Part 11: 31st March – Flic en Flac – Again!

Part 11: 31^st March – Flic en Flac – Again

Friday 31^st March

A "beachy" sort of day today, I think.

So the last day of the month has finally come around. It’s incredible to think that March was already well-underway when I left home. It seems so long ago. It’s not that I am not enjoying it here. I most definitely am. It’s more part of that weird metaphysics I mentioned, which apart from buses, flies, rice, pasta and hawkers, applies also to time itself when you are away from home.

It’s another unanticipated “free day”, owing to the usual shenanigans in France. So what to do? I know. NOTHING. I will stay here, read, buy a few provisions, have a swim, maybe contemplate the origins of the Universe etc. One thing I cannot, for the life of me face up to, is the thought of doing any “real” work. You know, like writing a few lines of a research paper, or doing some theoretical calculations in fibre physics. This is not the place for it, I have decided. God (or maybe Shiva) did not place Mauritius right here in the middle of the Indian Ocean for that purpose. I’m finally resigned to that fact!

Of course, having said all this, I do seem to be spending inordinate amounts of time typing! Never mind; it is actually quite fun – and hopefully in due course it will give the grandchildren endless hours of entertainment (not to mention unmitigated embarrassment!)

I still haven’t heard any “proper live” Séga yet. I had hoped that some would spontaneously start up on the beach yesterday with all the picnicking families, but it didn’t. Maybe they waited till the “Phantom of the Party” had left.

That reminds me: you recall how I have been blaming my early nights for not having encountered any late-night revelling? Well according to my sources Mauritians call it a night quite early too, so the chances are I haven’t been missing anything very much.

Well it is now coming up to 10 am. Time to do some shopping. I noticed, in passing, that the pool water has a distinctly lurid greenish-yellow tinge. I think I’ll settle for the Indian Ocean again for today’s swim.

Earlier this morning my mobile rang. Confidently expecting it to be Dharma, Souda or possibly “Casa Pizza”, I answered it. A female voice said “hello” a couple of times then rang off. A wrong number I suppose. Hmm, wonder if she’ll ring back? Only joking!

My extravagant lifestyle continues: lunch today will be Chéz moi, tout seul; Jus de Mangue, Doux Bleu avec Pain (hamburger bun) et Nutella; et, peutêtre, “café de Chamarel” moulu (locally-grown filter coffee). Oui! Je pense qu’ils serent trés magnifíques.

I’ve just been looking through my drawers, so to speak. D’you know, I’d swear I brought more pairs of undies. Can’t believe anyone would nick them off the clothes horse thingy (that lives just outside under the porch); they’d need to be pretty desperate!

Ach, just another local illusion I guess.

Went down to the beach for my promised swim. Hadn’t been out of the water for more than two minutes when hawker No. 3 (or is it 4 now?) spotted me in his telescopic sights. Oh bloody hell, here we go again! This time I can’t be bothered pretending I don’t speak any language. Instead, I very cunningly pointed out that I regretfully had no money on me. That seemed to do the trick perfectly! Why didn’t I think of it before? In fact, why didn’t he realise that I would have had to be stark raving bonkers to bring money with me for a swim in the ocean? On the other hand, I am a “touroid”, and as such, of lower mental capacity than normal human beings.

On the way back through the complex, looking forward eagerly to a nice refreshing shower to remove all the sticky sun-cream and salt deposits, when I get diverted by the couple from “daahn saaff” I have met on several previous occasions. They are sitting in the shade of their porch.

Blimey, if anyone can talk for England he certainly can. I’m somewhat agitated lest I should be too late for dinner! We (well chiefly he) talk of many things: textiles, “The Japs”, Bali, The Sudan … At least I think we do. The trouble is he has left his dentures soaking in a glass somewhere, and so his speech is marginally less comprehensible than if he’d been talking Créole. Never mind, because his wife speaks clearly enough; except she rarely gets an opportunity. (Now the traditionalists amongst you – OK, chauvinists – may have detected a slight role reversal here).

He’s one of these “career-tanning” Brits. You know the type: determined to achieve one shade darker than that of any local resident. He’s made an impressive job of it too. Sitting there in his shorts with no top, he glows with a rich, deep chestnut hue. It almost looks too good. You know? Artificial – as though he perhaps slips out of it each night before stepping into his jim-jams.

Only the British can do this. Actually I think it is only the English. It must be something to do with mad dogs etc. I’m just thinking how prematurely aged his skin looks when he proudly announces that he is 86 years old! I am genuinely amazed. OK his complexion is not in its first flush of youth, but he is remarkably sprightly. I think this turns yet another “experts’” theory on its head: along with red wine, we should clearly all cram in a hefty daily dose of UV.

His wife also sports a tan, though hers is more subdued, and slightly on the reddish side. She appears to be wearing a pair of those strange eye-shades that they kindly provide you with on long-haul flights in an effort to convince you that provided you think it is dark you will get a sound night’s sleep with your knees jammed under your chin, a crick in your neck and someone excusing themselves to squeeze past you en route to the toilet every ten minutes; and of course the movie sound-track which you are dimly aware of but which, because it is emanating from the guy across the aisle’s ear-pieces, you can’t actually decipher. That sort of eye shades. But hang on. Aren’t they normally silvery-grey in colour? These are distinctly white, or at least flesh-coloured. It then dawns on me that she had been wearing shades. Whilst she was asleep on the beach earlier. So they work there, then.

I manage to extricate myself ever so politely, and take that long-awaited shower.

And now I’m down at my favourite haunt, “Casa Pizza”. Well I had to. After the cancellation of today’s trip I need to be sure that it is on for tomorrow. I’m relieved to find that it is. My guide will be one of their people named “Jan”. I’m curious to see what nationality he turns out to be.

A touch of atmosphere down at "Casa Pizza"

I had the usual beverages (well two beers, actually) and the “Pizza Paul & Virginie”. This is the one featuring smoked marlin. I’d quite forgotten how good it is. In fact, I am so impressed I ask the waiter to pass my compliments to the chef. (I’ve always wanted to do that, but thought it only ever happened in movies). I am being totally serious here, though. Their pizzas are without doubt amongst the best I have ever had – and that includes in Italy. Goodness knows how they achieve it.

I can hear the unmistakable strains of an electric piano, playing some sort of jazz, drifting over from “The Kenzibar”. Mixed in with CP’s “You Say it Better….” etc, it creates a bizarre, surreal effect. CP is fine, but they only have two CDs which they play repeatedly all evening - every evening. All the songs are of the same ilk, and you’d recognise them all. Songs with lyrics like “Iiiiiiiieeeeeiii - will always love youooooooo (yodel) oooo”. If I were to be entirely honest, I’d have to say they are all a bit on the maudlin side. When you are on your own a good old knees-uppy sort of tune is what you need. Something jolly. If they were to play something a bit jollier maybe they would fill their tables up rather more rapidly. The waiter enjoys it though. He’s usually whistling or humming along to it. Nice lad. He’s the one who is so keen to ply me with rum before I’ve even asked.

Ah well, enough for one day. Tomorrow could be long and tiring if, as I hope, I finally get to see the botanical gardens at Pamplemousses.