Looking down on Port Louis and the harbour, from The Citadel
George. George & Ingrid –
Right, no sign of any “rodent droppings” today. Good.
What with all the neurotic slapping-on of lotions etc I am slightly perturbed to feel the semblance of an itch on my shin. Surely not! I bet it was at Casela. I knew I should have worn longs. On the other hand, I suppose it could have been acquired here, during the night. I realise I have been using the same vapour pad for days now, in the naïve belief that if it still looks intact then it still has potency. I don’t think so, having today seen an advertising billboard for “Family” mosquito vapour pads, claiming “tranquillity for up to 8 hours”. Ah. From now on it’s back to a fresh one each night. Even so, I don’t think I picked up the bite here. And I am by no means certain it’s a mosquito anyway. More likely a midge. There are quite a few of them about after it rains. That’s my theory (hope) anyway.
You know how sometimes idle thoughts just drift into your head for no especially good reason? Well this morning it occurred to me that (the late) Pete McCarthy and I have quite a few things in common. One of them is growing up in the Northwest of England. Another is having mixed Anglo-Irish parentage. His mother was an Irish Catholic and his father an Anglican (though Irish Anglican, I believe – at least the surname would tend to give that impression).
My mother was very definitely a Catholic, and her mother was born in
And I had an Aunty May. With a moustache. She wasn’t a real aunty – they never were - but some refugee from the old country Gran had taken under her wing. And as a callow youth I dimly recollect hushed conversations about a mysterious “Danny” who had at one time stayed in Gran’s house in Cornbrook,
I also attended one of those very “loving and caring” Irish-French Christian Brother schools of the type that is so much in the news these days for allegations of child-molestation and abuse; a school where they regularly pasted the living daylights out of you just for being there. They even had custom-built, whale-bone-reinforced (and I’m not kidding here) leather straps for the purpose. It was – naturally – an all-boys’ school. I won’t name it though, for fear the brethren will appear one day on my doorstep bearing meat-cleavers. Once, I was mercilessly ridiculed by a particularly loathsome specimen of the “Order” in front of the entire class for being such a nancy-boy as to prefer my Saturday piano lesson to having my nuts ripped off as a prop-forward on the school’s rugby team. If I hadn’t stood my ground where would “Loose Ends” or “Green Rumours”[2] be now, eh? (Yeah, I know - much better off!). So you can blame all that for my weird personality! On the positive side, I do believe having a Gran from the Auld Sod means I am entitled to play for the Irish national soccer team. If only I could play; and was even slightly interested! But at any rate, all this could help to explain my natural affinity with PMcC’s humour – every little bit of it rings true with me.
But I digress. Apologies to most of you (I would think). I don’t suppose many of you will have read “The Road to McCarthy”. If you get the chance, please do. It’s a cracking read – full of Eastern and Irish promise! Actually I’m less than halfway through it myself, which explains this current obsession. Sorry!
The Book!
Back to the plot.
It keeps stopping. That’s what buses do of course. At one point an inspector boards to check our tickets. A few stops later he’s off again. Like inspectors everywhere. And another idle thought percolates through: he’ll now be waiting for another bus to hop on and repeat the process. Imagine spending your entire (or very nearly) working day queuing at bus-stops – in the tropical sun.
The journey takes just under an hour. A pleasant ride. And so much more interesting than a taxi or a hire-car because you get to see real life in all its colours. It’s fascinating to observe the different characters getting on and off. Of course, I can’t understand a word. [Mr Hoyt: presumably you would fare rather better as you at least understand some Créole!]
The Natural History Museum, according to the guide book, is on
It has its dark side; no doubt about it. Wandering across the bus station and through the central street market area can be quite an unnerving experience; especially when you are clutching camera, and sporting bumbag and back-pack with who-knows what goodies tucked inside. As is often the case, though, the fear tends to come from within. I had no problems there.
In order to get to the plastic Waterfront outlets from city-side, you have to cross a busy dual carriageway. Believe me, this is not something you would choose to do at ground level. Fortunately a very swish subway (underpass) is provided. It is a curious sensation to feel actually safer in a subway than you do above-ground – but that’s how it seemed.
I enjoyed a good Créole omelette and beer for lunch on the Port Louis Waterfront. This looks out across the harbour to the Caudan Waterfront development.
Looking towards Caudan from
Both owe their heritage to 21st Century architects and retail entrepreneurs, which gives you some idea of what they are like. Think Salford Quays on a smaller (but not much smaller) scale. There may have been seggae music being played over the tannoy. But as it sounded like most other Caribbean-Latin-influenced styles it was hard to be sure.
I had a “Black Eagle” beer. Subsequently, my university pals reliably informed me that this is not as good as the favourite “
After lunch there is a very short shower. This seems to have been the weather pattern since I arrived here. Some days I have seen no rain at all, and even when it does rain it rarely lasts for more than 5 minutes or so.
I go to visit the “
Alors, it’s time to make tracks for “home”, je pense, so I head for the bus station. On the way I become dimly aware of a glowing sensation in my forearms. Oh no. In my concern to lather up against mosquitoes this morning, I had clean forgotten to apply the sun-cream! Having walked around the city all morning and climbed up to the Citadel, I must have got a fair old dose of UV. The sun here can be very deceptive. The weather is not all that hot, and there are quite a few clouds around, making it seem innocuous. But this is, after all, the Tropics.
Must - get - to – shelter - as - quickly - as - I - can. Luckily there is an empty bus for Flic en Flac waiting at the stand. I take a seat near the window on the right-hand side. The window is wide open so the fresh breeze is most pleasant. At once, a street-vendor outside tries to sell me something through it. No idea what – and I move my rucksack out of harm’s way pronto! (A second vendor actually boarded the bus twice: the second time just before it set off, alighting whilst it was in motion).
A sign on the opposite side from me proudly proclaims that “This Coach was built by ABC Coach Bodies, Ltd” and gives an address, phone number, website, etc. It doesn’t mention that the coach was built in about 1932.
Five minutes into the return journey I begin to realise my mistake. Now make a note of this for future reference: when travelling from Flic en Flac to
I took so many pictures today there‘s not enough room on my pen-drive to back them up. Decide to buy a blank CD at the Spar. (I subsequently did so: a Maxell in a case for Rs21 – about 39p).
Just to make a change from all this delicious Mauritian food, I am at the “Casa Pizza”, which is in fact part of the Villa Paul & Virginie (remember them?). No prizes for guessing what they specialise in. I had one featuring smoked marlin, and it was very nice. Preceded by the now-compulsory Rhum Arangé. This one had vanilla essence in it. Woah – this is NICE!
I notice “Eric” (not his real name) is playing up somewhat at the table over the way. Eric is, I would guess, 2 years old. We are in the little open-air courtyard in front of the establishment. Eric is being taken for regular strolls atop Dad’s shoulders to try and quieten him down, whereupon he immediately begins surreptitiously unscrewing the overhanging fairy-lights. I like that. Later, he trots off to adjust the iron security gates. This does not go down too well with Mum & Dad, but the staff think it’s a hoot, so why not let him play in peace, I say?
The conversation turns to the dreaded chikungunya virus and its evil host, and how business is down some 30%. Strangely, it is largely the German clientele that has declined. Now you must understand that I play no part in any of this discussion. Eavesdropping, I now realise, is one of the great pleasures of dining alone. And anyway, it would be rude of me to butt in and say: “Excuse me, but I know why the Germans saw the writing on the wall and did a runner. It’s because their news service actually bothered to warn them about the problem, whereas good old Aunty Beeb appears to be blissfully unaware of its existence. And I know all this because my wife, Caroline, who is a keen German language follower, reads their news every day on the Internet for practice.”
My thoughts wander to the question of whether there will be any live music. Jazz would be nice. In fact ANY live music would. Thus far I have heard precisely none.
It occurred to me that it is almost a week since my first textile testing class at the
Eric drinks mango juice, by the way. Quite a sophisticated taste for a 2-year-old lad, eh?
It’s 8.10 and things are beginning to hot up now. A large group of folks arrived across the way. Seem like they could be local.
For dessert: “Divine au noix au coco” which turns out to be coconut mousse. Very pleasant though.
Here’s another observation: you almost never see another single diner in the restaurants – OK, maybe I have seen the odd one or two (not together, of course!). Yet surely there must be other intrepid travellers around? And you just can’t gate-crash someone else’s very jolly meal-party, can you?
I wonder why I never found the Natural History Museum in
And their drivers are, quite understandably, keen do business. So I’m strolling along the Waterfront in Port Louis, having just reached it, idly browsing the sites and not appearing to wish to go anywhere in a hurry, when I hear: “Taxi, Monsieur? Speek Eenglish? French? Want taxi?” And it is directed at me. It has to be. There isn’t anyone else within ear-shot. I feel like saying: “Oh, yes please. I’ve just arrived here, but what I really want is for you to whisk me straight back home please. And particularly so, since you will charge me ten times more than the bus, by which I have, just five minutes ago, arrived.” I don’t, of course.
On the way back home tonight, I notice that the frogs are making a spirited attempt to break their previous best (last night’s) record. There was no live music at “Casa Pizza”. If there had been, the lads in the ditch could have formed a first-rate rhythm section.
Tuesday 21st March
Due to teach again today. Is it really only a week since last time? It seems a lot longer. Now that’s something I don’t often complain about at
The bite is still making its presence felt. But so far I have not developed any obvious symptoms of the lurgy. I take another antihistamine and slap on some “Systral” (a wonderfully-effective bite gel you can only seem to get in German-speaking countries).
My driver today is very helpful and offers to take me sightseeing on Sunday. We agree to visit Pamplemousses Botanical Gardens. I will just need to make sure it is properly booked this time! He has two youngish children and a hefty mortgage which, on his basic salary, he could never hope to pay off. So week-end overtime work is vital to him. Also, he has very kindly invited me to have dinner with his family. What a nice man.
The lecture went OK – fewer students this time, though. Surely NOT the same old problem of declining attendance for Textile Testing classes I regularly experience back home? As a special treat I gather the attendees for a group photo. That’ll teach the ones who didn’t turn up!!
At lunch, Souda introduced me to a colleague of his (“Lyndsay” I think his name is). He’s a computer scientist, but his real love in life is writing short stories. Souda tells me he’s won awards for them, but Lyndsay modestly shrugs it off. I tell him I have been trying to keep a journal of my trip, and thoughts, and finding it a struggle to keep going with it sometimes. He reckons he aims to write 100 words a day, which is very easy to do. By the end of a year he has the makings of a best-seller almost without having to try. If I could stay here for a year maybe that would do the trick for me, too!
I mention that I also play the piano for relaxation, and that I am missing it a bit. Without prompting, he suggests maybe I should have brought a mouthorgan. Now here’s the weird thing: one day on my way home from the university, about a week before I was due to leave to come out here, I called into a musical instrument shop – more-or-less on a whim – and bought a mouthorgan, which is sitting in a drawer here at the bungalow. Is the guy psychic?
It was about now that the conversation turned to beer, and my friends explained how “
We discussed the mosquito problem. There seems to be a lot of confusion around. A recent report appears to suggest that the mosquito carrying chikungunya bites only during the hours of daylight. If true, this is indeed a sneaky trick: everyone knows that self-respecting, malaria-etc-carrying mosquitoes only come out at night. So all those elaborate preparations before turning-in have been a waste of effort? More importantly, have we been leaving ourselves wide open at a time when we thought we were safe? Fortunately, I have been following the general advice to use 24-hour protection, which I think most people are doing.
Another bizarre – and perverse- aspect of this one: it will only lay its eggs in clear clean water. Cloudy, stagnant water of the sort we all normally associate with mosquitoes it avoids like the plague; the plague which, ironically, it itself is carrying.
Incidentally, if you’re puzzled by all this talk of mosquitoes and “chikungunya”, I can recommend this site:
http://www.mauritiusnews.co.uk/FrontPage.asp?PageID=468&SectionID=34
The rest of the afternoon passed off fairly uneventfully.
I’m now back at the bungalow, and it is
I went to “The Ocean Restaurant” again tonight and had a very acceptable Rhum Arrangé (mais d’accord!) followed by beef in satay sauce with special fried rice; then, to follow, coconut ice cream and the now-routine espresso.
Hey, they just played “I want to Know What Love is” by “Foreigner” - which immediately evokes images of touring across Europe on countless holidays, when we would listen to it, and others of a similar ilk, on the car stereo. Isn’t it amazing how music has this power?
I’ll swear the couple behind me are German. I conclude they don’t posses a TV or computer at home.
On returning from the restaurant, I note that my friends the frogs are ominously silent. I can hear some very distant croaks, but the ditch alongside my road is normally deafening with them. Nothing at all, now. Then I recall the warning you get on pesticide containers: harmful to fish and pets. Is it unreasonable to suggest that this might also apply to frogs? In any case I am sure they are pets in some cultures. And what about geckos? It would be such a great shame if, in attempting to exterminate this pestilence, the Mauritians were inadvertently to follow in the footsteps of the Dutch settlers of old, and begin wiping out some of the most entertaining species on the island. Soap box over for tonight.
Recently, a suspicion has been forming in my mind regarding the possible source of the mystery chirping, by the way. On consulting the Internet I confirm a hunch – geckos actually sing! (I bet you already knew that, though.) I found several recordings of them, all sounding quite different, depending on the species. One was a dead-ringer for the tune the local boys play. So that’s who it is! I won’t bore you further by giving you its Latin name, but isn’t that interesting? Well I think so anyway.
Bon nuit, encore.
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