Maurice

Just returned from my first real vacation from India—a week of solitude in lush Mauritius. Although I’ve only ever really heard about the country in the context of exotic honeymoon locales, it turned out to be perfectly suited to those of us mortals who are not yet qualified to go on a honeymoon (much to my mother’s dismay).

Mauritius is an island country, east of Madagascar (a much, much bigger island country), which is east of South Africa. Lonely Planet couples it in a guidebook with the Seychelles and an island you’ve never heard of called Reunion, and it is technically part of Africa, although it’s a bit of a mixed-breed, ethnically speaking. According to my sources (our two Mauritian drivers Akhbar and George), Indians make up about 75-80% of the population, and black Africans, Chinese, and Anglos of unknown origin make up the rest (some of the “Anglos of unknown origin” are there doing business: Mauritius has favorable tax agreements with India, making it a hub for some businesses). Many of the Indians were brought to the island by the British as slaves, but some came as spice traders.

A quick history lesson. Until 1810, Mauritius was a French colony (after being settled by the Portuguese and the Dutch), but the Brits came along and wanted their own island paradise—picture mountains, coconut palms, sugar cane fields, and blue bays—and made it their own. The British held onto Mauritius until 1960, at which point it became free, and it looks it now—in a good way. Its capital, Port Louis, is a city that, unlike New York, sleeps much of the time. It’s a decent little town, sometimes beautiful and from other angles quite shabby, with shops that close at 5 PM every day. When the sun sets on Friday, there’s little chance of getting much of anything done until Monday.

Although the French lost their claim on the country nearly 200 years ago, Francophone culture still has a strong hold. Nearly everyone speaks French,a national language, no matter what race. Most people also speak Creole, a mix of French and an African language, or English, the other national language, and/or Hindi.

Coming from India, it was fascinating to hear people, who for all intents and purposes looked and dressed like people I see on the streets of Bombay, speaking throaty, lispy French. It was even more surprising to walk into a restaurant with a French name to be served Chinese noodles by French-speaking Indian women who sat us at a table by a window covered in Santa decorations—the kind Macy’s sprays on to their shop windows at Christmas. It’s July. Nevertheless, the noodles were superb, and were eaten in the grass just a couple of strides away from the Indian Ocean.

About eight of us, including my roommate, my significant other, and several other friends from Bombay and Dubai, spent a week on Ile de Maurice. Highlights included swimming in a refreshing (read: freezing) waterfall, touring the Rault biscuit factory which ended with a photo with the great-great granddaughter of the founder who is a wrinkled old raisin of a woman with a great smile; touring an 1830s colonial mansion (any tour that begins with a home-brewed shot of rum has to be good); a hike through sugar cane fields (we got lost) which led to the ability to hear birds chirping amidst the quiet rushing of the sugar cane leaves (which is not possible in Bombay for many reasons).

Besides finding numerous ways to enjoy the mild weather and the lush landscape, we also had some fantastic local food:
--croissants, served warm and flakey
--hot, round rotis filled with cabbage and tomato & bread salad at a roadside shack
--whole steamed fish with ginger and spring onions in Chinatown
--Sweet pineapple halves with liquid chili sauce and salt from another roadside shack
--Obscenely red Chinese guavas, like baby pomegranates, covered in dry chili salt
--Smoked marlin embedded with pink peppercorns on soft, sweet buns with mayo and vinegar
--Pearona, a locally made sparkling pear drink
--Phoenix, the locally brewed beer
--Fresh sugar cane juice mixed with lemon and ginger

Low points: inedible“Mexicain” food, the wily escape of a friend’s wedding ring in the cool waters of the ocean, and the "Blue Penny Museum" featuring two special stamps—the story doesn’t warrant telling here—but it was not worth the time or the money.

Back in Bombay now. Back to work and busy. Did I miss my infectious, insane city? No. But, I'm glad to be back.