Part 6: 24th & 25th March – “Working” at Da Bungalow

Friday 24^th March

Flic en Flac Beach as it is not meant to look!

Yesterday’s grey skies and the night’s heavy rain have yielded to a return of bright sunny blue. I would say it is significantly fresher than of late as well, which makes for a most comfortable atmosphere. I haven’t even turned on the fan in the living area today. Mind you, it is only 8.30am. Thoughts of time remind me: you will probably be putting the clocks forward tomorrow! I must remember that, and adjust my communication routine from Sunday onwards, by which time you will be a mere three hours behind me. [Apologies to Dick & Jeanie in The US – I can’t work out your time-shift so early in the morning!] You see, in Mauritius they don’t alter the clocks. There wouldn’t be much point because the getting-light-in-the-morning and getting-dark-in-the-evening times remain essentially constant throughout the year. Anyway, it will make you all seem that much closer!

It’s strange. The thought of what the weather is probably like back home, and the season generally, seems as unreal now as the oven-like effect I experienced walking off the plane here less than two weeks ago. (I suppose the trees will be starting to come into blossom by now?) I wonder how it will seem three weeks hence. I have to be honest, and tell you I have very little – actually absolutely no - appetite for my eventual return to Manchester University in September! By then of course I may feel differently. I hope so. (I think I hope so, anyway.)

There was a power-cut in the middle of last night. I know because the “unsound” of the air conditioner woke me. Funny that. But then it does play a sort of mobile-phoney type of a tune when it is switched on or off, so maybe that’s what I heard. I did wonder whether it might be on some sort of time control, but that seemed unlikely since I wasn’t aware it had happened on any of the previous nights. Also, there was a distinct absence of glowing neons. More importantly, my bedside mosquito-killer wasn’t showing its neon either! But it was pitch dark and I wasn’t about to go investigating unfamiliar fuse boxes. Might as well nod off again and sort it out in the morning. Next thing I knew I was awoken by the sound of it starting up again. So we’re back to normal now. I have heard that occasional power-cuts are not uncommon on the island.

Yesterday my driver was telling me that in Rodrigues (Mauritius’ neighbouring island – some 350km away) they had very heavy rain and flooding the previous day, in which one person was killed. I suppose the heavy rain here may have been the tail end of that system. (It wasn’t a cyclone, by the way – just very heavy rain). The reason it is particularly significant is that normally Rodrigues receives very little rain being, apparently, quite arid. Not like Mauritius. That seems curious, given its close proximity. It was the driver who told me this though, so I could have misunderstood some bits.

Dharma gave me a chapter of his PhD thesis to read yesterday. So that’s brought me back down to earth with a bump! I will spend part of today on that. Then afterwards maybe take the plunge – literally – into the Indian Ocean as a special treat! But first, the chapter. And just to “prove” I do occasionally work:

The author, in suitably sombre and studious mood, concentrates on yet more work.

For those of you who have the nerve to think I spend all my time sunning myself on Flic en Flac beach, I draw your attention to my particularly pallid complexion!

It’s now 12.00 noon, and the weather has done an “anti-Margaret Thatcher”[1], in that the wind is currently pummelling the palms around something rotten and there is a veritable deluge.

Must be time for nosh, methinks. I finish off the remains of the Bresse Bleu with half a hot-dog roll, followed by Nutella thickly (yummy) spread on the other half. It is actually quite a blessing to be able to lunch in this very abstemious fashion, because on the days I go into university I get two cooked meals. And the portions are NOT small, I can tell you.

At about 2.30pm I went for the promised swim in the ocean. The sky out to sea had turned a rather threatening shade of dark grey. A bit like this, in fact:

Storm clouds over Flic en Flac Beach? Surely not!

Still, I messed around for a bit with my goggles on. The sea temperature is, as you’d expect, quite high so you don’t exactly die of hyperthermia.

After I got out and strolled back up the beach there was a prolonged shower. Heck – I got wet!

Then I encountered this little chap:

They do a good line in them around here, and there’s plenty more where he(/she?) came from. They roam free.

The rain lasted conveniently long enough to accompany me back to the humble abode. And then it stopped. Just like that. That was an hour or so ago. It’s now 4.55 pm and really pelting down again. This is all very well, but wherever I decide to eat – and it’s got to be “Casa Pizza” tonight anyway - I’ll have a 10-minute walk to get there. Should I take my brolly? I actually do have it here.

There not being a piano handy here (at least not as far as I can tell), rather late in the evening before I left Knutsford I made a rough-and-ready piano/bass recording of “Stormy Monday Blues” specifically so I could practice my newly-acquired blues “harp” against it during the quieter moments here. And thus destroy said quiet, of course. I very carefully transferred the file to either my pen-drive or else to the laptop. Can I find it? Don’t all answer at once. It’s probably a mercy anyway (No – not “Mercy, Mercy, Mercy”, although I have just been attempting that one).

So by way of an alternative occupation I am doing some washing. And typing. Natch. May as well empty the camera while I’m at it, too.

Just got a call from Dharma, who has very kindly organised my driver for Sunday to take me to Pamplemousses. That’s where the main botanical gardens are, so there should be some good photo-opportunities. I’m rather disappointed though that it won’t be Mr Dinaully after all. He’s the driver who was so eager to take me. Dharma says their supervisor likes to spread the overtime around them all (“all” being 13, it seems). I see his point. It’s only fair I suppose. Anyway, he will nevertheless try to ensure Mr D does get a chance at some stage. He really needs the overtime. Guess they all do.

I made my way down to “Casa Pizza”, as promised. This is sort of what it looks like from the outside:

I presented Monsieur with my card, which impressed him no-end for some reason. (You’ve seen one academic you’ve seen ‘em all, I’d have thought.)

Encountered a Norwegian family I had briefly met there last night. They are teachers. The father teaches maths & science and the mother art. Currently they are staying at “Paul & Virginie”, but have been travelling around Mauritius for the past two weeks. They have two sons, the younger of whom is Matthias:

Matthias from Norway

They told me that the “The Kenzibar” next door is much better for food and music, and that tomorrow (Saturday) there is to be a jam session (Wahey!!!). They are certainly intending to go. So shall I! Possibly armed with “harp” on the off-chance! (Just wish I could play the darned thing).

This evening’s live entertainment was the first I’ve heard up to now: a vocal duo. I don’t know what they are called. I would guess they are brothers. They played ballads; middle of the road stuff, mostly, including “Imagine”, “Spanish Eyes”, and “You say it Best (When You Say Nothing At All)” – or whatever it is actually called. They mixed in a small number of Mauritian ballads. I have to admit that the “lead” singer (although they both had mics I only ever heard one of them singing) has an excellent voice for that type of music. I would have preferred to hear more of the local songs, but I have to hand it to them: they did well, and I told them as much as I departed. Here they are in action:

Vocal duo (anon.) at “Casa Pizza”

Tonight I had Rhum Arrangé (yawn, yawn!) followed by chicken and shrimp (ie prawn) curry, beer, Banane Flambé and Café Créole. (Ahaa… got you there, eh?). The last is a sort of Mauritian Irish coffee. Substitute rum for the Bushmills and you’re just about there.

As I leave I pay a quick visit next door (the “Kenzibar”: quite a nice little pun, that, non?) to sample the ambience. This is much more like it – what took me so long finding this place? It has a raw, bluesy edge to it. There was a combo of bass drums and (I think – it was dark just like it’s supposed to be) three saxes jamming. Flaming torches everywhere and (I would guess) the odd suspect ciggy! I didn’t stop to find out as it was getting late – for me.

Yes, it was quite late for me – nearly 10 pm in fact, which probably explains why it was so much busier than usual on the way back! I must remember to stay out longer in the evenings.

It has been raining very heavily on and off all day, and the roads are quite wet. The drainage ditch is now running again (it had become rather dry before) and I am delighted to hear the frogs are back with a vengeance. Bravo!

Saturday 25^th March

A change of beverage at "Cassa Pizza" Tonight

If this was like our annual holiday I’d be well on my way home by now, but I’m here for another three weeks yet. The sense of time-passage is a subject that has always intrigued me. When you’re on holiday, don’t you often feel that the first half goes slowly, and then the second passes in the blink of an eye? In some ways it seems as though I have been here for ever. In other ways, I have just arrived. How can you have such contradictory impressions simultaneously? I don’t know, but it certainly leaves you somewhat disoriented. I do have a routine of sorts, so I suppose that will provide an anchor. But it’s still weird; almost as weird-seeming as my first month working from home. Gosh, was that really THIS year?

Last night was distinctly tempestuous – if you get my drift (and believe me you’re better not to). I’m forcibly reminded of Lenny Henry’s immortal line as the voice of “Ernie”, the driver of the “Night Bus” in one of the Potter movies: “Clench yar buttocks – its gonna be a bompy ride!”.

I must make a note to avoid the “shrimps” in future. Can you get “Delhi Belly” in Mauritius? It sounds incongruous. I think I’ll call it “Do-do’s Revenge!” Yes, I like that title. I’m feeling rather better now, though a little fragile. I think it might be wise not to stray too far from Da Bungalow today…

Now there’s another curious thing: I guess it’s compulsory to get the collywobbles at some point when you’re travelling in hot climates. But does that mean that if, say, I had only been staying here for one week, rather than five, it would have got me after the first three days? Interesting. How does it know? Caroline & Pete better beware. Enough of that though!

The morning is a bright and clear one with a vivid blue sky. There are some clouds in the distance but nothing too threatening.

As I am feeling considerably stronger I decide to walk to the Spar to do my grocery shopping. I fancy Camembert for a change, with my hot-dog bun. Before visiting the shop I had a look at the beach. What a contrast with yesterday. The sea itself is almost translucent this morning. I didn’t take the camera, unfortunately, wanting to leave plenty of room in the back pack for provisions.

And I spotted someone being hauled through the sky by a boat, dangling (the “someone”; not the boat) from one of those half-parachute-half-kite contraptions that you wouldn’t catch me dead on. “Parakite” by any chance? No, surely not; that sounds more like the McCaws I saw last week – only as might be pronounced by HRH.

At the Spar I re-stocked with anti-mosquito spray and sun-block as well as the usual items. Camembert also duly located and included!

(I know, you think I must be mad subjecting my plumbing to that right after the “Revenge”. Well, I guess I am).

[I bet you’re finding all this shopping detail REALLY fascinating, by the way, aren’t you? Well who knows, you might find it helpful if ever you decide to pay a visit here.]

There are Easter eggs on sale. And of course, it hasn’t happened yet, has it? But that’s impossible. Easter must surely have been months ago by now. I mean, how long ago was Christmas? Well, I suppose not long, if you base your clues on old Guiseppe selling ice cream down Flic en Flac beach. And there’s yet another seamless link in the chain of idle thoughts (“Seamless link”? Oh well.). I’m sipping my vanilla tea at the moment. It’s like drinking a hot ice cream! Very peculiar. In case I forgot to mention it earlier, vanilla tea is a speciality of Mauritius.

I have something of a dilemma: Last night, Maryse (the name on her business card), who is the proprietoress of the Casa Pizza, told us all that there is to be an “orchestra” there this evening (Saturday). They will be playing proper (I imagine) Mauritian music – Séga and so on. On the other hand, I was there last night, and look what happened. AND there’s the promised “jam session” next door. I suppose I could compromise; have a fairly safe-looking pizza and then, when I’ve had a taste of the orchestra sneak out to “Kenzibar”. Aye, that’s maybe what I’ll do. But it’s the crack of noon now, so lunch is the immediate priority. Bon appetit!

Ee, that wor reet good. You know, as time slips by I’m becoming increasingly convinced I should abandon all notions of writing a text book in favour of more of this kind of thing. Yes, I know it’s embarrassingly amateur, but it’s just got to be more entertaining than Eyring’s Theory of Rate-Activated Temperature-Dependent Viscoelastic Processes. Hasn’t it?

Hmm. I wonder whether there’s a school somewhere in the Faculty of Humanities that might be prepared to accept it as a contribution towards their RAE. No. Definitely not.

Incidentally, there may well be few piccies from today. Sorry about that. But tomorrow should make up for it. (The Botanics).

In an email yesterday, Nick suggested I might make this a blog. I would like to do that. I need to find a way of restricting it just to friends and family though. How easy is that? He also suggested linking it up with the pictures – maybe via Flickr - which would be ideal.

Update – I believe I have managed to set up a basic blog profile using the Google facility. Next I have to figure out what to do with it, but I’ll keep you posted (Hee-hee – “posted”. Ooh, is there no end to his wit?)

Me feet swelled up summat rotten today – especially the right one. I don’t really know why. It isn’t all that hot. I may be visiting the British Council on Tuesday, and am a bit worried I won’t be able to fit my shoes on (SHOES!!! YuK!). Not only that – I will probably have to wear a jacket – maybe even a tie. Can’t remember the last time I did that.

Well, I wonder what this evening’s entertainment will be like. It’s just coming up to 7.00 pm so I’m thinking about heading off in the general direction of nosh.

The “orchestra” turned out to be another duo. A guy on a Yamaha keyboard looking and sounding suspiciously like my own PSR540,

and a vocalist. The keyboard player opened up with a rendition of “Blue Bossa” – I know because it’s one we used to attempt in the old days of “Moondance”. He played over pre-recorded backing – which I would guess he’d done himself. Once the singer joined in it was straight in with classic Mauritian favourites like “Sorry (Seems to be the Hardest Word) au Elton John, and “Sex Bomb” au Tom Jones which, for reasons I cannot even begin to fathom seems to have gripped the nation. It pops up all over the place on TV, and as background music in cafés and restaurants. They really should have the courage of their convictions and play the authentic stuff. To be fair they did do a couple of Mauritian numbers, but it was more subdued than I imagine the REAL thing ought to be. Anyway, these are they:

The "Orchestra"

Tonight I stuck to Rhum Arrangé but had a Pizza Da Vinci, red wine and an espresso so as not to over-do things. I met the Norwegian guy briefly. They’d had a successful day dolphin-watching, but the elder lad was suffering from too much sun.

In the lulls between numbers, the free-form strains of trumpet, sax, drums and guitar drifted across from Kenzibar, seeming curiously at-odds with the smooth, synthetic style of the lads above.

Though once again I stood outside the Kenziba and listened for a short while, I didn’t go in. An early night in readiness fro tomorrow’s trip, I think.

1.00 pm: the sun is smiling down once more and the birds are full of the joys of whatever-the-heck season it is here.

I haven’t been able to connect to the Manchester University mail server for the past couple of days. This is probably just the latest chapter in the “Mike Wilding Vs The University of Manchester Payroll Department” Saga[2], and as such nothing to worry about. It does, however, mean that those of you who are based at that esteemed institution had better use Gmail from now on if you want to contact me (but then why would you?).

Now, where was I? Oh yes … I mustn’t forget there’s to be live music at “Casa Pizza” this evening. I should take the camcorder.

---

[1] Aka, I believe, a “U-ie”.

[2] In two spirited attempts to eradicate me completely from the university payroll towards the end of 2005, the salaries and wages office sent me not one, but two separate P45s. For you non-UK folk, that’s the Inland Revenue form they hand you when they no longer require your services, to put it politely. Oh what the hell - when they kick you out. The first of these was clearly intended for a “Mr Michael Raymond Wilding”. To be fair to them, they did get my address right. Where the plot failed was that my middle name is Anthony. (As it happens, I am also Dr, but hey - let’s not be proud!). This P45 was therefore relatively easy to deflect. That particular member of the Wilding clan had apparently left the university’s employ in November. So I got what was left of his salary. But none of my own. The second attempt was more cunning, because it was clearly aimed at “Dr Michael Anthony Wilding”. And they were even cannier this time because they had my National Insurance Number correct. And you expect me to be keen to return from Mauritius? Do me a favour!!

Part 5: 22nd & 23rd March in Flic en Flac and The University

Wednesday 22^nd March

The all-important "Green Island" rum!

Another free day (!) Just did my shopping at the Spar. Picked up an extra pack of 30 Vape Pads for the mozzie killers, and other bits and pieces – including some Savlon, because I have developed a blister under my big toe and, surprisingly, I couldn’t spot any antiseptic cream in the First Aid kit. Got some matches as well, and some more incense sticks. I’m Trying a different flavour. These are allegedly Pot Pourri. I lit one. It doesn’t seem as strong as the previous batch.

The bite on my shin doesn’t itch now, but it is still visible. I am sipping vanilla tea whilst typing this, incidentally. It’s very tasty.

Digressing slightly, once more: I am impressed by how clean it is here. Mauritians pride themselves on it – of course there are some rubbishy bits. One good thing is they seem to empty our bin almost every day – maybe someone should pass that on to Macclesfield Burough Council! And as I look out of the patio window, I see that the groundsmen are clipping the shrubs. All very neat and tidy. It’s a really nice day today. Bright blue sky with a stiff breeze. Yesterday evening it was definitely cooler as well. Not that you’d need a sweater, but very pleasant walking about. Is it still snowing in GB, I wonder?

Not a great deal to report from today really. A fairly lazy one all told. I did some tidying-up of files on the computer during the morning, but that’s about it. I sometimes feel a bit of a charlatan, but then I tell myself that just messing about relaxing is valuable in itself. You wouldn’t want to go trekking off every day by yourself. Not that it’s dangerous, just a bit of a faff! And you wouldn’t believe how long it takes me to prepare just to walk out of the door! First, make sure I’ve sprayed. Sun cream? Where did I put the keys? Go back because I may have forgotten to spray round my feet. Forgot something else, etc etc..So I decided to just accept it for now, and had a slap-up lunch instead: a bread roll with Bresse Blue cheese.

These rolls are in fact intended for hot dogs, but fit the bill very nicely. Speaking of dogs, there are large numbers of stray ones roaming around everywhere. Fortunately they are exceedingly docile, and don’t seem to bother with people at all, really.

After lunch I meandered down to FeF again to purchase two bottles of “Green Island” white rum. All for Caroline, naturally! They are on special offer, and I got them for Rs145 (ca £2.70) each.

While I’m down here I take a few “mood” shots of FeF and the beach area. It is somewhat disconcerting, given the current concern over bird flu, to find yourself surrounded by chickens and the occasional cockerel whilst sitting on the beach. Still, I doubt it has reached here yet. With luck it never will.

I then decide to deposit my purchases before returning in time to take some sunset pics. Now here’s something deeply disturbing: as I was passing the open patio door of one of the neighbouring bungalows to my own, I heard the unmistakable strains of “Oh Suzannah (don’t you cry for me. For I’m bound for Lousiana with a banjo on my knee)” being played on a mouthorgan! Maybe I should make myself known to the “harpist”, and we can attempt a duet – always assuming our two instruments are in the same key. Of course, he/she probably possesses all 12. That would put me to shame as I only have one. In G major.

Whilst at chez moi I photograph a nearly-complete set of coins; for Mr Bailey’s benefit, yet again!

Mauritian coins

The 10-Rupee bears a striking resemblance to our own 50p piece, don’t you think? So one will need to exercise extra caution on returning to the UK

OK, so I’m now back at the beach about to wait for sunset. I can’t believe it. Old “Jingle Bells” the ice cream purveyor is at it again. So he DID survive the week, then! Not merely survived: now he’s in even more defiantly mood, blaring out his seasonal ditty big-time.

I mentioned cockerels a little earlier. You know this obsession some of us have with which way water circulates as it goes down the plug-hole, and whether one sees the Moon right way up or upside down, in the Southern Hemisphere? Well I can confirm another odditiy to add to the list: cockerels perform in reverse. Just as the lower limb of the sum was kissing the horizon, up he pipes. Ah well!

One of my feet is swelling up: the one with the blister on the big toe. I wonder, neurotically, if this is the first symptom of “the virus”. [now, back at the bungalow – at about 10.00pm - I am typing up this report, and I feel the effect gradually creeping up my lower limb. It is quite painful now. Maybe it will be better by the morning. If not, I might consider emailing Caroline a photo so she can check it out with our quack! I feel a bit like half the Elephant Man at the moment.]

I got some superb sunset shots. Here’s one for you to savour:

Earlier today I enquired about glass-bottomed boats and dolphin-watching trips. It doesn’t seem worth it by myself, as the price is so high. You need a group to make it economical.

A rash thought occurred to me as well – maybe I should try my hand at this travel-writing lark after I retire. [Whaddya mean, you thought I already had?! Damned cheek! I’ll have you know its hard work enjoying yourself.]

Back to “The Leslie” for dinner. Still no sign of Mme Leslie herself. It is before 7.00pm so, naturally, I am the first there. I order the usual – a Rum Leslie, by which time, surprisingly, it is beginning to get close to busy, with the arrival of a party of 4-5 folks and a couple. I can distinctly smell citronella tonight. Not something I’ve noticed on my previous visits.

At the table where the party are eating there is a bit of a commotion as a small rodent weaves its way between their legs. The two staff do their best with broom and dust-pan, but it’s clearly a loosing battle. Anyway, the little fellow is probably long gone by now. And after all, we are eating al fresco, and it is merely la nature! I didn’t make a fuss when Clarence (or was it Claude – I forget) cockroach came to watch me eat on my first visit here).

I sampled the Cerf (venison) à la Créole tonight. Plus two beers; and I was too full for a dessert. So just an espresso and home - to work.

As I am walking back from "The Leslie", a car draws up beside me and the guy winds the window down. Is he about to ask for directions? Me? A tourist? Or could it be something more sinister? He sounds jolly enough, though I can’t understand what he’s saying. Then I twig – he’s one of my university drivers! Spotted me walking along and stopped to say hello! Nice gesture, that.

In the road leading to the complex all is deathly quiet, except for the crickets and, very faintly, the distant croaking of a few isolated frogs. This is indeed worrying.

My right foot feels a bit worse now, so I take a couple of paracetamols.

Hark – I think I just heard “Gordon”. So at least he’s safe! Bon nuit.

Thursday 23^rd March

I awoke a couple of times during the night with some pain and an uncomfortable sensation in my feet and lower limbs – a sort of puffy feeling. By this morning they felt much better, although I am still conscious of slight swelling in my right. I’m highly relieved though - for obvious reasons!

Yesterday I decided to put a “Vape-Pad” device in the kitchen-dining area. This morning I found this on the draining board:

Could this be the culprit?

Mercifully, it was as dead as the nations’ symbol. So: a) the “Vape-Pad” really does work; and b) I was right to put it there! I don't believe I have ever seen more than one at any given time, so it's not like the place is swarming with them by any means, however. Nor do I know for sure whether this is the chikungunya-carrying species. What I do know is that it is only the females that bite. [Isn’t it always?]

It’s another university day today. The weather has definitely changed. It is much cooler and cloudy. On the way it begins to rain. It continued for most of the morning, but now (almost 2.00pm) it is getting sunny again.

I met several more staff here today, including members of the Fashion and Design areas. I would like to discuss with them the possibilities for student exchanges. I got shown around the department also, and next week I may visit a company.

A lady from another department introduced herself to me. She is a life-long family friend of my host, Souda, and hopes I will be able to act as a go-between to assist in arranging a second PhD supervisor for her at Manchester University. I tell her it will be a pleasure. She herself has never travelled beyond the local island group, so is obviously very keen to gain international experience. One particular reason she wants to go to Manchester is because she has an aunt living in the area. She gave me the address: it only turns out to be in Great Warford – ie about 3 miles from my own home! When people say “it’s a small world” they really are not joking, are they? I have their address so when I get home I will try contacting them.

The rest of the afternoon passed of fairly uneventfully. The rain of the morning was replaced by sunshine and clouds during the afternoon.

It is now 6.00pm. I am sipping vanilla tea whilst catching up on Pete McC’s escapades, when I become aware of a sensation I haven’t experienced without the aid of aircon since leaving Manchester: by gum, it’s getting a bit nippy. But this is the TROPICS! I suppose it’s possible that I’ve become so acclimatised that I am sensitive to even a slight drop in temperature. But I don’t think so.

It was just a passing fad! Heading off in the general direction of “Casa Pizza” – where I don’t have pizza but Mauritian-style fish & aubergine curry - the air is reassuringly balmy once again. Phew – I was a bit worried for a moment there!

The Maitre D and Mme are very pleasant, and are prepared to chat. A group of three “signers” arrive, and they are accommodated with great courtesy. I couldn’t tell what nationality they were, but Monsieur speaks to them clearly and slowly in English.

I ask Mme about the background music. It is indeed “Seggae”. This is a politically-charged musical form created from the blending of “Séga” (the region’s traditional dance/music) with, as the name might suggest, Reggae. Séga itself originated amongst the African slaves who, by way of relief from the harsh reality of their daily working lives, would dance late into the night on the sandy beaches. It was usually to the accompanying beat of a goatskin drum – the “ravanne”. Afro-Caribbean and Latin styles are clearly present in the roots of Séga. Just like its forerunner, the more recent Seggae has become a vital part of the cultural identity of the Créole population hereabouts. Its leading proponent was a singer named Joseph Topize, better known as “Kaya”. In 1999 he was found dead in a police cell, where he was being held following his arrest for smoking cannabis at a pro-legalisation rally. There were, and continue to be, allegations of police brutality. Not surprisingly, Kaya’s music now stands as a symbol for the fight for freedom of the Créoles who, centuries after the abolition of slavery, still by and large find themselves trapped in the lowest echelons of society. His voice can be heard everywhere in Mauritius.

Tomorrow evening and on Saturday they will be having live music at “Casa Pizza”. I know not what style. I don’t care. I’ll be there. Things are definitely looking up!

I can hear a strange splashing sound outside. It’s about 10.30pm now, so I peep through the curtains. The heavens have opened.

Bonne Soirée!

Part 4: 20th & 21st March in Port Louis and University of Mauritius

Monday 20^th March

Looking down on Port Louis and the harbour, from The Citadel

George. George & Ingrid – Taylor, I believe. That’s who ran “The Orchidéa” in Riva. Phew, I’m glad that popped out!

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 Dublin. “Wilding” is as Anglo-Saxon as they come, and my Dad was originally C of E, though he converted to Catholicism so as to marry Mum, and as a prophylactic against their both having to spend an eternity in Hell, damnation, and general wailing and gnashing of dentures. Although she wound up as a McCormick via Devine[1], Gran’s maiden name was Morgan. That suggests my maternal ancestors must have followed the trend set by no less a personality than the great St Patrick himself, and made the crossing from Holyhead to Dunlaughaire in a coracle. Imagine that. And no Guinness on tap either, to make the voyage half-bearable!

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, Manchester, and who had secreted a pistol in the attic. This would have been perhaps during the 1930s, from what I could gather. One assumes on the run. He was reputed to have Republican connections, but it was safer not to ask.

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. Port Louis today. I’m on the bus by 7.45am. It costs the princely sum of Rs21 from here to PL. A journey of 13 km. Or 20, depending on which source of information you choose to believe. Either way, it’s about as close as you can get to a free ride. (Rs21 is ca. 39p). Certainly cheaper than hiring a car or taking a taxi. (There may be more about taxis later.)

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 Chausée St. Now there’s an interesting mix of lingos for you. But it shows all the signs of having gone the same way as the do-do, a Victorian reconstruction of which it supposedly accommodates. Unless it is hiding; cowering somewhere between the KFC and the wide-screen TV and carpet stores. Suffice it to say I did not discover it. Maybe when Caroline and Pete get here, and we can all fan out as it were, we’ll stand a chance of hunting it down. But for now I will have to content myself with a stroll around the city. It isn’t very big, so you can see most of what you want in a fairly short time/distance. It is a very interesting blend of cultures and styles. The burgeoning, ultra-modern commercial and retail area, with its thrusting sky-scrapers, sits alongside what appear to be shanties; poor-looking small businesses which, I would guess, are struggling to survive. There are mosques, Hindu & Buddhist temples, synagogues, two cathedrals and – for all I know – places of voodoo worship all within an area I would say less than a couple of square miles. So a very interesting place to visit.

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 Port Louis Waterfront

Both owe their heritage to 21^st 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 “Phoenix” beer, of which I have already become quite fond. But it tasted just fine to me. The slogan on the sun-umbrella over there claims it’s: “100% Mauritian beer”. This intrigues me. As far as I can tell, every square inch of agricultural land on the island is given over to sugarcane. So where do they grow the hops and barley then? Mind you, I know there are tea plantations and I haven’t seen any of them either, so who knows.

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 “Blue Penny Museum” which houses two of the world’s oldest and rarest postage stamps – the Mauritius Red Pence and Blue Two-pence. My principal motivation in doing so is to make my colleague Mr Bailey green with envy. (He knows about stamps and things like that.) The two exhibits are so precious that they are housed in a display case immediately adjacent to another one containing replicas (!) They are dimly illuminated for 10 minutes on the hour every hour during opening. They look to me like – well, stamps, actually. The best reason for visiting this museum is not the stamps, although I’d have to admit the history surrounding them is interesting. The main attraction is the wonderful graphically-presented history of Port Louis itself, from its beginnings as a trading post/stop-over for Dutch merchants; who, incidentally, take the prize for being the first, as far we know, to wipe out an entire species – the proverbial do-do - by hunting it to extinction. Apparently, these flightless pigeons had never met Homo Sapiens before. Innocently believing him to be some form of benevolent alien from Alpha Centauri, the poor creatures basically presented themselves on a plate (so to speak). The irony is that the name “Do-do” derives from an old Portuguese term meaning “bad meat”. So they didn’t even enjoy them, then?

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 Port Louis by bus, it is vital not to be “POSH” but “POPH”. Ie “Port Out, Port Home”. I am on the sun-side, trapped there by fellow passengers, and someone with a blow-torch is singing the hairs off my arms – or so it feels. The best I can do is try to shade them somehow under my back-pack. Anyway, I think I survived OK.

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 University of Mauritius. I hope it continues to go as well.

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 Port Louis. I hope it hasn’t been concreted over. Speaking of which, it would seem that the entire nation of Mauritius is sponsored by “Baobab” Portland cement. You see it advertised everywhere – on bus stops, billboards etc. It’s even featured in a 5-second promotion on TV where some Western guy in a suit extols its virtues in an over-dubbed sort of way. Mind you, the island certainly is taking on the appearance of a monster building site. I do so hope that the government wises up in time to prevent them from concreting over Paradise. Shades of Joni Mitchell’s “Big Yellow Taxi”? Which reminds me: I knew I had something to say about taxis. There are taxis everywhere. Fair enough (or maybe that should be “fare enough”?).

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 21^st 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 Manchester University!

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 “Phoenix” was the beer of choice. I enquired about the “100% Mauritian beer” claim. The hops and barley are imported. I see. But the company is wholly-Mauritian owned.

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 6.40pm. About 20 minutes ago I heard an almighty noise like a World War-2 fighter aircraft on full throttle and at low level. It sounded like it was approaching, and then disappearing off into the distance. I thought no more of it. Just now I heard it again. Peeping though the curtains, I saw a huge swathe of whitish smoke which appeared to be emanating from an unseen vehicle hurtling past on the other side of the compound wall. These were not exhaust fumes. Only the island’s buses can produce anywhere near that quantity – and theirs are black. No. It’s pretty obvious now what it is. The fact that the government is taking this pest so seriously should be comforting. But it is also strangely unsettling.

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.

---

[1] because she married twice: I never knew my real grandfather – Devine - as he died soon after My Uncle Jim was born.

[2] Recent names of the band I play in. By changing the name periodically we think we can escape detection.

Part 3: 18th & 19th March in Flic en Flac and Casela

Saturday 18^th March

The famous Spar complex in Flic en Flac

Set my alarm clock especially early (6am) last night in an attempt to beat the rush down to the beach – see what it’s like just after the crack of dawn. It’ll be deserted and so tranquil. Hmm. Got up early enough, but given how long it takes to shower; have a quick breakfast (mango juice and cereal); film the cousin of “The Leslie Restaurant” cockroach (remember him/her?) near the ironing board and cream-up for the morning (you know, the three varieties of fly-magnet) it’s gone 7 by the time I arrive shore-side. Well, yes, it was fairly tranquil, but certainly not deserted. Lots of folk were about. Some swimming; some strolling along the shoreline; some fishing; others doing soccer training. (You know, all that prancing and trotting around in circles stuff they do with the coach over in Partington or wherever it is, running on the spot and generally doing anything except kick a ball?). And another for you Pete: a group of karate novices - not kids, but young adults - were being taken through their paces by the thingyperson. Oh, what do you call the “master”? I forget now. No doubt it’ll come to me later. They can’t have been really serious though because they were all in mufti. Can you imagine that? Not so much as a tunic or a white-belt to be seen anywhere? Even the leader was dressed in jeans and T-shirt. I dunno - standards are definitely on the way down.

And Pete, that reminds me: did you see a news item the other day about India winning Olympic gold (or somesuch) in the air rifle competition? There they all were (not all Indian, but various nationalities of course), looking amazingly like clones of Andy down at the Altrincham club, with all the leather gear etc!

Next I went to the hole-in-the-wall at the bank, and another successful transaction was made. It’s probably the best place around here because there is usually a uniformed officer standing nearby.

Then off to the Spar – usual stuff: fruit juice, bread, cheese. Loaded up with two carrier bags. On the way back to the bungalow I spotted a rather large lizard at the roadside. Now, very handily I have with me my camcorder; nicely tucked away at the bottom of my backpack, and having both hands occupied with Spar-produce I don’t even attempt to film it. There will be other opportunities. Perhaps. But I swear the devils (and that includes the most colourful birds hereabouts) do this kind of thing deliberately. They know. They spot you and think: “Ah-ha! Who’s a dozy touroid, then? Forgot to have your camera ready, didn’t you my lad! I’ll just give you a delightful display, get you all flustered so you won’t be able to produce and deploy the kit in time.” And then: “Here it comes, the Konika … Ta-ta, mate. I’m off!”. I’m sure we’ve all been there. Or somewhere like it.

Just realised I did all the above, including typing up to this point, before 11 am. Impressed? [If only I could be so prolific writing research papers … well the less said about that the better for now, methinks!]

A short while ago I made my regular vain attempt to extract a useful summary of today’s top international news stories from the TV. Found BBC World. Pete McCarthy has an alternative name for it: “BBC Bland International” – and I know exactly what he’s talking about. Why is it that the very instant you step foot off dear old Blighty you are supposed, by some mysterious biological process not yet even begun to be understood, to develop an insatiable appetite for the Dubai Stock Exchange? Hmm? Why? The best thing that can be said about BBCBI is that it isn’t CNN. That’s on a different channel. Or not. I think it depends on which way the wind is blowing. At any rate even as I type, the Michigan Aces are no doubt thrashing the living daylights out of the Little Rock Daredevils. Either that or it’ll be “world” news: ie Iran’s audacious determination to have what proper “civilised” “trustworthy” nations take for granted but which, because it isn’t, it can’t. And in-depth analysis of course. In-excruciating-depth. [Actually, I am firmly convinced that the world needs nuclear power rather less than it needs an attack of monster asteroids, but at least let’s have a level playing field!]

Mind you, the other channels are not much better - although they are more entertaining, in a squirmingly embarrassing sort of way. It’s when you catch a Hindi soap that’s been dubbed into French, uses backdrops to make “Crossroads”[1] proud, and in which, without prior warning, the actors launch into a high-spirited and jolly love duet that you remind yourself of why you came here in the first place. TO NOT WATCH TV.

Most of the afternoon frittered away faffing about making most of my photos small enough for the internet. It is an unbelievably slow and tedious business because I can see no way of avoiding going through the entire process separately for each one – it would be nice to be able to set a default size-reduction of 25%, for instance. But no. Clearly that would be too useful.

I just had a pleasant swim. The place is much busier now, with many other people using the pool. I formed the impression they were all Mauritians, of Indian extraction. I suspect they flock to the coast for the weekend. I’ll be curious to see what the situation is come Monday.

My conscience got the better of me, as it were, and I decided to return to “The Leslie Restaurant”. There was one single guy already there, but that was all (at about 7.10pm). I ordered Rhum des Iles, Le poulet à la Créole and a Phoenix beer. As usual, it was all scrumdiddlyumptious. No sign of Mme Leslie though! Help – she hasn’t taken the huff because I missed out last night?? Only kidding. Course she wouldn’t have. Another notable absence is Clarence the “cockroach”. Having earlier read someone’s blog on a visit to Mauritius, I now believe s/he to be in fact a cockroach. These monsters fly, too.

On the way home I get the most spectacular view of The Milky Way, it being as yet too early for the Moon to have risen. I don’t think I’ve seen it like that since the Norfolk Broads once when I was a youth on hols.

So back to complete this record, download the pics etc. I walk into the spare bedroom, and there, bold as you like, on the far wall, is “Cuthbert”, cousin of Clarence. What to do. What I really want to do is, through structured argument, persuade the beastie to leave the premises forthwith, but that is not going to be an option – they run like Olympic sprinters. Then I remember from somewhere that they become less active as the temperature drops, and the seed of another cunning plan begins to germinate. Put the A/C on, shut the door and come back in 15 mins. Good. That done, return. Aha. He’s still there. Sneak up on him with the broom and dust-pan, and … he’s off again – scurry scurry. He gets panicked and takes to filght – blimey he’s got a wing-span to rival an Airbus (A300 Series)! He bumbles round the room, lands and scurries – and the process is repeated several more time before I decide an even more cunning plan is needed. Got it! Remember seeing an ashtray in the kitchen As I don’t smoke I have no qualms about sullying it with essence of cockroach! He’s sitting smugly on the wall twitching his moustache (sorry - feelers). Grab the nearest piece of flat material to hand which, appropriately enough turns out to be an RSPCA leaflet. (It features a picture of a fluffy little kitten and the words “How Could They?”. I wonder if they would have as much concern if it was Cuthbert’s mug-shot on there). Anyway, I creep up on him and – GOT HIM. Slide the leaflet underneath. The only parts of him visible are his feelers desperately seeking some meaning to his new-found situation, But not to worry because the window is already open ready, and – yes – off he flits into the night. Phew!! Glad that’s over. I think if he returns, or any of his pals, I’ll concede defeat and give them free run of the establishment.

An egg (un ouef) for one day, je pense.

Sunday 19^th March

The legendry Pink Pigeon of Mauritius

Almost a tinge of regret that “Cuthbert” hasn’t sneaked back in during the night. Almost. But not quite.

On the other hand, the presence, in isolated spots on the living room floor – and on the kitchen sink surround – of what I fear may be small rodent droppings brings back some of the old angst. Now I wonder about the wisdom of admitting to having seen the “device against rats” I blithely allowed to pass back to its rightful owner last week! I wonder if the Spar has them. I must look. It being Sunday, it may not be open. Never mind. Tomorrow will do.

I managed a real proper load of washing this morning. It’s just like being home. Well maybe not.

It’s a rather different kind of day today. Feels pleasant enough but the sky is distinctly overcast. Not actually raining though.

Now I think, despite Dharma’s assurances to the contrary, that those little wall-lizards really are geckos because I looked them up on the internet. They certainly have big bright eyes that remind me of a bush-baby’s – and that would fit. Geckos’ feet “stick” to surfaces by virtue of Van der Waals forces. Did you know that? Not suckers, like flies etc. Lots of tiny hairs under their feet. Imagine how many they’d need! To give you some idea of scale, I suppose the largest one I’ve seen is about 4 inches from head to tip of tail. So not exactly rivals to Godzilla! Never mind, if they keep the flies down they’re very welcome. To put your mind at ease, I have not so far encountered one in the bedroom. I keep that door shut at all times just in case, though. They probably don’t like the lower temperature in there anyway (due to the air con at night). [update on Wed 22^nd: I did see one there. It also lives behind he curtain].

I think I’ll dub my little fellow in the kitchen “Gordon”: Gordon Gecko. Nice. In fact, here he is, taken the other evening:

"Gordon" the gecko

Sorry to keep boring on about the fauna. But it really is quite fascinating, and something you get no real sense of from the guide books and brochures. OK, done with it for now!

I intend to take a bus somewhere to try out the service. Not sure where, yet. Maybe wherever it goes! What does it matter? But tomorrow, it’s Port Louis. Definitely. Intriguingly, the LPG explains that the final “s” is silent – like it wouldn’t be? It’s French! It fails to point out that the “t” is almost certainly silent as well. One of the bizarre features of PL, its author claims, is the doubling-up and even tripling-up of street names, which very often mix English (eg “Street”) and French (eg “Rue”) apparently at random. I can tell her that, unfathomable though that is, such perverse decisions are not unique to PL: if I need to use the Tourist Information Bureau in Flic en Flac I will have to wait till tomorrow because it is closed all weekend. But then, I suppose the rest of the week is very much like a weekend anyway.

Had lunch here – the rest of the brie with a baguette. Then struck out to find a bus. It costs Rs14 to the Flic en Flac Junction, amid the sugarcane, taking about 10 minutes. The Casela Nature and Leisure Park is about 1km south along the main road, in the direction away from PL. The setting is quite striking, and there are many grand vistas on the way. So I managed a few good shots. The park, when you get there, is set in very attractive grounds with plenty of greenery and vivid flowering shrubs. I would say as a “zoo” it is not all that impressive. The range of bird species I saw was not that great, and as can be seen from the pics, your view of them is frequently hampered by the wire mesh of their cages. However, to be fair, I didn’t explore the whole park, wanting to leave more to be discovered on the next visit. So I didn’t see the tigers, tortoises and that sort of thing. I DID see the legendry pink pigeon though. Its … well, a pigeon. And faintly pink. Quite an attractive bird all the same. The blurred out-of-focus wire mesh framing it in my pictures tends to give it a rather sentimental birthday/wedding/”Other Occasion” card feel.

Well, then a walk back up the road. Nay, it wasn’t all that obvious that it had been all downhill getting there. Well it was, I suppose, but I’d conveniently forgotten that! It was lucky that the day was overcast and probably the coolest it’s been up to now. Back here, shower and do a spot of reading. The pool is too jam-full.

Annoyingly, I lost a bit of the keyfob that the bungalow owner gave me. It’s one of those little AAA-powered lights – LED I guess. It didn’t work, but it was an easy identifier for the back door as opposed to the front door – very similar keys, you see. It must have dropped off somewhere en route to or from Casela. I’m not going to retrace my steps though! Just have to own up. Maybe I can find one that works in a shop somewhere and replace it for him. Trouble is, now I’m left with a nagging question: was there anything else also attached; something more valuable? Such as another key? I don’t think so, but...

The “young family” kicking the ball about yesterday are at it again today. With a vengeance. I can’t decide whether the little person is actually a kid or not. He looks as though he could be older, and possibly a thalidomide victim; and there are several teenaged lads. Between ‘em they’ve been giving the herbage a fair old bashing. Sometimes the ball comes frighteningly close to “my” very expensive-looking patio window. It’s precisely now that I begin to appreciate the solitude and peace of the previous week! I suppose they may just be here for the weekend? Please?

Almost have to spin a coin to decide where to have dinner this evening. Reckon I’ll just saunter down and see what takes my fancy – or what is open, more like.

It came down to “The Sea Breeze” for, I think, the fourth time. Never mind, their menu is man enough to stand it. Tonight I sampled their rum. It came with ice and lemon. Then I ordered the “Poisson Imperial” No, that’s not fish with a little round mint sweetie. The latter comes with the bill. It’s an impressive production in which fish, it has to be said, plays only a minor rôle. The cast of thousands includes champignons (mushrooms) and water chestnuts (I think). Accompanied by green vegetables (cabbage) in garlic and plain boiled rice. It would certainly merit an encore.

Since you’ve heard about it so many times, you might want to know what it looks like:

Inside "The Sea Breeze"

Sorry it’s a bit fuzzy. Still no Séga in evidence. It has to be because I’m not “living it up” like I’m supposed to now I’m off the leash for a while. But the fact is I’m too used to being tucked up and in the Land of Nod by a respectable 10.30. OK, maybe 12, on occasion – but that’s mainly been due to this typing I keep doing on the laptop!)

The only trouble with “The Sea Breeze” is that the waiters prowl like examination invigilators. I start to panic in case they deem my effort unworthy of the requisite 40% (minimum) of what you ordered to be consumed, or else you’re out! Thankfully, I manage a heroic 100%. Then another beer. And an espresso. Should I be worried about this growing addiction to rum, beer and espresso? Yes, probably. But I’m not.

There’s a place up north near Grand Baie (according to the tourist map) called “Les Orchidées”. I feel a moral obligation to investigate that at some stage – for old time’s sake, and in honour of Thingy and Ingrid (short-term memory loss – now I AM frightened!), former proprietors of “The (The, note) Orchdéa” in Riva, N Italy, where we spent two very pleasant summer holidays a few years back.

I’m on the way back to the bungalow. The frogs are gigging at an incredible volume – and without the aid of a PA too! I think it is safe to say that I have never before, in my entire life, heard such an amphibious cacophony as this. I wonder how they know, in a tropical climate, that it’s the breeding season. I guess they just go for it full-time. Good on ‘em!

Well, I reckon I’m getting confident enough to strike out for THE CAPITAL tomorrow – Port Louis, with silent “s” and (probably) “t”.

Night-night all.

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[1] No, not as immortalised by Robert Johnson. “Crossroads”, for those who don’t know it, was a famous (infamous) English soap. RJ would turn in his grave if he ever found out. The series was eventually put out of its misery and laid to rest a couple of decades ago. RIP I say!