my finger on why. It certainly is quieter this morning (except for the birds of course). But the maids are still calling in at neighbouring properties to clean. And the building contractors seem to have ignored the fact that it is a holiday as well, because many of them are still out there plastering away on the surrounding developments. There is no heavy machinery in operation today, however, which might account for it.

I think I mentioned in a previous missive that the pace of building development here is alarming. I have been here less than three weeks, and I don’t recall there having been anything vaguely resembling a villa on this particular site when I arr
ived:

Nor is it alone. Everywhere you look you see them rising from the ashes of the vegetation which, presumably only weeks before, they burned off with herbicide.

I suppose “The Lord God Tourism” is more powerful than even Shiva himself. But one mustn’t become bitter and twisted. They have to earn an income, and with textiles looking likely to meet the same fate as sugarcane, it is rapidly becoming their best hope – next to establishing themselves as the global cyber-capital, that is.

And after all, I am quite content to be accommodated in this swish modern complex, so I am in no position to criticise them. In early 2003 this apartment would no doubt have looked very much as the one shown above. I just hope they don’t overdo it, so killing another golden goose in the process.

Since it is a holiday (well, it is!) I decided to catch up on some reading during the morning. I’m currently at Pete McCarthy’s account of his visit to Montserrat in his search to unravel his Anglo-Irish roots. It struck me, from his description of life on that small (even smaller than Mauritius) island, that Montserratians and Mauritians - especially the Créoles - have much in common. Both cultures are mixed, and both cultures grew out of slavery. What I hadn’t appreciated was how strong the Irish influence is in Montserrat. The Irish were themselves there as deportees from their homeland which, of course, was under British rule at the time – as Montserrat still is; and although marginally above the African population in status, they were themselves slaves to the British authorities. And both groups of people were put to work - under the fierce tropical sun - in the sugar plantations. Now there is a very definite parallel between the two countries. Nowadays, it seems a sizable section of the mixed community of Montserrat is more Irish than the Irish. Did you know, for example, that Montserrat is the only country apart from Ireland where St Patrick’s Day is a public holiday? Or that they stamp your passport with a green shamrock? But we’re meant to be discussing Mauritius, are we not? Yes we are, but when PMcC described the characters he had met, the pace of life, the ambience, the vegetation and the climate, it all rang true for me here. One significant difference between the two countries, however, stems from a most devastating pyroclastic volcanic eruption which struck Montserrat not many years ago (when Clare Short was minister responsible for providing disaster aid, in fact); an eruption which obliterated almost half the island and wiped several towns off the map, burying them in mud and volcanic ash. This was a disaster from which the country is still barely recovering[1]. A large percentage of the population emigrated as a result – ironically, most of them to Ireland and the UK. Mauritius, too is volcanic, though mercifully not actively so (unlike neighbouring Réunion).

I am just thinking how one could get used to being here long-term

when I come across a passage in which PMcC meets Richard, a recently-retired primary school teacher. Richard had “… jacked it in a couple of years ago, jaded by the new management and logo and mission-statement culture.” Sound familiar? A little later on, Richard “… keeps [PMcC] entertained with terrifying tales of life as a primary teacher once management mania and its theories and jargon and best practice bollocks descended on the profession. He was drinking a bottle of whisky a week, and gave up the day he left teaching.”

Then Richard describes the staff meetings: “’They were awful events. Like something out of Kafka.’”

Bear in mind that PMcC’s book was first published in 2002. So there has been a further four years in which the management-driven globalisation-brand-marketing-obsessed culture has had chance to strengthen its strangle-hold on UK education – at all levels. And that’s even before thinking about Offsted, QAA and their fellow-conspirators. I’d much rather not, lest it causes me to burst a blood vessel. I am only glad to be free of the insanity for a few months. I really do feel for you who have been left behind. And that is not a flippant comment, but heartfelt.

You must forgive me. I fear allowances have to be made. Isolation can do strange things to one’s sense of proportion. Not having anyone to discuss these issues with in the main, one finds that tiny germs of ideas tend to grow into grotesque and irrational thoughts that sometimes seem to take on a life of their own. It’s irrational, I know, but it becomes vital – crucial – to record them before they vanish off into the ether again.

But enough! I shake myself out of my reverie and decide to saunter down town to see what, if anything, presents itself in the way of a lunch-possibility (today being, as mentioned, a public holiday). I needn’t have worried. Not only is the Spar open and doing great business, thank you very much, but Flic en Flac is seething with day-trippers - as of course I should have anticipated. Still, lunch at “Ah Youn” is a distinct possibility as there are a few remaining tables.

Not a very informative shot, this, but at least it gives you some idea of how the place looks:

A view from within "Ah Youn" restaurant

Just outside, to the right, is the coastal road. Across that and you are into a fringe of filao trees some hundred metres wide leading straight onto the beach.

I took a beer, a huge plate of Mi Foon Frit with chicken and eggs, and an espresso. The lot came to Rs185 (about £3.50), so I had no qualms in rounding it up to Rs200!

Then who should turn up, but my old chum:

Source of all the unseasonable (and unreasonable) "Jingle Bells"!

Not content to remind me that it is, despite all appearance to the contrary, Christmas, he did me the very special favour of parking – as you can see – within handy ear-splitting distance.

However, I would appear not to be alone in thinking he must be merely some bizarre creation of my tortured brain, because nobody but nobody buys one, and he’s off again. Just as well: my lunch is now on the table and I would hate to have to walk away without having eaten it!

There is a fly bothering me. Just the one. While 99.999% of the fly population of Mauritius is content to ignore me, why do I have to get the odd-ball? The maverick; the free-thinker who wishes to be distinguished from the crowd. This is a persistent little devil who is determined not to take “no” for an answer. It is very nearly more annoying than there being a whole swarm of them. It puts me in mind of the “rice-pasta-weatabix” anomaly. You know the one: irrespective of how much, or how little, rice or pasta you cook, there is always one grain or one piece of coccinella adhering to the bottom of the pan as though its life depended on it. Just the one. (And the weatabix? Oh, that’s a slightly different phenomenon which I won’t go into now). Could all this possibly be an extension of the laws of metaphysics obeyed by Mauritian buses, I wonder?

Ah well. Lunch finished I take a stroll on the beach. It being Ougadi there are families everywhere enjoying the fine weather and a picnic. It is at times like this that one feels particularly conspicuous as a lone tourist. It makes me even more acutely aware that I must look like a saddo – or even worse, a stalker? After all, I am toting a camera. I decide to leave the beach to the revellers. I will have it more or less to myself on plenty of other occasions.

I’m just about to set off homewards again when I am pestered by the same hawker who tried to get me on one of my first days here. Why, when 99.999% of the population of the beach are quite content to ignore me, do I get the odd-ball? The maverick; Just like the pesky fly, he is being a persistent little parasite. I eventually shake him off by not admitting to speaking any know language.

I make a mental note though: must step up production of rich ebony tan. Here is one situation where my follical prowess and distinctly grey beard could really help: he will never suspect I’m naturally blond; and if I walk around with my eyes shut he won’t see the colour of my irises either. (Blue, incidentally).

Back “home”, now, and I am getting all this down for posterity when the phone rings. (It always gives me a shock, that. Somehow I never expect it to happen.) It’s Mr Ravin, the owner of the apartment. He is free for an hour or two and asks would l like to go for a drive somewhere? WOULD I! Someone to talk to! Thank god!

When he arrives we discuss arrangements for settling the bill at the end of our stay: there will be no need for us to vacate the apartment until we choose to. He can come here at say 2.00 pm.

He also showed me some typical phone bills to put my mind at rest with regard to the internet-connection charges. I will go with my original estimate, and any adjustments can be made once the final bill arrives. I suggested that might be facilitated via Dharma if it would make life easier for him.

And so we set off on our mini-tour. Mr Ravin is a more sedate driver by far than any I have encountered here previously. I think we may safely put this down to the fact that the vehicle we are travelling in actually belongs to him, unlike those of the university- and bus-drivers. He is very good company and we discuss all sorts of things, including languages. Mauritius really is an odd place in that respect. People will tend to mix Créole, English, “standard” French and Hindi on a random basis. Tamil, Urdu, Mandarin and one or two other languages are also used, as appropriate.

As if to emphasis this, a traffic sign warning of “Heavy Vehicules”

flashes past. We both agree on the importance of learning other languages. It opens up so many doors. I wondered whether it would be good for national identity if Créole were to be raised to the status of an official language. Currently it exists almost exclusively as a spoken tongue, although moves are afoot to develop it in written form. He doesn’t believe this would be a good idea, and I can take his point: there are only a few million Mauritians - a handful in global terms. Créole would lack the international recognition needed to ensure Mauritius’ economic future. English and French must be retained as the main languages for this reason. At this point I explained to him about Cornish!

We had a very pleasant drive down to Tamarin and Black River, where we saw some extremely beautiful, more secluded beaches. He also showed me the Martello Tower which is in the process of being refurbished and soon to be opened as a tourist attraction; and the Black River estuary, from where many of the deep-sea fishing trips embark:

The Black River Estuary

The Black River derives its name from the deposits it carries down from the central mountains, and which are clearly visible as dark streaks on the lighter coloured sand. This is almost certainly volcanic material.

As we walked along I noticed (you can’t miss it!) that all the filaos along the shore had their roots exposed. I mean seriously exposed:

Exposed filao roots along the shoreline of the Black River estuary

According to Mr Ravin, until as recently as last year the shore level had been approximately at the height where you see the upturned boat (above). Higher-than-usual tides over the past year or so seem to have been responsible for this under-cutting erosion. We agreed that if global warming is to lead to rising sea levels, then it is not going to wait around for 20-30 years to manifest itself. It must surely be happening already fuelled, possibly, by the fast-disappearing glaciers and collapsing ice-shelves we keep hearing of. So is this an early tangible sign of climate change affecting Mauritius? The exposed-roots feature is certainly not confined to this particular location. I had already observed it all along the Flic en Flac beachside. That area is also oddly strewn with white coral debris, as though fragments have been torn from the reef and dumped there. It is quite far from the high-water line, there being some ten metres of scrubby grass between the two areas. One possibility that occurred to me was the influence of the Boxing Day 2005 Tsunami. That certainly affected Madagascar and Tanzania, and so it is a possibility.

It was almost sunset, and as it was a clear sky I mentioned the fabled “green flash” theory to Mr Ravin. He had not heard of it, but as we watched I am almost - but not quite – convinced that I saw a hint of green just as the last of the disc was disappearing below the horizon. This “did-I-see-it-or-did-I-not?” uncertainty appears also to have afflicted my old literary “companion” Pete McCarthy when he tried to ascertain its existence in Montserrat. Interestingly, in his account, the Montserratians claim it to be unique to their island, which is also known as the “Other Emerald Isle”. Green, you see. Like Mauritius. And nine-parts Irish.

Now, wouldn’t it be wonderful to be able to watch sunsets like these any time we wanted:

Sunset at the Black River estuary

Dinner tonight is bound to be something of an anticlimax after that.

Dinner would have to be at “Casa Pizza” again of course, because I needed to know what would be happening with regard to my excursions. It seems that “Angelina” (I hadn’t known her name when we made the arrangements the other evening) had sent me an email to say there was a problem for tomorrow (Friday). This was in some way connected with the national strike in France. Because of all the flight delays a large group of guests would be arriving together, so they are likely to be very busy. No matter though, because we can go on Saturday instead. It’s all the same to me of course!

I wondered about the email. Back here later, I wasn’t able to connect to BT Internet through Outlook Express to check. I also received a sniffy error message indicating that my network administrator had most likely disabled chat on Gmail. I was extremely put out by this because being here alone I find the ability to communicate directly to be one of the most useful features of having an internet connection. I wonder if it has anything to do with the International call charges the telephone companies are missing out on? Oh, surely not!

Dinner, by the way, was a bit different tonight: chicken kebabs with peri-peri (spicy) sauce. But what really impressed and delighted me was that the waiter brought me – entirely unbidden – my usual Rhum Arangé!

Woah, it’s already midnight. Bon nuit.

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[1] In response to requests for further desperately-needed aid, the UK Minister for Overseas Aid at the time is quoted as saying “They’ll be asking for golden elephants next”. This makes me so proud to be British.