I’d planned on making some giant turgid rambling post out of these notes. It would have been titled “what I did on my holidays” or “postcard from a tropical island”. Even peppered with comically inappropriate photos it would have been utterly forgettable – I’m no Spike Milligan.
Nobody will read things like this. None of you are going to wade through page upon page of self-indulgent bollocks which basically says “ha ha, I didn’t go do work this week like you proles”. Not unless you publish it in a glossy wipe-clean book with the letters “BBC” on a corner of the cover. So instead you get this monstrosity, this steaming dormant volcano of half-truths bashed together from the back of an Airbus 340-300 while a French drunkard falls asleep on my lap.
The Alex World Factbook, 2008 Edition. “Mauritius”
Geography
The island was formed by volcanoes which have repackaged themselves in the more user-friendly “mountain” format. The jury’s still out on one mountain which might still explode and kill everyone. Less horizontal geography is also available but it’s covered in sugar cane and hence boring.
Since Mauritius is in the tropics the sun rises all year at 6am and sets at 6pm. Sunsets are pretty but if you didn’t already know that you’re a dolt. Much of the day happens at night. Workers currently rise early and come home in the dark but there’s talk of cooking the clocks so they can all spend less money on lightbulbs.
The former volcanoes looked like fun. I tried to climb one but it wasn’t a success – large pieces of geology can often trick you by seeming close when they’re actually being very big but far away.
Fail.
Religion
...is popular. Roadside shrines are common to the point where you’ll experience shrine congestion on the larger thoroughfares. Leading brands are Hinduism (68%), Islam (15%) and Catholicism (15%). They take it seriously - many buildings are decorated with pictures of a favourite god or saint. They’d paint Ganesha or the Virgin Mary on anything if it stood still long enough.
Transport
The airport is on the northern coast and you’ll get a beautiful view of the island as your plane dodges volcanoes on the way in. On Friday I met some gents who run an aeroplane company - they own several jets and rent them out to other companies to fly. The lifespan of a 747 is 20 years for passenger flights and a further ten on cargo flights - cargo isn’t fussed about safety.
Turn up at the airport sporting facial piercings and a Will Self novel and you’ll get stared at by security then searched. The HSBC machine outside the airport will eat your card as you try to withdraw rupees (I can imagine the heuristics in their security system – “abroad == CRIMINAL”) so you’ll be glad to have friends living there who can lend you some money to live with. “World’s Local Bank” my arse.
If you don't want to rent a car (you don't) buses will force themselves upon you like a talkative old tramp. “Buses” here means a fleet of endearing little museum-dodgers with religious icons pasted to the windscreen. Sometimes they don't even bother with a destination board - it's a small country, get on a bus and the Virgin Mary will get you where you wanted.
Mauritius had a railway system but mislaid it in 1965. They stick to minicabs and the wheezing old buses now.
“Yes, there was once railway. But they pull it up and sell the iron for scrap… in 1970 I think. The iron, it was worth very much back then”
Pictures of the engines are online if that’s what floats your anorak. The engines are straight out of Noddy and impossible to take seriously. Maybe the passengers were laughing so hard that the Mauritian Fat Controller gave up.
Mauritians who can afford it prefer to drive. Those who can’t don't let it stop them; the roads are full of decrepit pickups and rusty old mopeds. Allegedly they have MOT’s and driving tests. Roads are British in appearance - despite being on a volcanic island 6,000 miles from Lewisham you’ll still find speed bumps and fried chicken every ten yards. Motorists often follow convention by driving on the left but like to shake it up a bit on blind bends. In all disputes over right-of-way the stray dog takes precedence followed by the goat. All roads have a ditch foot-deep concrete man-trap at the side which doubles as an excellent pied-a-terre for the mosquito population. Supposedly it's there to channel away floods in the monsoon season but I've a suspicion it's really because watching foreigners fall in ditches is funny.
An integral component of important road junctions is the police – without a rozzer or two many junctions suffer from servere invisibility. Accidents are common - I've already seen one [motorbikes will not seat three no matter how drunk you are!] and it was ugly. There's no public transport at night so the only way you’re getting home after six pints of Phoenix is in your own personal booze-copter, via several ditches.
Internot
Skip this section if you aren't a nerd.
Mauritian telcos are pushing the internet but outside businesses it isn't catching on. This is for two reasons: firstly a million Mauritians share one piece of damp string that links their island to the outside world. Secondly on a tropical island there are better ways to slay your evening than holing up on the sofa in front of a laptop.
“Are you helping Toby with dinner from the sofa?”
“Yes, I’m downloading the meat. It takes a long time here.”
3G is affordable and ubiquitous but until residential users get sub-second ping times to the rest of the planet it ain't gonna fly. You wouldn't play Counterstrike from here and in the early evening it takes longer to check your email than to make dinner.
“60% wireless broadband coverage” – unless you want to visit a website off the island in which case your screwed; packets are corked inside bottles and chucked into the water off the coast of South Africa. Pingtimes range from seconds to months.
Nightlife
All interesting drugs in Mauritius have fun-classification “A” and therefore banned by the government. They aren’t fooling around and you will get searched on the way in. Instead the inhabitants mash their brains with locally brewed "Phoenix" beer. At 5% it's stronger than a Chinese weightlifter and the state of my head on Sunday proves it’ll do you quite a damage. Ow. It’s a good beer, just don’t drink five of them after a bottle of Moet.
For those dabbling in the psychonautic arts there’s a fashionable local pastime called “scoring gear”. It’s like fishing: takes up all of Saturday and they still come home with bugger all. The difference is you'll never catch Cap’n Bird’s Eye docking a trawler full of fake plastic jellyfish and sheepishly justifying it with “s’okay, I met this dolphin down the pub who says the legal shit’s well good”.
Ask anyone who’s snorted raw caffeine - unless you’re Dutch the Good Shit ain’t legal. Even in Camden.
Clubs are widespread. Thanks to the climate usually an outdoor affair. On Saturday we attended a Mauritian copy of Vibe Bar in the preposterously named town “Flic-en-Flac” - all canopies, progressive house, plasmas and a scrum at the bar. It’s a passable affair – hardly fabric but the beer’s cheap, you can jump the queue if you’re white and at least it isn’t another stinking old London warehouse. Go see for yourself.
Industry
The main industries here are minicab driving, the police force, agriculture and textiles. I've witnessed little of the usual tourist bullshit and long may this continue. A friend of a friend is trying to market a glossy magazine to the ex-pats but they don't look like the magazine type.
For complicated reasons I’m writing this section from the manager’s office of an upmarket lingerie factory in St Pierre. Getting there was an accident – el Tobe had work to do for a client so I tagged along to try out IT consulting, tropical style. It's a good factory and certainly no sweatshop. They have health & safety rules pinned to the wall and everybody gets healthcare and plenty of fresh air. These be free-range knickers.
There’s a tragic downside to all this. Seeing where fancy women’s smalls come from ruins the illusion. Some of the light just drained from my world. Never again can I goggle at fetching lasses in their pants without visualizing a room full of 40something Indo-Mauritians at their sewing machines.
I keep capitalizing “lingerie” but Word corrects it. I think Afraz has installed a copy of the Office 1856 Sexual Repression Pack on here. He’s so in trouble.
I asked about the promotional shots all over the walls. Curvy, well-groomed European girls modelling bits of lace and string calculated to turn men’s minds to slush. But all of them European – Mauritian girls won't model underwear. It's a prudish society, porn is unwelcome and on a small island the girls care too much about their reputation. Those they’ve tried wear swimwear underneath and it looks awful. Instead each year they shoot the collection in London.
“All these models… they’re very beautiful but so different to the women here. Why do you use them?”
“Mauritian girls don’t want a reputation. Instead we shoot the collections in London. We use strippers – they aren’t shy”
Atmosphere
In a word, chilled. Few things run on time to but it's sunny so no-one minds. Think faded ex-colonial vibe and you’re getting close. Outside Port Louis or the upmarket residential areas buildings aren’t well-maintained and many parts have a distinctly half-built feel. Everywhere you’ll see logos for local brands and for Pepsi, who aren’t local but still think they own the place.
Bricks are expensive on Mauritius because there isn’t anything to make them with. This adds to this half-built atmosphere; many who set out to build a house run out after the first storey and have a decade-long tea break before finishing the job. I know how they feel. I’m told unfinished houses aren’t taxable and people exploit this loophole to the max. Others sidestep the issue by making their house out of rusty metal.
Dogs roam the streets and in the evening misterlizzards skitter around your ceiling chomping mosquitoes. A palatial villa outside Tamarin with four bedrooms, aircon, pool, mountain and a view of the sea costs less than my flat in London. The water heating's just as bad though .
The inhabitants are pleasant, cheerful and have a great sense of humour. Even the most grizzled of cynics will be warmed by their company. Meet as many as you can – they make the place.
English is the official language but some eschew it in favour of the local Creole. Signage is in English, advertising in French. Crime is low - possibly because most men under 40 are stuck in police uniforms and employed as road junctions.
Restaurants
Outstanding. If you come here eat out as often as possible. The good ones are close to London prices - a lot of the food has to be imported – but it’s well-executed, the service friendly and if they can’t find you a minicab the owner gives you a lift home in his truck.
“Aha, you are from London? My name is Bob, I live there ten years ago in Portland Square. Have you still the red phone boxes with the pictures of the girls? I like them. After work I drink four, five pints of English beer then I go see the lady. Very good. Only fifty pound.”
Share a table with the retired French drug dealer if you can. He’ll be excellent company and a sound philosopher. He'll moodily sip his water while regaling you with stories of past girlfriends and Harley Davidsons.
Flora & Fauna
All sorts. Misterlizzards scuttle everywhere (can you tell I like them?) and allegedly there are monkeys up in the mountains. It’s bat country. There's a monkey in a cage; as a baby some locals caught it eating meat and decided it was evil. It's been in the cage for ten years and has gone a bit strange.
“Wow, I didn’t know Mauritius had real lions”
“Yes, they live in the nature park up on the mountain. You should go and see them – they’re so cute and fluffy and really friendly. But we had to leave early, one wanted to eat my son”
Other wildlife includes the Cunting Mosquitoes who want to devour you piece by swearing piece. Since they spread Mauritian Flu and not Malaria nobody’s interested in wiping them out. I had a go but if you flap around like a trapped bird screeching “Fuckers! Headcrabs! Get them off!” people will look at you strangely.
Much variation is to be witnessed in Mauritian trees. Some of them have bananas, some have coconuts. The tall straight ones are badly-disguised mobile phone masts.
The only Dodo I saw was a forlorn wooden one in a shop. Bye bye Mr Dodo.
Fin
Postscript
Thanks are due my hosts. Your hospitality – particularly in the form of booze, fags, excellent cooking and a pool are very much appreciated. Whenever I open the fridge I’ll think of you.
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