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.

Part 15: 4th April – University; last lecture

Tuesday 4^th April

It was supposed to have been a British Council day today - again; and you’ve guessed it. The guy apparently had another meeting and cancelled mine. Hmm. Shows how important the University of Manchester must be to them. Still, we’ve done all we can. But it meant dressing up for the second Tuesday in a row!

Ah well. At least I managed to finish my teaching; and with enough time to spare that I could give the students a slide-show flavour of Manchester, the University, Liverpool, The Lake District, The Peak District, Snowdon, Tatton Park, Knutsford, and our house. They were tickled pink when they noticed our Peugeot 206 parked on the drive. They probably didn’t realise that sort of technology had percolated so far north yet! Only joking. Actually, their curiosity was more concerned with the fact that it was a French car. Oh dear. Never mind.

Then the highlight of the day – and possibly the entire trip – came from Olivier, one of the lads. For some reason that I find hard to fathom, they would all rather like to see me as happy as a newt on the beach, via the consumption of copious quantities of rum. To this end, they suggest meeting me there on Saturday morning about 10. They usually pack up and go home again around 4 pm. Now, you see, they believe it is their duty to do this by way of thanks; to show their appreciation. Of course, it may just be for the opposite reason: that thought hadn’t occurred to me before!

Eeeek! Six hours with precious little shade from the tropical sun, but enough alcohol to power me back to Knutsford? Err. I wonder whether I am still young enough to cope. Oh yes, I think so. As you will realise, there is occasionally the merest hint of exaggeration in my reports. When I talked about neat rum to them they nearly had a blue fit. It seems they would only do that if they had already drunk so much that they forgot to dilute it! (A nice way of putting it, I thought!). Well, Olly has my mobile number, so we’ll see.

Now wouldn’t it be nice if, once in a while, our own students in Manchester showed such appreciation!

Now then. I take back all the horrid things I said about bus drivers on Mauritius. They are absolute pussy cats. Today I had a new university driver to bring me back to FeF. I’m not sure, but I do believe we may have arrived before we set off. But it isn’t the speed per se – although that is certainly impressive; it is the constant compulsion to overtake whatever is/are in front, at every opportunity – and often when there isn’t an opportunity! I spoke of exaggeration earlier. Well this is no exaggeration. For the first (and hopefully last) time on this trip I was genuinely in fear for my life. And that’s coming from someone who has been driven in Turkey, Portugal … and Iran. I don’t think I need say more on the subject, do I?

I might call in at “The Sea Breeze” this evening, for old-times’ sake, and to settle the nerves.

I would have done, but it was closed. You’d think by now I’d know which night each restaurant closes wouldn’t you? I sauntered along to “The Ocean” but it was like the Marie Celeste, only on dry land. I couldn’t face the idea of staring out the staff all evening, so meandered back towards the Spar complex, growing increasingly uneasy at the prospect that it might have to be the good old “Casa Pizza”. AGAIN. However, as I was passing it at the time, I decided to give “La Passerelle” another try. Well at least there was one table occupied; by a British threesome.

I seem to recall the last time I was here it served a vaguely French cuisine. Tonight’s menu appears to be Mauritian – and at rather more reasonable prices. I ordered a Green Island with ice & lemon, lamb curry, a beer, Crêpes flambées and an espresso. Total bill Rs649 (about £12). Not bad.

No-one else came in to eat, but by the time I left the British crew were still showing no signs of leaving.

It was one of the other security guards here this evening. A lovely man. We had a chat. I asked him how he was, and he said OK but a little tired. I then asked him what time he came on duty, and what time he goes off again. He started at 6 pm and he finishes at 7 am. A 13-hour night-shift! He does this three nights a week. And I guess he does day duties between as well. He has three children, and he is paid the equivalent of less than £100 per month. I can vouch for the fact that, while the cost of living here is lower than that of the UK, it’s not that much lower. I am now realising the predicament the other fellow must have been in when he enquired about borrowing the fare home. More than likely he was also deeply embarrassed to ask. And these guys are looking after my security. It is rather humbling.

Anyway, that’s it really: an even briefer blog than yesterday’s was. I’m getting worried I might be losing my touch! G’night.

Part 14: 3rd April – Work day at Flic en Flac

Monday 3^rd April

A (mercifully?) short blog today.

Well, I survived the night without being eaten alive by monster rats and mosquitoes.

I’m proud of myself: it’s now 9.15 am, and since getting out of bed I’ve already published yesterday’s blog, had breakfast (no Chinese guavas this time!) and written my exam questions for the University of Mauritius! Unfortunately I still have to supply “model answers”, but this can be done after my return to the UK if necessary. I think I’ll try to do it before then, however.

So the bulk of today’s “work” is already behind me. Yesterday’s washing does need ironing – some of it - and I will have to amble down to the Spar for some provisions. Other than that it will be a relaxing-around-Flic-en-Flac sort of day, I imagine. Tomorrow I have my lecture, and in the afternoon I’ll be visiting the British Council. Yes, I really will be this time.

I’m still not particularly inspired to start writing papers though. So there will probably not be much to report today, one way and another.

I’ve done the shopping. Now what? Ah well, time for lunch I suppose:

A typical lunch "at home"

Lunch over, I’ve just finished reading “The Road to McCarthy”. I’m quite sorry really, as I’ll be rather at a loss now. That book has been a constant companion throughout my trip.

After a bit of a rest – well … it gets hot you know! I noticed a mosquito hovering around near me. So by way of an experiment I gave it a quick squirt of the stuff I spray on me. It dropped down dead almost immediately. So that’s a comforting thought.

About 4.00 pm I went for a swim and a sit on the beach. This very tame bird came waddling past:

It couldn't be a Pink Pigeon could it?

It did seem to have pigeon-like tendencies, but whether or not it is one of the famous pink ones I don’t know. There are supposed to be some of them in the wild again now, following a breeding programme. It was quite happy for me to get close to it for photographing purposes. That willingness to trust humankind seems to have led to the demise of much of Mauritius’s native wildlife in the past – most notably the dodo, of course. Hopefully it won’t be the case from now on though.

After a sit on the beach I take some more boring sunset photographs (yawn yawn):

It’s “Casa Pizza” again tonight – to keep them sweet. Good job I did decide to go there because there is a problem for my excursion on Wednesday – no vehicle available. So we settle for Friday instead. It’s OK with me, but I am slightly apprehensive in case something similar should happen next week when Caroline & Pete are here. They don’t have many days so the options will be limited. Anyway, we agree to discuss it nearer the time.

It’s back to the two CDs again now (there being no live “orchestra” during the week). The regular waiter is not here this evening either, and Mme is serving alone. At the next table are two young English men. One is from the NE, one from the SE, by the sound of them. It’s fairly high-powered conversation in which I get the impression that SE is being sized up by NE for a possible managerial assignment – maybe in S Africa? It’s difficult to eavesdrop effectively at this distance. It all sounds very IT-CAD-graphics-PhotoShoppy. They discuss business the whole time they are here. And, of course, don’t speak a word of French to Mme.

Apart from them, there is a European (probably) family – not French – at one table, and a local couple sitting somewhere behind me. That’s it.

Hey – I’ve just noticed the music has stopped. Ah, hang on. CD #1 is being started again from the beginning; so it’s “Show Me the Meaning of Being Lonely” for the 93^rd time since I started frequenting the joint. That one winds up, and she’s located a third CD (!) This one is a kind of knees-uppy Mauritian light-hearted Frenchy thing. Turns out it’s Séga (!) Funny, I thought I might quite like Séga. Now I’m not so sure. This number seems to be called (from the fact that the tag line is repeated over and over) “Mam’selle Telephone”. There are half a dozen or so other tracks, all in a similar vein. I dunno though; it has a certain catchiness about it. I might even consider getting a copy just to remind myself of my time here. According to Mme I should be able to get hold of it in Rose Hill, Quatre Bornes or Port Louis.

I had the fish & aubergine curry, two beers and an espresso, incidentally. And tonight my Rhum Arrangé was brought to me, unbidden, by Mme herself! By the time I was on l’addition I was the only customer left. I suppose Mondays are bound to be quieter though.

It seems to me, on the way back here, that there are more dogs about every day. Although the majority are quite docile and tend to give you a wide berth, there is one tonight that is distinctly unsettling: barking and growling at me as I walk past - as nonchalantly and intrepidly as I can muster. I do hope the authorities are addressing this problem. If they ignore it all together, then before long some little child is going to get attacked, and they could turn out to have a far more serious plague than the mosquitoes on their hands.

Part 13: 2nd April – The South Coast

Sunday 2^nd April

The purple line indicates our approximate route for today

The top button popped off my shorts when I tried to fasten them this morning. Ah. Perhaps I am getting a little too used to this good-life

I have a university driver again today. I think I’ll ask him to take me to see the south coast – Le Gris-Gris, Souillac, etc.

It’s back to a more “normal” breakfast today – except for the three Chinese guavas I have for starters. They are certainly tart. They really do taste like unripe strawberries. “mouth-puckering” good, in fact. Bags of vitamin C, though. (Just remind me: is that good or bad for you at the moment?)

An intriguing question occurs to me: Caroline and Pete will be arriving here in almost exactly a week. I wonder how the reality of Mauritius will match their expectations. How well, or otherwise, have I conveyed what it’s like through my reports and the photos? I’ll certainly be interested to get their reactions.

I’ve just set a wash going. I must remember to spin it when I get back, or there may be no shorts for tomorrow!

The driver was Pravin again. He has an airport pick-up this afternoon, so we need to be back here by two-ish. That should be plenty of time for a tour of the south coast.

He needs to fill up, so we go via Rose Hill. We take so many short cuts involving roads that are too narrow to allow two cars to pass comfortably, but which don’t prevent buses from doing three-point turns in front of us, that I really think we’d have been quicker using the main drag. He tells me that the price of fuel has gone up several-fold over recent months. And tomorrow is budget day! Surprisingly though, there were no queues at the filling station.

Passing through Rose Hill I noticed what looked like a gambling emporium – at least, it advertised “slots” – going by the grand name of “Jumbo & Co. Ltd”. Just up Mike B’s street, I would have thought!

Because we missed it last week owing to the heavy rain, and because it is more or less on our planned route, we decide to take a look at Alexandra Falls. This time it is a fine day. We climb up to the viewing point, and of course I am expecting to see another water fall. What he didn’t prepare me for was this view:

The "Intrepid" standing with his back to the Indian Ocean

No, silly - not me. The view behind me. It looks down onto Bel Ombre on the south coast, and then straight to the Indian Ocean. I’m afraid as always, this shot doesn’t compare well with the real thing. Later we will be driving through Bel Ombre. [Come to think of it, I do seem to have put on a bit round the old mid-riff, don’t I!]

By the way, there is a waterfall as well:

Alexandra Falls

All around here are copses of papyrus trees. Amazing, and I thought they didn’t still grow them! Actually, they are not used.

Some of these trees are papyrus; eg the one nearest, left

Although we visited Grand Bassin last week when it was wet, we didn’t see any monkeys. There are always monkeys at Grand Bassin, so we will go there now and see some. There were no monkeys at Grand Bassin today either. Pravin was very puzzled by this. It seems he has almost never been there and not seen monkeys. It’s like this: when the worshippers bring offerings of fruit – oranges, mangos, bananas ... you get the idea? Our theory is that someone must have behaved badly towards them recently and frightened them off. A great pity, that. Not to worry, because I got a wonderful view of the temple, as seen from the other side of the lake:

The Temple at Grand Bassin

On our way down to the coast I mention the Chinese guavas that we picked last Sunday, and that we both forgot. I told him I enjoyed the ones we had tasted so much I bought some at Quatre Bornes market. He said he had remarked to his wife that I had forgotten them. And that one shouldn’t eat them on an empty stomach. Ah. Right. I’ll remember that tomorrow then.

Our route takes us through the Bois Cheri tea plantation (which I will be visiting more “officially” next week). It is seems odd to see endless acres of neatly pruned camellia bushes. I’m more used to seeing endless acres of neatly cultivated sugarcane. We stopped by the edge of one field.

At the edge of one of the Bois Cheri tea fields

Luckily, we were just in the nick of time for a nice green tip to drop into my lap (honest, guv):

A tea-leaf in the lap of a "tea-leaf"?

All your main brands get some of their tea from here. I am wondering if our local supermarket by any chance sells it.

And now we are heading for the wild and rugged south coast. First off, Le Gris-Gris, which is a tiny sandy cove lashed by rollers:

Le Gris-Gris

Yet again, this gives no real impression. I realised I would have been much better bringing the camcorder to capture not only the motion of the waves, but also their thunderous roar. Next time.

Here are a few more views taken from the same location

How do they get these colours?

Blimey mate - 'ang on to yer 'at!

We are now at the most southerly tip of Mauritius. Yesterday I was at its most northerly point. We are just about slap bang on the Tropic of Capricorn. So looking out to sea, now, it is hard to get my head around the mind-blowing fact that the next nearest piece of land in that direction is Antarctica!

From here we take a short hop to see La Roche Qui Pleure – “The Crying Rock” It’s so-called because its structure is such that after a breaker strikes it, the water drains through lots of channels and gullies. From a distance it occasionally appears to be gushing out of the rock face itself. I don’t think this really shows it though:

La Roche Qui Pleure

We then saunter back along the coast through Souillac, Rivière des Galets and Bel Ombre, down upon which we had looked earlier.

From there we followed much the same route as we had last Sunday, via La Morne. Just before we got there we encountered the most chaotic traffic snarl-up yet. There were buses – lots of them – trying to pass round one another, as well as cars, mopeds, you name it. This coast road is not exactly the M25, but it felt a bit like it. Eventually the probable cause came into view. It was as though a whole stretch of the left-hand verge had been converted into a “Bazaar and Rummage” sale. On the other (inland) side, people were flocking out of the church and making their way across. I couldn’t understand what it was all about at first, but Pravin said it was something to do with fasting before Easter. Then it dawned on me – is it Palm Sunday today by any chance? I am getting completely lost with time, in the calendar sense.

It was unfortunate really, because Pravin can’t afford to be too late getting me back to FeF. He seemed to take it all extraordinarily calmly though. We got back just after two, which he said was fine because it only takes an hour to the airport. (See? Everywhere takes an hour). However, if he’s lucky he might just squeeze in a few minutes’ rest before that. He’d had another assignment at about two this morning as well, so the poor lad desperately needs a break. I gladly gave him another Rs1000. He was a bit more hesitant about taking it this time, but I insisted.

Started the washing spinning (remembered, see?); a quick lunch of bread, butter and the last of the Bleu Doux cheese, plus grape juice, and it’s time to have a go at sewing that button back on. Think I’ll shift it over just a tiny bit.

And hey - there’s no compelling reason to dine at “Casa Pizza” tonight: I paid for the trip yesterday. So I am a free agent again! I believe I may call in at “The Leslie”.

Washing duly hung out, I retire to the porch to do a spot of reading. Until I notice the occasional mosquito is landing on me. Time to replenish the old prophylactic, methinks. That’s better. Now I can carry on reading for a while longer.

One time when I was eating at the “Bois Noir” there was a German (or if not, then Scandinavian) man sitting at one of the tables. Also alone. He was wearing what I would describe as a “breaker’s” Tee-shirt – you know, like a vest? (UK definition here, Dick!). There used to be a regular “Scrapheap Challenge” team leader[1]; can’t remember his name, or that of his team, but he was stocky, bald, and quite possibly had a goatie beard. This guy is the spitting image of him, but minus the beard. He has every appearance of being called “Otto”. I particularly remember him for his commendably sociable attitude in the restaurant. At one point he declared very loudly: “Hey, ziss beer is scheiss!”. It wasn’t. It just wasn’t the “Special Brew” he thought he’d ordered. Well, I’m just considering going in for a shower when he appears on the grass opposite my patio armed with a barbecue, a plastic table and approximately a dozen matching chairs. (To be fair, I don’t think he actually carried all that lot single-handedly, although he looks as though he could do.). This means three things:

1. he is my near neighbour;

2. things could get rowdy later;

3. I may have to run the gauntlet returning from dinner.

Just my luck. Why me?

The barbecue is now alight. Well, I will slip out and head for “The Leslie” before the fun starts.

I’m now in that establishment, and am enjoying a Green Island rum, “Cerf à la Créole” (venison Créole style) and (after the rum) a beer. As is now mandatory, I am the first customer. (Just let anyone dare try getting in before me and see what happens!)

Suddenly – aaaagghh!! – I am “gently” reminded that the chilli accompaniment must be taken in homeopathic quantities. Hell, I’ve applied no more than a quarter-teaspoonful to a whole plate of boiled rice and venison stew, and my entire insides are incinerating. It takes several more generous helpings of rice, half a loaf of bread and a second beer even to begin to quell the flames. Still, the meal was good. But I can’t finish it – such a large portion, you see. I dispense with dessert (well, after all, I have just sewn back the button on my shorts), and continue to savour the soothing effects of “Phoenix” beer.

There is now a party of eight across at one of the other tables, by the way, as well as a couple, just around the corner.

The bill comes to a very modest Rs525 (~ £9.80). I round it up to Rs550. This means a tip of less than 5%, which is not as much as I would normally leave. But when, as just happened to me, a rat leaps onto your lap while you are still drinking your beer (and I kid you not), your generosity begins to identify its bounds.

Now I know there isn’t a fat lot they can do about it. There was that kerfuffle there the other night when they were pursuing one with brooms. But at least that one, like the one I saw recently in “Casa Pizza” (of all places), confined itself to the ground.

I suppose, looked at rationally, there are fewer rats per square metre here than there are in Knutsford. There have been recent reports in the Knutsford Guardian about them. And these here are probably smaller and quite possibly cleaner. Still, we don’t tend to eat al fresco very often in Knutsford.

But one thing is for sure: on no account must the damned traders get wind of this or they will have a cast-iron argument against pedestrianisation!

I am now approaching No. 42 (my humble abode) with slight apprehension: will the sliding glass patio door still be in one piece? Will the entire area be up in flames? Or maybe this apartment and the two either side will have been deftly converted into some kind of hovercraft-come-car-crushing machine?

There they all are. The barbecue is glowing brightly and – oh. Very sedate conversation. OK. I’ve been here typing now for a good hour, and there hasn’t been a dicky-bird out of them. So … wrong again, then. I must resist all temptation to take up psychology as a post-retirement occupation!

Night!

PS: I just heard a howl of laughter. Is it too late to reconsider?

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[1] It was also shown in the US, under then title "Junkyard Wars" I believe

Part 12: 1st April – Pamplemousses; Cap Malheureux; Grand Baie

Saturday1^st April

Bottle Palms at SSR Botanical Gardens in Pamplemousses

Happy Fools’ Day one and all! So – you really believe I’m in Mauritius? Well here’s the truth: I am in fact in my garden shed at home in Knutsford (as one of you has already suggested). But, to continue with the deception …

It’s Pamplemousses day today, to visit the Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam (SSR) Botanical Gardens, as well as one or two other places. I hope. Unless this turns out to be a Mauritian Fool’s Day prank.

Breakfast this morning was an all together more exotic affair than of late: a Chinese guava to start with, followed by a hamburger bun thickly spread with “Les Verges de Labourdonnais île Maurice Papaye et Vanille Confiture extra au Sucre de Canne” recently purchased from the Spar. Now that’s a healthy-sounding package.

Mmmmm. There’s no going back to Nutella after this.

You know, until I came here I had assumed vanilla was something confined to ice cream and custard. In Mauritius it is ubiquitous. You find it in tea, jam (like here), coffee (probably), rum (naturally) and, for all I know, chicken curry.

Someone told me the other day he’d heard about a recent piece of research linking vanilla to health problems – heart, I think he said. I thought as much: it tastes too good. Never mind, by next week there’s bound to be a counter-theory, so if I resist till then before succumbing to my next papaya-vanilla jam butty[1] I should be perfectly safe. At least for a week or so, anyway.

I’m down at Casa Pizza just in time for my driver to arrive. “Jan” turns out to be “Ian”. Ian Duval-Latreille, to be precise. I have his business card. (Hmm. “Duval” – now where have I heard a name like that before…?). He is the sales representative for “Philamothe Ltd”, the tour operator owned by Phillippe Lamothe himself. He’s the gentleman whom I met on my first visit to CP. At that stage I thought he was married to Mme Casa Pizza (Maraliyse?), but they are sort of business partners. His wife is Angelica, who made the reservation for my excursions. Now do keep up!

Ian is an outgoing young chap. Very jolly and very accommodating. He is also very knowledgeable – but then I suppose he would be really. And travelling in an air-conditioned Land Rover is not exactly going to be a hardship!

SSR gardens are magnificent - of course. I fall in with a youngish French couple and a (I would guess) retired Australian couple from Perth. They have been here a couple of weeks, but unlike me, arrived by cruiser. They took time off that to enable them to actually see some of the places they were calling at. During that interruption they even took a flight to Réunion for a few days (it’s a half-hour trip from Mauritius).

The Talipot: the world's biggest palm species; it grows for 60 years, flowers then dies.

I owned up to being a “Pom”, which gave us all a good laugh.

We had a guide for about an hour. He told us all about the trees we were seeing. Lots of interesting details, most of which I’d forgotten by the time we were onto the next species. Mind you, the Frenchman had the wit to make notes on paper – which he’s going to e-mail to the Australian pair. Since I’m going to buy a booklet at one of the kiosks I don’t ask to be included in this. Big mistake. After I’d paid the guide I asked him where I could find the kiosks, They are shut today. Ah well, maybe I can pick one up in FeF.

One thing I do remember though is the remarkable number of species that seem to be prized for their aphrodisiac properties! The two “diggers” and I commented that we wished we’d known about all that years ago!

There are a few more photos of the gardens on Flickr.

After the gardens we move on to “L’Aventure du Sucre”, where I will learn about the history and technology of sugar production in Mauritius. It is a very good museum. Self-guided, so you can go at your own pace. However there is so much of it that it is difficult to take it all in. By the end my feet are killing me.

The museum's sugar mill - tip of the sugar-production "iceberg"

Did you now that nothing of the sugar cane is wasted nowadays? The vegetable matter that is left after all the juice has been extracted is called “Bagasse”. This has a high calorific value. So high in fact, that when it is burned it can generate enough electricity and heat to power the entire mill - with plenty left over. In fact, it is used to fuel a sizeable number of the island’s power stations. This is a seasonable activity, however, and at times between harvests coal is also used. Nevertheless, it is making a huge contribution towards meeting the nation’s commitment on reducing carbon emission. Some bagasse also goes into by-products such as fibre-board and mulching composts, as it also has a high fibre content.

There is an experimental programme underway, also, to ferment cane sugar to produce ethanol for use as a petrol-replacement in vehicles.

Another interesting snippet: apparently it wasn’t until 2003 that the licensing laws governing sugar production in Mauritius were relaxed sufficiently to allow the manufacture of “agricultural” rum. That’s the commercial product. Surprised? I was. So presumably everything sold prior to that must have been hooch!

Anyway, at the end of the tour I was able to sample some of that product. Very nice indeed!

After that Ian drove me to Cap Malheureux, the most northerly point on the mainland. The views from here are simply breathtaking. Here are a couple of shots, but you can’t really do it justice:

Views looking North-ish from Cap Malheureux.

The impressively-shaped lump of rock is called “Coin de Mires” or “Gunner’s Quoin”. It is a nature reserve.

Next we drove to Grand Baie, where I had a quick stroll followed by lunch in a Chinese-run restaurant – “La Pagode”. I had fish in ginger with boiled rice, washed down with mineral water. I have to say though, that I was not as impressed with the food there as I have been everywhere in Flic en Flac.

View from “La Pagode”, Grand Baie

View in “La Pagode”, Grand Baie

We then meandered our way back via such places as Mont Choisy (where Ian pointed out the Blue Safari submarine departure point) and Trou aux Biches. In the distance were several bizarrely angular mountain peaks. One of them has a very distinctive vertical protuberance. It is called “The Thumb” And I can see exactly why. (Pete – which story was it that featured a mountain like that? Was it “Holes” by any chance?).

Ian dropped me off right at the bungalow, so all in all a very good day out – even if I did nod off once or twice on the way back. Purely the exhausting walking around, I assure you. Nothing to do with the rum. At all. No.

He would prefer me to pay CP rather than him. I nevertheless gave him a tip, which he very graciously accepted. Of course, guess where this means I will have to eat this evening. But it’s Saturday so maybe the “orchestra” will be there again.

They are; this time accompanied by a very glamorous-looking female singer.

After the warm-up - the timeless classic (spoken) number “Un, Deux, Testing” – we kick off with an instrumental version of “Blue Moon”, performed rather à la “Green Rumours”. But wait a minute - they’ve all disappeared. The keyboard is doing all this by itself. I could do that! It’s a slightly unnerving experience akin, I imagine, to travelling on that London Underground line that doesn’t need drivers. WILL IT REMEMBER TO STOP WHEN IT REACHES THE BUFFERS?

But that was only to let the electronics settle, and to allow the orchestra to psych themselves up for this evening’s gruelling session of middle-of-the-road wallpaper. (And quite possibly to save embarrassment for those customers who at this point might wish to re-consider eating here). The keyboard player is back now. He plays a “Bum-Tit” (if you’ll pardon the expression) version of “Autumn Leaves” and I’m beginning to feel even more at home. This is deftly followed by “Fly Me to The Moon”. Blimey, he’s a one-man Knutsford High School Swing Band. Eat yer heart out, Chris!

I have to admire him because he is playing what looks to be the identical model of Yamaha keyboard to the one I use. [It’s great, that one, because it takes floppy disks. Provided your hands are hidden you can get away with first-degree murder!]

I’m determined not to let his efforts go unrecognised, however, and give him a well-deserved ripple of applause. Unlike the rest of the clientele who seem not to have noticed him. He smiles and nods appreciatively in my direction.

Now he’s joined by the male vocalist. I remember from last week that he has quite a good voice. He opens with “My Way”. It is delivered in a certain style. I think you can guess. A bit depressing as an intro, possibly?

Ah. Now the other singer is about to come on. She has a powerful, fairly deep, voice and launches into “The Greatest Love of All” – at least I think that’s what it is from the melody line. Her voice is good but the diction leaves a little to be desired. Maybe she is holding the mic a bit too close, which always muffles things a bit. And anyway, how would I cope if I had to sing in Créole?

Dinner tonight, by the way, is Rum, Pizza L’Italienne, two beers, espresso – the usual stuff.

Now the two of them are singing “My Heart Goes On“, aka Theme from Titanic. Did I mention that is one of the keyboard’s demo tunes? To be fair, I think he must have re-recorded the backing, and he was certainly playing the compulsory “Irish Nose-flute” part live. They do a couple more pieces of kitsch, and then they ask for requests. There are several groups of locals eating here tonight, and someone shouts a suggestion. There is a bit of light-hearted banter between them and they set off on an all together different style of music. This is more like it. It is sung in French. I have no idea what it’s called but it is very moving – quite atmospheric. As the evening progresses the tempo starts to increase and I finally get to experience genuine Séga. (Well as near-to as I guess you’re going to get if the only accompanying instrument is a Yamaha PSR540).

It is very infectious, and by now they are getting a much better response from the audience, who applaud every number enthusiastically. So I did the right thing in leading the way at the beginning didn’t I?

In the end I am sorry to have just asked for l’addition because I genuinely would have liked to hear more. However, I have typing to do and…. well you know.

But if I ever get the chance to speak to the keyboard player I must ask him which keyboard “style” number he uses for Séga!

Night all.

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[1] Northwest England slang for a bread, butter and confiture sandwich