Part 16: 5^th April – “D-Day” Minus Four, and Counting

Wed 5^th April

“D-Day” being Sunday, when Caroline and Pete are due to arrive.

Last night I awoke with another small attack of the “Dodos”, but this morning I seem to be more or less OK again. I think it must be the cumulative effect of all that chilli asserting itself.

I am now resigned to the fact that, unless my student friends can oblige, I am never actually going to savour the Séga experience. Although I may have heard the occasional pale imitation of it (such as at “Casa Pizza”), I haven’t heard the real thing performed live; like with real drums and things; and I definitely haven’t seen the dance. So this morning I plan to take the bus into Quatre Bornes – or maybe Rose Hill - and see if I can at least pick up a CD. Now is that defeatist, or what!

You may like to check out this photoblog I discovered through Google, by the way. Makes mine look pathetic!

http://www.edwebproject.org/mauritius/

But it’s already 7.00 am, so I can’t afford to sit here typing much longer or the day will be gone.

On the way into Flic en Flac I had a stroke of luck. Walking some distance behind me was a local guy. I heard him shout something. Couldn’t catch what it was, and assumed it was intended for someone else. Then a little later I thought I heard him call: “Mr Manchester!” so I turned around. He was walking towards me beaming, and for one awful moment I thought it might be one of those hawkers who now and again pester me. It’s as well I didn’t give him some put-off line, because I suddenly realised he was the owner of one of the properties adjacent to Latanier-1 (the complex wherein is my bungalow). A few days ago he’d been standing out in the road looking back at his house, inspecting a piece of recent repair work on it, and we had chatted briefly. He told me he had often seen me walking past. I said, yes, almost certainly on my way to rum and food! That was when he learned I was from Manchester. A very genial chap.

Anyway, never mind all that. This morning he is on his way to the Spar and I’m heading for the bus stop. I discover his name is “Narem”: he’s conveniently got it written in ink on his forearm. Funny that: I thought we were supposed to forget their names, not them). Now another “cunning plan” begins to develop. He’s local, he’s convivial; he will know where Séga can be found. So I ask. Yes, of course. If I call in at his house sometime around 6-7 pm and ask for him, he will be able to give me an itinerary of what is on where, and when. So – provided I can remember exactly which house it was - we should be making progress. He’s even remembered that I’m here by myself at present, and that some of my family will be joining me at the weekend. He said we should all call in for a chat. That’s nice isn’t it?

I’m at the bus stop now. I tend to use the one just before the sharp right-hand bend leading out of town. That’s because it’s got a shelter. At this time (around 8.30 am) there is a little triangle of shade just big enough for one person to stand in. Looking at the advertising on its inside walls I am once again struck by Mauritius’ idiosyncratic use of French and English:

Latanier-1 is a Jet 7 development, incidentally. I find it rather ironical that the French despise “Franglais” so much, and yet here it is a natural part of everyday life. No-one bats an eye-lid at it, naturally.

I haven’t been standing here for very long, but I’ve already had three taxis beep at me as they pass, hoping I might change my mind about travelling by bus. (Given the bus-driver experience, can you imagine what taxi-drivers must be like? You only have to consider what they’re like at home. It doesn’t even bear thinking about!) It sometimes seems to me that the taxi:private-car ratio must be about 3:1 in Mauritius.

I’m on the bus now, and attempting the impossible – making notes for this blog. But today’s driver seems a lot calmer than previous ones. Perhaps it’s just that the experience I had yesterday of being driven home in a Formula-One has made everything else seem tame. I don’t think so though. But just to prove that the weird quantum physics still holds, he ensures our speed never passes through any intermediate states between go and stop.

The bus route to Quatre Bornes takes us through the village of Bambous, incidentally, which means a bit of a loop off the main road. This loop includes the best stretch of switch-back hereabouts: dead straight for about 1km. It doesn’t have “speed humps” though, which is a bit disappointing.

The day began bright and sunny, but there are one or two clouds drifting in now.

An interesting cultural difference between the UK and Mauritius reveals itself on the bus: although there may be (admittedly not for long) completely empty seats, people will often tend to sit next to someone else; occasionally me, so it isn’t as though it is always a person they know. And it isn’t so they can chat either, because mostly they don’t - well not to me, anyway. So it must be some kind of “safety-in-numbers herding instinct” that has evolved; probably in response to the lethal driving standards.

By the time we arrive in Quatre Bornes it is raining fairly steadily. You know, I carried an umbrella all the way from Knutsford to Flic en Flac, but have I ever remembered to bring it out with me on trips? (Answers on postcards, please). Think I will abandon the idea of progressing to Rose Hill. Just try and get what I want here.

I found a CD shop and a book shop in the Orchard Centre (where of course it is dry!). So now I have in my possession a compilation of Séga songs and an illustrated booklet on Pamplemousses botanical gardens; in French. It was all they had, but I reckon I will be able to decipher most of it. To be honest it’s mostly photos anyway.

I pass yet another Cyber Café in the Orchard Centre. They really seem to have taken off in a big way nowadays, don’t they? But one thing I’ve never quite understood: where do they serve the coffee? There never is any is there? I’d have thought they could do a roaring trade if they did refreshments. But probably it wouldn’t mix too well with all that electronic gear.

When I came out of OC it had stopped raining, so I went for a walk down the main high street to see if there was any sign of a coffee emporium. Nothing struck me as being very promising. One or two potential places were sort of opening up, but they didn’t look too inviting; so I gave up on the idea. QB features the usual mix of posh-new and run-down shabbiness that many of these towns seem to possess. The intermediate “pavement café” quarter seems to be all-but missing. And the “shabbiness” is just that too far gone, which changes it from “interesting” to merely “depressing”. There are too many properties that appear to be derelict – but in all probability aren’t. And, even now, at around 10.00 am midweek, far too many ugly metal shutters on shop fronts.

So then - back to Flic en Flac for lunch. It was warm but rather sultry when I returned here. This afternoon there have been some heavy downpours. “Sharp showers”, as our weather forecasters seem to like to call them. (Can they cut you?)

There is a bird singing outside right now, and I’ll swear it’s saying “peekachoo”!

Well, I think a swim in the pool here, today, rather than trekking all the way down to the beach. There was a lad and a girl there with an acoustic guitar. Just strumming, but one tune I immediately recognised was “Hotel California”. Seems very popular just at the moment, doesn’t it? As they were leaving I complimented him, and suggested he just needed a rhythm section and a singer now. They were British, by the sound of it. He said that he couldn’t sing, “that’s for sure”. I bet he could, really.

Just outside on the grass opposite my patio door, a woman was setting up a barbecue, She had asked a couple of friends over for a meal and hoped they wouldn’t disturb me. I assured her they wouldn’t. Her name is Bernadette, and she is Australian, from Victoria. She offered to include me, but I said that was OK, I would be eating in FeF. She said maybe a couple of beers later, then? I thanked her and agreed that would be nice, assuming they were still there when I returned.

By the time I left here for dinner it was already dark. I couldn’t be sure which house was Narem’s, and at least one of them has gates and a guard dog, so I’m afraid I chickened out and went straight to “The Sea Breeze”, where I had rum with ice & lemon, chicken cashew nuts, green vegetables in garlic, a beer and a coffee.

When I returned the dinner party was still here, and they asked me to join them for a drink. We had a nice hour or so, chatting. There was Mark, who is half-Mauritian, born in Kent (!), and his wife (sorry but I didn’t catch her name properly) who is Czech. They live in Quatre Bornes. Because Mark would be driving he wouldn’t drink any beer, but I was plied, and had just the two. There was also a couple from the Seychelles: Roy and Lynne, with their 2-year old little girl, Christy. Lynne & Roy moved to Mauritius a year ago, and like it very much. Apparently it is quite different from The Seychelles (pop. 80,000). As it happens, Lynne studied at Salford University! What with one thing and another, there was much talk of Chelsea, Arsenal, Celtic, Man U (of course) and the old country (England!) – especially the “Curry Mile” in Fallowfield. Bernadette has been in Mauritius for three years. I explained about having read “The Road to McCarthy”, and asked her what it is with Tasmania (which features quite prominently in the book). She confirmed that Tasmanians do, indeed, have two heads.

We touched on the subject of chikungunya, and it seems Mark’s wife has had it. In her case it lasted for about a week, and seems to have been extremely painful. She had a rash as well, and said her fingers and joints felt numb. Mark had to lift her from place to place. So it is not a good idea to get it. On the positive side, she is OK now, and immune, apparently.

They were delightful company, and it was thoroughly enjoyable. Then I asked them about Séga. Of course Lynne and Mark have their own, slightly different, versions which I gather they can do to an extent. They reckon that the Mauritius Hilton is probably one of the best places to try in Flic en Flac. Rather than telephoning, one can just ask the uniformed man on the door, and he should be able to tell us which night etc. Then there is another hotel further down, whose name means a sort of boat in Mauritius, but which I should have written down because I can’t remember it!

Bernadette has the apartment directly above this one, so If I see her I will give her one of my cards to pass on to Mark, because he likes to visit England when he can, and it would certainly be nice to meet up.