Mauritius. You’re thinking: Beaches, honeymoons, dodos…erm? And like me, you’d be all out. Which is disgraceful really. I’m half Mauritian. I really should know more about it.
My dad left here for England aged 19, over 45 years ago. My only hazy memories are from holidays when I was 3 and 7 years old, plus some faded 80’s Polaroids. So I’m intrigued. Especially as for the past 29 years I’ve been having this conversation:
… Where are you from? You look Indian/Israeli/Spanish/Italian/Colombian
(Insert nationality here.)
… “I’m English. I was born and raised in England. (This NEVER suffices) …My mum is English, my Dad is Mauritian. It’s an island, near the Seychelles? near Madagascar? Africa? Yep, it IS on a map, its just small…” (So small you can drive from coast to coast in 2 hours.)
Mapped by the Portuguese, named by the Arabs, discovered by the Dutch, colonized by the French, and then again by the English, (keeping up?) Mauritius has had an eclectic 300 year ish history. Today it’s made up of Indian, Chinese, European & African descendants. The first language is officially English, although all print is in French, and day-to-day everyone speaks in creole. Simple?
As Lonely Planet succinctly puts it: The European Mauritians have the money. They live in the affluent towns of the central hills, own all the old sugar mills (and probably had a hand in a fair bit of African slavery back in the day.) The Hindu’s have influencing power in Government and politics from the worshipped Prime Minister Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam who fought for independence. Add to all this a scattering of christian churches and mosques across the island, from the African & Muslim population and Chinatown in the west part of the capital Port Louis. Like most ‘melting pot’ nations it projects the image of harmony, which on the whole is true given that everyone joined the party around the late 1700’s and no single religion ousted the other.
In reality however it’s not all as integrated as the Ministry of Tourism would have us believe. As my cousins predicted whilst we watched the televised ‘Miss Mauritius’ competition “the black candidates won’t win… A christian won last year….She will win…” they claimed pointing the most white skinned Hindu girl. “She has good political backing. Her sister married a Minister.”
Of course, you’d be right to ask why I was watching Miss World competition at all. And the answer comes in the fact that unlike most tourists here, for me there were no 4 star all inclusives or popular ‘Tables D’Hotes’ (Like more personal B & B’s). Instead I was spending a fortnight in the family home of my Uncle Khem, Aunty Ooma, and cousins Kimtee and Lovey, who I met for the first time in an arrivals hall last Friday.
My Dad is one of 8 kids. 3 Sisters, 4 brothers. A genealogist couldn’t map our family tree. To add to the confusion, everyone seems to have two (interchangeable) names. Kimtee and Lovey for example are also Tooly Davi and Jayshaan? There seems to be no explanation as to how and when to use the formal and informal. ‘Aunty’ and ‘Uncle’ are not to be taken literally too. The airport staff looked suspiciously at my Mauritian(ish) face, but well stamped English passport and complete lack of french or creole. Clearly an imposter.
If I were being holiday brochure-esq I would describe the landscape is a thousands shades of green, one seeming mass of sugarcane fields blowing in July breeze. Except it’s winter and not that tropical, 18 – 20 degrees. Sugar exportation and honeymoon tourism are central industries here. Apart from that the island seems overwhelmingly sleepy at times. The brightly coloured shutters are often down with guessable opening hours for the small village stores. The island’s last bus service finishes meandering along the country roads at 7pm.
The whole vibe of the place for me is best encapsulated in two sites; the red-roofed Notre Dame Auxiliatrice Christian church in Cap Malheureux, and the Champ de Mars Racecourse in Port Louis. The church has an actual white picket fence, and the racecourse a rusty pastel ferris wheel. The whole island is a medley of eras and references. I watch a huge group of friends sing to reggie/sega music by shaking their asses, whilst I simultaneously listened to sari clad girls interject their hindi with ‘oh la la’ Frenchisms, whilst walking the Central Market of Port Louis whose facades look like Victorian England. It’s like the film ‘Jumper.’
My family itself live in Fond Du Sac (FDS.) A tiny typical hamlet with a post office, school, and a couple of ‘sell everything’ kiosk type shops. Mauritius is a collection of tiny hamlets like this, bar the capital and a few larger ‘towns’ like Grand Bay, Goodlands & Flac.
Most of the houses are French colonial mansions. Not mansion as in sprawling chateaus – but large balcony, shuttered windows, kind of romantically crumbling. 99% have newer annexes and extensions, so you often find original kitchens, side by side with grandiose marble living rooms, which lead back into makeshift wetrooms. The reason for this? Young married couples all live their entire lives with their parents. I shudder at the meer thought. Staring at my cousin Kimtee (25) and her husband to be Vishal (30), in utter disbelief I ask, “So you will without a doubt live here from your marriage next month, until you are 90 years old?”
They are thrilled at the prospect. As the oldest son Vishal has, on his teachers
wage, saved for the construction of two floors above his parents in the village of Morcellement St Andre.
Kimtee takes me up to her favorite spot on the roof, from which you can see the coast. She is mostly excited as she can see the huge cargo boats. Apparently when the large cruise ships come into port it makes the local TV news. Locals all head to the vantage point of the Citadel – the British fort that overlooks Port Louis harbour. She tells me of her obsession with watching the airplanes fly overhead too. Their honeymoon to neighbouring Mauritian island Rodrigues will be the first time she’s been in one.
The wedding itself will be a 4 day celebration, with 400 guests. She proudly shows off four different sari dresses for each day, together with heaps of gold jewelry. I help to hand-seal the glittery red and gold invitation cards with dabs of saffron paste to bless each one. All 400 have to be hand delivered across the island by her parents. “You can’t post them?” I esquire. She looks at me quizzically, ‘it’s tradition.’
Tradition and duty seem to be overwhelming themes here. Most marriages are not ‘arranged’ per say, but families have a definite role of approval in any potential love interest. Girls are very much expected to cook and clean for their whole extended families. Although many do work, average wages for admin jobs are low, £100-200 a month. Kimtee admits she rarely
even ventures the 100 metres to the local shop without her brother, father or fiance.
When I cycle 20 mins through the countryside to nearby Grand Bay, the family fuss around me as though I’ve taken a midnight trip to downtown Johannesburg. As it turns out, Grand Bay is a rather harmless upper-class mini tourist hub. I’m not sure what threat they think Thomas Cook holiday families and touts selling catamaran trips pose, but I’m pretty sure a corrupt police force, a society engraved with misogyny and no laws to enforce back of car seatbelts are more immediate dangers here.
This sense of protectiveness extends throughout many aspects of life here. Despite being 25 and marrying next month, and despite her brother being 27, both craftily assure me that at the weekend that we will plan a visit to ‘the nightclub.’ ‘Why are we whispering?’ I ask confused. “In case papa overhears” they explain in English.
At Buddha Club we share a bottle of popular Phoenix Beer in small glasses among four of us. A night out with the girls is unheard of here. The bouncers only let couples in. Dating is not really a concept either. Teenagers tend to see each other briefly at the mall or maybe chaperoned at the local Bollywood cinemas.
Whilst spending the day with another cousin Rani (23) she obviously deemed me rebellious enough to ask whether we could possibly go see her secret ‘boyfriend’ at the nearby beach of Grand Gaube. Her strict father sent her to study in London, so she see’s this boyfriend in stolen moments. We park in broad daylight, which is risky as on an island so small and full of neighbourhood gossip. This illicit affair consists of them talking pleasantly for 10 mins. She never gets out of the car, or he in it. She’s thrilled at the seeming act of defiance.
As the week goes on my references to England, travel, popular culture, and lack of religion, are met with ambivalence. It’s sometimes hard to find common ground. My cousins rarely see American movies. They are baffled that I’ve never seen Bollywood music videos. I ask them what they do for fun.
At dusk one evening Kimtee, Vishal and I gallop into the sugar cane fields as the sun sets pink all around us, and it was like feeling 10 years old again. I should add that it was like being 10, except we were armed with small machetes, which no one batted an eyelid at. Kimtee points out every berry, every leaf, every flower, having clearly grown up around this nature. She admits when they were younger her four brothers used to suck on so much sugar cain every evening after school that it made them sick. It does taste incredible. We run around the 12ft stalks and giggle until it goes dark. And then it all gets a little Children of the Corn/horror movie-esq and we get scared and run home happy and exhausted.
Mauritius it seems, loves a bit of the great outdoors. The Botanical Gardens at Pamplemousses are top of the ‘must do’ list. It’s most popular with families on a Sunday as Mauritians (and I) sneak in for free. There are plants for all over the world set in pretty picnic spots, but it’s most famed for the stunning pink/green pool of giant South American waterlilies, which must have had a lasting effect as they are the one thing I remember as a child on holiday here aged three.
Just as picturesque is Grand Bassin; some temples by a lakeside in the South West. As the legend goes, one of the Hindu gods was flying sacred rivers to the Ganges, and presumably lost his way when a drop fell into the crater to form this spot. Every February thousands of people make a pilgrimage here as villagers all line the roads to give food as alms. I ask my cousins if they have made the journey, which they had, on a unbelievable 70km/3 day walk from the North.
An interesting sight on the island, depending on your level of geekiness, is the Blue Penny museum in Port Louis. Named after a misprinted blue and orange postage stamp which Mauritius and philatelists worldwide are obsessed with. You’ll find out why in a second. They are flawed with a mis-spelling of ‘post office’ instead of ‘post paid’ and as a result of Mauritius being the second country in the world to introduce the postage stamp (Britain was the first.) The never used set that are housed in Port Louis are amongst the rarest in the world, valued at about 4 million. There were 500 printed, so although I was tempted to immediately scour old family postcards and envelopes, all of this was back in the 1800’s. I’m still holding out there may be one in the attic though.
This Sat morning I went back in time to a (fun) World War II GCSE History class, curtacy of The Original Singapore Walks. Their 3 hour tour stops at The Changi Museum, the beach of the Sook Ching Massacres & outskirts of Changi Prison.
Little Anantasin 
You must be logged in to post a comment.