Lost in Paradise
We land in Mauritius almost simultaneously
with another brace of planes. The
airport looks very much like most such places, but noticeably larger than on my
last visit in 1970. The formalities
are short; we seniors are luckily treated preferentially along with families
travelling with children, whereas the hoi polloi have to stand in a long queue. The heat envelops us like a warm and stifling hug. Every pore sheds its load in the unaccustomed
humidity. A hiccup: our hire car is
nowhere to be seen – or more correctly, the firm is nowhere visible and to our
consternation, no other car firm seems to have heard of them. One of the taxi drivers tries to assuage our fears. Perhaps they will come looking for us if we just
wait in front of the arrivals building.
He is so right. After a while a
dapper man arrives bearing a sheet of paper with my mangled name printed on it. He was attending to another customer first. Then a lengthy wait in the parking area while his
colleague sorts out aforementioned client and finally we are on our way.
The road to our new home had been
gone over so many times on Google Earth that it was really a doddle to find our
abode – after overshooting the entrance and having to reverse back against the
traffic. No problem on this gentle island. Allowances are made for idiots and other tourists. Our landlady is awaiting us in the street; though
we didn’t notice her until she comes down the drive after us. We introduce ourselves to this slim, middle-aged
lass, clad in short-shorts and singlet (the correct attire here) and she gives
us the Cook’s Tour of the premises.
The studio Tecoma is enchanting; perched atop another two apartments on the
ground floor, looking over a tropical garden shaded by big mango and Indian
Almond trees. A blue pool winks. Inside, everything is where it should be, as it
should be – faultless. A bowl of
fruit awaits, milk & ice-cubes in the fridge, complimentary soft drinks, a
couple of beers… we are overwhelmed with hospitality.
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| What a life ! |
But we must see the beach. Diagonally across the Route Royal, down past the
side of the main house and we have our first view of our ‘plage privee’. A sea-wall of dark basalt blocks raises the level
of the garden, where you can sit under casuarina trees and watch the breakers
on the reef a kilometre away, foaming over a wreck; a lighthouse towers above a
low island to the north. The lagoon
is a beautiful blue with darker patches of coral.
A light easterly breeze wafts in; one or two people laze within view – for the
rest, our only company are a few doves, mynahs and bishop birds in their
scarlet plumage. We promise
ourselves a sunrise dip.
Meanwhile we have to go shopping. Just a few minutes up the coastal road towards
Mahebourg, a small supermarket with attendant butcher, boutiques and various
other small shops. There are a wide
variety of products – almost entirely imported from South
Africa and Europe, as
far as we can see; the prices carry a lot of air miles.
We dawdle along doing frantic conversions.
Meat and fish are packed in miserly frozen portions for two people; prices
start at about R80 and spiral into the stratosphere.
Pallid chicken sausages seemingly feed a large proportion of the population. We buy a few dispirited vegetables, some staples, the
inevitable baguette and lots of liquids and flee back to our studio to relish
the cool blast from the air-conditioning, toast slit baguette and spread it
generously with a fine Danish pork pate for supper after a sundowner.
An early morning swim; we try out
our snorkelling gear. Neither of us
are water-babies but fortunately the corals are less than ten metres from the
beach, and the main concern is not to trample and break them, as well as to
avoid the numerous sea urchins’ menacing spines.
Shoals of little striped fish sample our skins and butt us pugnaciously. Pity so much of the reef is in poor condition due
to rising sea levels, global warming, pollution and human disturbance. Still, there is a Marine Reserve at Blue Bay,
just round the corner of the headland which we visit on another occasion. That time we take a ride in a glass-bottomed boat,
which all too quickly glides over clumps of staghorn, table-top, mushroom and
brain-coral among some thirty-six species to be found.
Metre-long trumpet fishes hang like static sword blades in the clear waters,
while shoals
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| Schools of brightly coloured fish |
of gaily striped fish school around the snorkeler splashing
fearfully around the boats. All very
picturesque and ‘David Attenboroughish’.
There are no seashells to be seen – an enormous difference from my previous
visit. On the other hand, none of
the ubiquitous seashell-sellers standing on each street corner hawking their
wares, either. It looks as if this
industry has stopped dead; there is a blanket prohibition on collecting and
possessing live shells in force, and even washed up dead shells are limited to
ten per person. Still, in 1970 it
was possible for even an amateur like myself to grab a few souvenirs off the
reef and ocean floor without any great effort, so I was part of the problem
then and the bare reefs are the result.
Hopefully this will now be given a chance to repair itself.
Our host tells us that there is a
market every day at Mahebourg, so we drive in even though it is Sunday. Most dispiriting; everything looks limp and tired
but the promise is of better things to come on the main market day, Monday. On a whim, we carry on through the warren of
lanes, without more than a general idea where we are heading, up the coast,
towards the North. The road is
incredibly tortuous, in places no more
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| Up the East cost on the Road to Flaq |
We somehow arrive in Centre de
Flaq – not that we intended to. Left
turn, right turn, another into what looks like a main thoroughfare, but proves
to be a one-way against us. Oncoming
traffic flashes lights, hoots briefly, but nobody gets aggravated – there is no
place for road rage in paradise.
Anybody can make a mistake, as we do.
Out of town and as it clouds over, we think we are heading north. We meander mainly through
By this time we are starving and
call a halt at an unprepossessing little wayside café.
A lovely Indian lady greets us, nods at our request for food, and offers
noodles or rice. We opt for the
latter. Plain fried rice with a few
specks of shrimp, chicken and innominate vegetables, but it fills the void. No matter that the plastic tablecloth edge is
stained with what looks like blood (we discover it is my own and hastily
bandage the bumped elbow and clean the table).
We exchange a few companionable words with our hostess as we find that she
speaks excellent English, having spent four years in London.
She, in turn, is surprised that we come from South Africa, as we are obviously
European, not black of hue. Once
more we are on our way and triumphantly return well satisfied from our initial
foray and have a quick dip in the pool before cooking up a tasty stir-fry,
complete with lashings of local prawns.
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| Mahebourg Monday Market |
Monday is market day in Mahebourg. This time the place is a hive of activity. Stalls are heaped with a melange of greenery,
leaves, stalks, fruits, cucurbits and legumes – many unfamiliar. There is Jackfruit, both lusciously ripe and green
as a vegetable, stuffed with edible pips the size of Brazil nuts; longans,
similar to lychees, zat, a type of custard apple, exotic dragon fruit, with its
exotic looks and little flavour and the acid carambol or star fruit, as well as
all the subtropical and deciduous fruits that we know and of which many come from our
homeland. The preponderant vegetable
seems to be the gourd family. All
shapes and sizes, with exotic names like pipangaye, patole, galbase, margoze
and chou-chou, as well as huge green marbled pumpkins and loofahs. In summer temperatures of 34 degrees almost every
day, salad greens are almost non-existent, but the Mauritians do love their
greens and middens of various ‘bredes’ are available; stuff that we would call
bok choy, Napa cabbage, turnip greens, Taro leaves and stalks, pumpkin vines
and leaves, water spinach and a host of herbs that are an integral part of
Indian and Creole cuisine. People
are serious about their shopping.
Veg are prodded, turned, sniffed and discussed before approval. Amazingly almost everything is labelled with a
price, often per quantities of 100 g or half a kilo; most confusing. Vociferous bargaining seems to have gone out of
the window – an entirely different situation from half a century ago, when it
was the rule. We gladden the hearts
of several vendors and an old lady selling incredibly tough balls of deep-fried
dough. Our car, and later the
apartment, reeks of jackfruit – pleasant to us, but I believe it is banned in
taxis, like durian further east.
It is easy to slide into this
lazy, lotus-eating existence. Only a
week later the journeys all over the island, the sights, the meals, the
experiences – all blend into a warm, hazy, tropical blur, interspersed with
hours of inactivity sitting in deckchairs under the ragged shade of soughing
casuarinas; cooled by the breeze and the odd bottle of cold sparkling wine. Some days we are lazy, visiting maybe the museum
in Mahebourg; a staid, square, Dutch ‘herehuis’ set in a small forest on the
banks of a river. Cannon peer over
the balustrade and the fattest, biggest mortar guards the entrance to the
gardens. I can’t resist comparing
its rotundity to my
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| Who's got the biggest? |
own. Inside it
is cool; a blessing on another energy-sapping day.
The exhibits are varied and interesting, though not imaginatively displayed. The captions are adequate and mostly in French and
English. Both floors of the building
have the walls plastered with paintings, illustrations from books, maps and
documents. One gets a good sense of
the span of human occupation of this remote island of the dodo, whose only
indigenous mammal was the huge fruit bat, the flying fox, which we observed at Blue Bay,
flapping like an ancient pterosaur between the tall trees of the promenade.
The island is only about
sixty-five by forty kilometres in extent.
It should be possible to explore it all in a day or two.
So I had thought in 1970, and failed miserably in that I barely managed to explore
the southern and western part of the island during my two-week honeymoon. This time we set out determinedly towards the
north. A fine new double highway
promised easy access to the tourist playground of Grand Baie with its myriad
resorts and hotels. In no time we
were alongside the impressive mountains dominated by the improbable profile of
Pieter Both, a mountain with an afterthought of a very large pebble poised
precariously on top. Like Mukorob,
the ‘Finger of God’ in Namibia,
this piece of real estate #mustfall one of these days.
I would hate to be in the vicinity when a few hundred tons of basalt comes crashing
down some six hundred
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| Pieter Both Mountain - 2nd highest on the Island |
At Cap Malheureux a fleeting view
of the Coin de Mire island sets us searching for a parking place. Roads on Mauritius are very often a narrow
raised strip, with no verges whatsoever, and a sheer drop of between
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| Coin de Mire Island off the North Coast |
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| A Dog's Life |
From Grand Gaube onwards the proliferation
of tourist amenities gradually lessens. At a little hamlet, called Roche Terre, we
are suddenly famished and decide to stop at the very next place that promises
to have some form of nourishment available.
We spot a patisserie, and we investigate.
Nothing but garishly coloured sweet pastries and cakes – but we are directed to
a ‘hole in the wall’ across the road, where a man holds
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| Hole-in-the-Wall Snacks |
sway over a gigantic
wok glowing over a roaring gas flame.
In no time at all we have some bajis and a bunch of samoosas cooking. As is the custom, hereabouts, our car blocks half
the street as we wait for lunch.
Just to be companionable, a battered bakkie comes from the other side and
decides this is as good a place to stop as any for no reason at all – blocking
the entire main road. As the
tailback increases on both sides, I start feeling distinctly uncomfortable and
so reverse my car up a side-road; traffic moves once more around the bakkie and
harmony reigns.
Our lunch is tasty as well as
being a bargain, but a stretch further on we spot another little stall,
sporting a glass-sided display cabinet full of these little fried Indian snacks
called Gajak. These consist of gateau
aubergine (eggplant fritters), manioc goujons (cassava chips) and
gateau patat (potato fritters), roti and other nameless, but toothsome
delicacies. I negotiate us a brace
of each on offer from a pleasant lady and we continue our odyssey,
well-provisioned. During our stay we
find as a pleasant surprise that lunch on the island does not always have to
cost $25-60 for two people, the adventurous diner can do as well for a tenth of
that price – drinks excluded. On the
other hand, fruit, which should be available in profusion, is rather expensive
by our standards, as are vegetables.
One wonders what the poor get to eat, since the reefs around the island have
almost been fished out and we only saw tired fish the size of pilchards, or a
little larger, being offered for sale at the roadside.
On through the settlements of
Goodlands and Poudre d’Or, where true to our ambition, we get lost in a maze of
parallel roads, circles and shortcuts (not displayed on our maps), courtesy of
faded road-signage which is often partially obscured by luxuriant herbiage. My navigatrix has no easy task, as I continually
demand directions which she is frantically trying to find.
Still, we emerge triumphant and our next point of reference is Roche Noires,
where, I find out much later, there are extensive lava tubes which geologically
minded tourists should go and visit.
For once the Tripadvisors of the world have let me down as there was no mention
of this when I researched the island for places we might visit. We wind our way through the Bras d’Eau forests
along the coast; a National Park, full of birdlife but oddly made up almost
entirely of exotic trees such as casuarinas, teak, eucalyptus, blackwood, mango
and litchis. If nothing else, it is
a soothing drive through the dappled shade, with the odd glimpse of sea. All over the island magnificent trees abound;
clumps of banyans with cloaks of aerial roots, ficus trees with buttress roots
encroaching onto the road edges, where they are
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| Ensnared by Roots in Pamplemousse |
clipped by passing traffic,
huge mango and breadfruit trees, and hundreds more species imported from other
tropical latitudes. For the
botanically inclined a visit to Pamplemousse Botanic gardens is a given. We spent an incandescent couple of hours there,
earlier during mid-morning, wandering along the network of paths, from bench to
bench, trying to exact the maximum benefit of every spot of shade we can find. A lovely sylvan atmosphere with much birdsong; an
island of tranquility among the surrounding settlement that has consolidated
during the past fifty years. One
circuit, taking in the main features of animals, water and plants, was as much
as we could manage. After viewing
the impressive giant waterlilies, we opt for the air-conditioned interior of
the car.
The triple embayments between
Poste Lafayette and Poste de Flaq are
breathtakingly beautiful. Inland
fields of inominate crops curve over the landscape, tended by women draped in
vivid sari’s and houses are dribbled haphazardly along the roads. Every few hundred metres one seems to be crossing
an estuary; fetid dark waters fringed with mangrove, spill out into the shallow
reef-encircled sea. A Hindu temple
pokes its pink, almost floral cupola out of the greenery.
This rural scene is soon displaced by further encrustations of gleaming tourist
nirvanas which are reaching hungry fingers northwards up the eastern coast. In the past fifty years the population of the
island has grown by 50% to over 1,2 million.
The only economic solution was to attract a flood of sun-seekers to this
paradise to provide work and funds for the locals’ existence. Regrettably, coupled with that is the inevitable
degradation of the fragile environment and the increasing necessity of
importing huge quantities of consumer goods and food.
The price of growth is that the visitors indirectly destroy that which they
come to enjoy.
Having travelled for most of the
day, we discover that we have in reality only covered some one hundred and
sixty kilometres while spending the whole day crossing the island from
southeast to northwest and back again.
Dusk is falling with tropical suddenness as we re-enter Mahebourg, where the
population at large is out on the streets, enjoying the slight respite from the
day’s roasting. We have a little
trouble negotiating through the maze of narrow roads between shops, residences,
all very much out of the same foursquare mould, many in the process of
alteration, with another storey or two under construction to house the next
generation – a zig-zag outside staircase tacked on, precariously supported by a
single pillar. Everything is full of
reinforcing steel and concrete grey; there are no bricks on this island. Windows are often an afterthought. In this balmy climate the occupants are quite
comfortable without them – as long as they don’t mind the mosquitoes, which are
ubiquitous and aggressive.
We make an effort to find a place
which sells fresh fish. Our hostess
has gone to great lengths to try to explain its whereabouts. The name of the street: unknown, but it is just
past the supermarket, if you go so… and then just so…and then so – she
describes with her hands. Then there
is a school; the house is a yellow house, two storeys – no, three storeys high
– no… wait the school is after the house – she’s sure we’ll find it. She also obliges us with a lengthy, incoherent
word-map to another house, a blue house – you can’t miss it - where we might be
able to find some tuna. People are
so helpful here. We set off without
great expectations after having consulted the great Google Earth satellite
photo of the area in question. We
decide to approach from the museum side, take the third road as we have gleaned
from modern technology, get into a whole sub-structure of single car-width
alleys (which don’t show up from space) and after finding that these tend to
end suddenly at a garbage heap or another structure, we extricate ourselves. Finally we seem to be on the right road. There are a number of yellow house. Some two storeys, others three storeys high; but
no school
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| Difficult to get used to this Lifestyle ! |
in sight anywhere. We
decide our eyesight must be getting defective, or our hearing is not what it
used to be. So we return home fishless
and spend the rest of the day replenishing our bodily reserves of vitamin D in
the light shade of the casuarina tree on the beach front, reading a few
paragraphs here and there, taking a sip of a cool beverage in between short
immersions in the limpid sea, while birds serenade us and a heavy jasmine-like
scent wafts over on the zephyr. One
could get used to this mode of existence – with a little effort.
But the rest of the island calls. The entire southern side is terra incognita, so
with the aid of two maps and the World Wide Web, we plan our campaign. This time my navigatrix takes notes: third circle,
nine o’clock turnoff; T-junction left onto A9, then first right into B88… and the
like. Pages of instructions, since
she’s determined not to get lost again.
We’re off and the best laid plans come to naught at the second intersection,
since the T-junction has become a circle with five exits, and from there it
gets even more complicated. Thank
goodness the sun is shining and we navigate by guess and by compass, with only
an occasional perusal of the charts.
After a pleasant drive up into the highlands (600 m above sea level) we come to
a great temple complex. There are
acres of building (empty) some ablution blocks (thankfully) and numbers of
taxis and buses spewing pilgrims who either wander down towards the Hanuman
shrine at the edge of Grand Bassin lake, or make the short climb up a stubby
hill where flags and a white dome proclaim another sacred site.
We take a quick look at what is happening, but
don’t wish to intrude in the crowds’ devotions.
A short distance further on, we encounter a massive statue of Shiva in all his
bronze- covered glory, and on the opposite side of the road his equally large
wife, complete with pet lion, is under construction, surrounded by a crow’s
nest of scaffolding. |
| Shiva Statue at Grand Bassin |
The Black River Gorges, which are
our immediate destination, are not obvious from the road.
One drives through plantations and clumps of strange trees (Australian
paperbark myrtles) and the first stop is Alexandra Falls. A pretty little double rapid on a small stream a
few hundred metres off the main road, but there is a vantage point from which
one gets a wonderful view down a valley, all the way to the southern coast. The main viewsite, which faces northwest, comes
complete with a scattering of ice-cream trucks jangling irritating ditties, as
well as a string of stalls selling memorabilia made in China, India and Africa
– but sadly lacking in Mauritian handcrafts.
We walk down towards the viewpoint, which has a breathtaking vista of the
densely wooded gorges below; a waterfall or two as well as two white
tropicbirds disporting themselves in the updraughts.
In the distance the outskirts of Tamarin and possibly Port Louis are visible, as well as the
northwestern coast. Very scenic, but
for once rather dirty and full of litter.
A gaunt cat and her two kittens scrounge for discarded chips. They are the only cats we saw on the island, with
the exception of one other in a restaurant.
One wonders if the omnipresent dogs have anything to do with that.
The best part of the trip ‘out
west’ is the winding road down towards Chamarel and Case Noyale. Exceedingly steep, full of short, nasty hairpin
bends as well as narrow. Not to be
taken lightly or under the influence; neither with poor brakes. The ancient monumental bulk of La Morne Brabant
looms up, isolated on its little peninsula, which has been entirely taken over
by a golf course and shoulder to shoulder gated
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| La Morne Brabant Mountain |
The road along the rocky south
coast of the island passes through the heart of sugarcane country. The reefs disappear by the time you reach Souillac
and instead beaches are short, often black and gravelly, or non-existent. As everywhere on Mauritius, village succeeds village. Most of these are peopled by Creole workers on the
great sugar estates of the region.
They look less affluent; if anything, the dogs are thinner, mangier. We attempt to find a geological wonder: the Pont
Naturel, although the wise Web has warned that the roads are impassable, and
the canefields nigh impenetrable. We
had researched the route fully and noted down in fine detail such trivia as ‘
turn left after the second block of sugar cane; turn right at pump house; left
again at large tree’ etc – all to no avail.
Since the satellite photo had been taken, some hurried construction had
occurred. Where the edge of the village of Trois Boutiques was supposed to be,
there were houses; in a stretch of unadulterated canefield, an entire
‘morcellement’ or gated community was in progress.
We made half a dozen U-turns, consulted unsuspecting pedestrians in mangled
French, to which they replied in unintelligible Creole with broad smiles and in
good humour, so we soldier on, either ‘gauche’ or ‘droit’ – which are about the
only words we understand. In the
midst of waving green stalks, we encounter a black taxi.
There could only be one reason – he was going to Pont Naturel. We ‘follow that cab’ in best thriller tradition
and sure enough, he finally gets us there over a painfully rocky and tree-root
studded track. We walk to the
cliff’s edge and savour the awesome spectacle of the towering swells from the
deep south near Antarctica dashing themselves under two black lava arches and
thundering into a basin behind it, on into a deep sea-cave. My navigatrix takes a picture of yours truly on
the bridge, after which it almost becomes another story as my injured leg gives
way in a tricky situation. Still, we
make it out of there in one piece and return home flushed with success.
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| La Pont Naturel dwarfs a Visitor |
While we had prepared an
impressive list of all the places and venues we could visit during our stay in Mauritius, we actually found that
apart from the adventurous forays we made into the countryside, enjoying the
scenery and meeting a few people along the way, interspersed with long, lazy
hours sitting in the shade on the beach, was much more to our liking. It was mostly too hot and humid to attempt any
physical exertion, so what better way to savour the passing scene on a tropical
island than from the seat of an air-conditioned car, or a deck-chair in the
shade of a tree. Yes, we did pop in
to a Chinese restaurant in Mahebourg – twice.
Run by a stern-faced auntie, two lovely Indian lasses who waited on us, and an
unknown number of cooks, we were confronted by an enormous menu, offering
European (French & Mauritian), Indian, Creole and Cantonese dishes. We had the most tender Szechuan
venison I could have wished for, a sizzling plate of prawns, and on the second
occasion a typical Chinese noodle dish to take away and eat on the beach. All perfectly delicious and very good value for money,
though any drinks were pricey – and don’t
bring your own, as they would charge you more in corkage than the bottle would
cost in South Africa. A restaurant
in Case Noyale was at the other end of the spectrum.
A tiny blob of heart of palm salad with a few scraps of smoked swordfish, and
an ordinary fish salad, though with a delicious dressing would set you back
what a full meal would cost you back home.
Mauritius is a place I remembered
fondly after my first visit; we’ll remember it fondly after the second visit
too. It’s a great place to get lost
in; the natives are friendly – there is no road rage; even the rain is warm –
not to speak of the sea; the scenery is magnificent.
Apparently Mark Twain wrote “You gather the idea that Mauritius was made first and then heaven, and
that heaven was copied after Mauritius”. Sounds like a pretty good theory.
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| Mahebourg Swimming Pier |
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