A day on the beach

Today was hot, very hot. I lay on the beach under a parasol. Then snorkeling, then under the parasol. I saw three angle fish all together. I read my book and dozed. It was hot.
Before that I'd checked my e-mails. It was too hot for anything else.

Beaches, Ben and St Aubin

Peter, Kate and Jen leave today, and I'm moving apartments. I'm moving to Toun's place in Flic en Flac, but first we've got to get Peter to the airport. I still haven't heard from Siva about working here. Maybe I didn't send to the right address, or maybe it isn't meant to be after all.
We'd come up with a plan to make a trip out of getting to Plaissance where the airport is. A taxi can take us down the West coast, and we can pick up some sights on the way.
It is quite an early start, 8am. We drive through Tamarin, a fairly well to do town where the houses are bigger and the people whiter, and on to La Preneuse. Here is the site of a Martello tower. It is one of a small number dotted around the island. They are placed on the coast and guard the few breeches in the reef where attacking enemy ships might try to land. On top of the tower would have been cannons focusing their fire on that spot. Below are soldiers quarters and below that, stores of ammunition, food and water.
Mauritius is hard to attack because of the reef. We've decided that it has to be volcanic to be able to weather the ferocity of the waves. The coral must grow in gentler waters either side of the breakers.
Next a beach called La Prairie. A beautiful stretch of sandy beach, and virtually empty. There's a man standing in the sea with his head under water and prodding at something. Probably looking for octopus, we decide.
Further down the coast is Maconde rock. We climb it to get a great view of the coast line and the amazing turquoise colour of the sea. I don't think I've ever seen that colour so vividly before. There is also a yellow block of concrete about a foot square, may be bigger. A geo-cache point perhaps?
The next beach is called Gris Gris, literally grey grey. There is no reef here, or if there is it virtually joins the beach. The waves are huge and the Indian ocean crashes down on granite coast sending spray up into the hot air. There's a sign warning us that it's dangerous to swim. No kidding!
Down the coast a little further is Ilot Sancho. You can walk to it at low tide, so we do. Pirates used to stow there treasure here. A real treasure island.
Next it's StAubin. This is a French colonial house and the site of an old sugar factory and rhumary. The house is excellently preserved, with a wide veranda and spacious bedrooms, all in wood. There is a botanical garden with strange plants. One, called a Chorisia tree, has a spiky trunk. There is a Bilimbi tree with it's sour fruit, a cocoa tree and many fabulous flouring plants.
The highlight is the vanilla plants. They need meticulous cultivation and preparation, hence the very high price of the pods in shops. Finally the rhum distillery. We end the tour with rhum tasting, of course.
Eventually we get to blue bay, too late for a swim, then to the airport and we say goodbye. Back to Flic en flac.
In the evening Edwige, Viv's cousin, drives us to the other end of the island, to Grand Baie. Viv's old junior school friend Ruby, lives there. We're going out to dinner at a posh restaurant. Her husband is Ben, and he's a prominent doctor in Port Louis. He seems to know who is who. He says he'd be happy to be my contact and gave me his e-mail address.
It's been a very long day. Tomorrow is going to be a beach day for sure.

La Vallee de Ferney

It was like going into Jurassic Park except we were in a rickety bus, and the time scale is much shorter. Sandy is an enthusiastic young Mauritian woman who is our guide to today.
'You are stepping back 400 years to the time when men first came to the island' she informs us. She switches with ease between English, French and Creole. Vallee de Ferney is in the South-East of the island. In fact, on the way we stopped at a street sellers stall right under the landing flight path and saw a plane go right over our heads. She tells us that this is the part of the island where sugar cane was first introduced, from a cutting from Java in 1639, by the Dutch. The first growers made an alcoholic drink from it called in Creole, larac. It must have been the forerunner of rum.
The dutch also brought Ebony with the same cargo. Actually it was Ebony the Dutch were most interested in, and grew large plantations of it. When the European market for this wood was saturated, they literally abandoned the island.
The natural rain forest that covered most of Mauritius was also cleared for sugar cane, but this bit of Indigenous rain forest remains. Two hundred hectares has been left and is an active conservation area. Here endangered species are kept from extinction, and repopulate the forest. The reserve was due to have much of it's precious land bulldozed to make way for a freeway. This, despite pressure from conservation groups and local petitions. However, a very rare specimen was discovered. A tree thought to have been extinct, the Nail wood tree, came to the rescue. It does not pollinate and so has been reproduced by tissue culture. Only 80 individuals exist.

The Jurassic bus drops us off in the middle of the forest for the start of the hour and a half walk. Sandy leaves us and off we go. It is hot and insecty but brilliant. We walk past the nail wood tree, and many trees that were due to be cut down.
Then the forest opens up and we're near the end of the walk.
'Look, look' says Kate, excitedly 'it's the Mauritian kestrel'. We'd been told that we might see one if we were lucky. They were down to one breeding male at one point, but now there are about 1,000 individuals. It has a characteristic flight and is there soaring high in the hot sky. We also get to see a Mauritian white tailed Parakeet, and a flying fruit bat.
The whole area is owned by Franco-Mauritians, blanc-Mauritien, who also use the land to hunt wild boar. I suppose they must be direct descendants of Asterisk and Obilix or the French aristocracy that fled at the time of the revolution. I don't like the idea of these people owning large swathes of my island, but at least they appear to be being ecologically sensitive, so two cheers for them.
After a good lunch it's back home to pack, for the next move. I'm going to Toun's tomorrow, and Peter, Kate and Jen are off home.

More lounging around

'Tu est ici pour Diwali ?' Vilasha tells me. That's the name of the beach chair attendant. We are sitting at her table for lunch at Gloria's fast food van again. It turns out that next week is indeed Diwali, a time when Hindus go mad-for-it.
The day has consisted of nothing very exciting. I phoned Max Derblay to let him know that I had the keys to the flat, that I was staying with Peter for a few days, and that it was very kind of him to sort out the linen after I go. I cleared my e-mails at the very cheap Internet cafe and we had headed for the beach on what turns out to be a rather overcast day. We should have gone walking, it was the perfect day, but we didn't, that's for tomorrow.
I started a new book. The end of Adrian Mole had left us wondering whether he and Pandora would finally get it together. The new book revolves around an episode of road rage. I hope he gets his come-uppance.
One of the great things about Creole, being a spoken rather than a written language, is that there is no correct spelling, and so no incorrect spelling. For those of us that never thought spelling was that important, it's a real liberation. Say what you see, then hear the word. Once it's written down it is fossilised, dead. A spoken language is alive.
We end the day at a posh new bar called Hippocamp (seahorse) and then on to a Karaoke bar. We're the only ones in, so that's OK. Tomorrow we're going walking in an indigenous forest.

Signs of hope at Flic en Flac

I'm beginning to realise that most of the French I knew was, in fact, Creole. Creole is itself 75per cent French. Actually it's better than that. if you speak French and you get it wrong it's probably Creole. So I'm going to keep speaking French and if I get it wrong I'll call it Creole.
Yesterday was a beach day, a windy beach day. The parasol didn't work so we took our loungers into the trees. Gloria, the deck chair attendant, has become our chum by now and reserves our places. We don't know if she's really called Gloria, but she might be. her family do the fast food outlet from a van on the beach. They do a superb biriani, and mine. Their kebabs are actually baguettes filled with fried meat and spices, why not?
Despite the breeze I went snorkeling. In Flic it's like swimming over an elephant grave yard. The White coral pieces lie randomly on top of each other like bare bones stripped by vultures. It's depressing.
So imagine the joy and surprise as there before my very eyes glides an eight inch angel fish, striped in yellow and black with a multicoloured snout. I followed it for a while, and there was a patch of live blue tipped coral. Not a very big patch, maybe four square meters, but live.
It's Marie-Claire's so we're eating at Papaya, an authentic Mauritian restaurant. We have Poisson Creole, Chou chou, fried rice Mauritian style, and I had crepe banane after.
The night was finished off at Edwige's nad her husband Graham's appartment. then a final goodbye to my nieces twice removed. I shall miss Anja, Mel and Nadjia.

Joselyn's birthday

Jocelyn was 60 yesterday, and we all crossed the Island to Trou D'eau Douce where they have a campement. We came here last time in 2004 on a pirate ship. It took us to Isle au Cert, where we had a beach barbecue and danced the Sega. On that occasion we'd gone up the Grande Riviere Sud Est to some spectacular waterfalls.
This time there's no time for such a large scale venture. Jeurn has negotiated a lower price on the van trip and his lot and ours are travelling together. It's about 30K but it will take an hour and a half.
On the way stop at Bel Mar (creole spelling), where we stayed last time. Then I had all my children with me, my siblings and their children and it was terrific. We'll have to do it again.
We stop for some gateaux piment, samousa, and farata and then a swim. I bought three genuine labelled t-shirts from the factory outlet shop. In the car park we bump into Philip and Ingrid, Jocelyn's son and in-law who direct us to their place. It is spectacular.
Their campement directly overlooks the beach. The reef is incomplete at Bel Mar and so the waves come tumbling onto the beach and role up it's gentle incline before disappearing into the sand. The scene is idyllic, with palm trees on the edge of the beach tilting, some towards and others away, from the sea. A cool sea breeze gently disturbs the leaves and keeps the temperature perfect. The sea is rough enough for breakers in the choppy deep blue water. The sky is a lighter uniform blue with an occasional fluffy white cloud drifting imperceptibly.
Rob, Jos's husband, curiously declines the offer of a swap of apartments.
The afternoon slips by in a blissful haze, culminating in a toast to Jocelyn and short words of appreciation from husband and son Matthew.
Jocelyn had sustained severe burns in accident before coming out and she nearly didn't come, so they have a maid who does everything. She had been cooking some proper Mautitian scran for later. Sadly, this was not for us and we were bundled into our van for the long trip back. To start with we were in high spirits, but that gave way to somnolence, which I was unable to shake off. I went to bed at 9.40, exhausted from doing nothing, and another fantastic day.

A moving day

Today is a moving day. I'm leaving my studio apartment and going to stay with Peter, Kate and Jen. Mum, dad and Sheila are going home. Most of the Aussie contingent have gone home, just Marie-Claire's lot still here and Viv.
Let me tell you about another couple of distinctive Mauritian tastes while I have an hour to kill.
First of all 'rugae'. It is a tomatoey dish, and I remember it as watery or soupy. That's how I make it at home. Here it seems to be less so. Sheila suggests it is similar to what we know as 'rague'. It could have originated as such, and there's a definite southern European influence to the tastes of Mauritius. The Portuguese were here as well as the French and Dutch, but they didn't stay long. The cuisine seems to be their only legacy, as well as some Mauritian names.
Biscuit Manioc is another taste characteristic of this island. I haven't found any yet. Sweetish and indescribably yummy serve with butter. My mouth is watering just thinking about it.
Gateau Piment, as the name suggests is a chilli cake. It is yellow split peas, soaked over night, then made into balls. They are mixed with salt and chillies and deep fried until crisp. Very moreish, I had thirteen in one go the other day. The split peas expand in your stomach and make you feel full all day. They'll also cure any constipation you might have.
I have talked of Buryani before. Aunty Marceline (Matant)cooks her rice first until nearly complete, then layers in lamb which has been fried in spices and onion. She then finishes off the rice and mixes the layers together just before serving, topping it off with safron.
I'm going to give this a go when I have my Sega party. I might even do it to raise money for the Benett Foundation.
'Mine', pronounced 'minn' is the Mauritian version of Chow Mein. Brought in by the Chinese, who were the main traders and shopkeepers. I haven't seen as many around as I remember. Francis thinks their children may have progressed to better things.

The rest of the day, after moving, is spent on the beach. Juern has discovered so live coral. I'm so pleased, I just hope it survives.
Amongst the vibrant blue tipped antler coral many different coloured fish are grazing. A slightly bigger brown fish looks very grumpy and territorial, rather like Nadjia in a bad mood. As I stand to talk to Jeurn, one of them nips me, and I hurriedly leave their patch. This coral is a bit far out for casual swimmers and doesn't seem to be on a boat route, so it stands a chance at least.
After the beach, a few G n Ts, and hear about Marie-Claire's ear operations and how worrying it has been. A moving story indeed.

Black River and the Beach

'Damn' I curse 'she beat me to it again'. Anja has just stuck her tongue out at me, before I could get in there first. Aren't fifteen year old nieces-twice-removed fun? We are on the beach.
Today is a more relaxing day, after the excitement and exertions of yesterday. We went to the Black River National Park near Chamarel. We walked to a view point, then back down again. It was too hot. We had lunch and went back to Flic en Flac beach. I slept and woke very thirsty, so I have some fresh coconut juice, from the coconut. I can't be bothered even swimming. Now I'm awake, Anja has started the 'call-uncle-Ivan-and-stick-your-tongue-out-before-he-does, game. She's winning, just.
Shall I read my book?
Na, can''t be bothered. I'll go for a paddle.
Now what? I suppose I'll have another snooze. This is tough.
Flic en Flac beach is a coral beach, but the coral is nearly as fine as sand itself. Sadly, nearly all of it in the bay is dead. You can swim to the reef and some is still alive there, but most is white. Lifeless. Dead.
As it's Sunday the beach is busy. Shade is free under the trees, but space is a premium. Families are gathered, picnicking and getting noisier as the afternoon progresses. Pretty soon the drums will start, beating to the rhythm Le Sega. This morning I bought six CDs, and when I get home I'm having a Sega party. Sega is a rhythm brought to the island from the African slaves. It is joyful, sexy and fun. Because of this the plantation owners banned it. So it also became an underground freedom movement. Of course now it is not just allowed, it is one of the delights of the island and a tourist attraction.
It hasn't started up yet. For now there is only the sound of the trees in the breeze and children playing.
The sea gently laps the beach. There are no big waves here. The reef makes sure of that. No sharks either, for the same reason.
Four small boys are playing keepy-uppy. They could have been me, my brother and cousins forty five years ago. This is the very beach pictured on my father's autobiography cover, of me and Peter jumping off a boat. We must have been six or seven years old.
As if to jolt me from imagining this place to be an island paradise, a ferrel dog appears, having snatched a chicken leg from one of the picnics. It is hard to believe that crime and drug abuse is high when you look at the peaceful, lazy pursuits of the beach goers this afternoon.
I think I'll just catch another forty winks while the sun's out

The Derblays on the Sabbath

'We left Mauritius when I was nine, and to be honest it wasn't too traumatic' I told them. I had been asked to say a few words on behalf of my family at a gathering of the wider Benett clan. 'When people would ask me if I have any family in Mauritius, I would say 'well, not really', how wrong I was!'.
We are gathered at the house of Max Derblay, a cousin of my father and there must have been about sixty people in all. Five generations we counted. There is a cousin of my grandmother, who looks just like her. My fathers generation with names I'd only heard of, such as Daniel Gueho who married Rosemay Derblay. They and the families they married into, all went to the Adventist church. The switch from Roman Catholicism was made way back when my Grandmother, Granmere Suzanne, was persuaded by her friend to make the change.
Vivianne has organised it all, with Roseline Gueho and many others. We even have name badges so we know who everyone is.
Then there is our generation. My siblings and direct cousin, but also wider, such as Martine Gueoh and others.
Next, Marie-Claire's daughters are here, Nadia, Melonie and Anja. Marilyn and Jocelyn had their children and with them their grand children. Five generations.
The day had started with trip to L'Eglise Adventist de Beau Bassin. The interior of the church was new and unrecognisable from our day. It was full. The sermon was in French, and I'm pleased to say I followed most of it. The preacher was expansive, passionate and funny. Just as I imagined he would be, although a little short in stature to be totally convincing. The songs too were in French, which I joined in with, with gusto.
After the service we met people, all of whom seemed to be our relatives, then on to the big lunch.
It is here that I am giving my few words. Viv had asked if I would while we were eating, ten minutes earlier.
So I tell them how we had lost touch with each other over time, but then last year reconnected and I'd gone to Australia. It was here that we had promised to meet up again in Mauritius.
Before me, our eldest cousin here, Francis, had spoken and made the link with the different family lines. He used the photos that Viv had found of a family gathering on the exact spot in 1947, and another one even earlier.
Before Francis, my father had spoken. He told of the story of how his father, Granpere, had set up the Benett foundation. We don't how true it is, but Grandpere did not attend the church, only for his daughters weddings. Apparently, he didn't tithe to the church either. In his last days he thought he better take out some insurance on the after life, and settle his account. So he left a considerable amount to the trust fund, which has gone towards the education of poorer children in the church.
Whether it is true or not, it is believable. He was a clever business man. Let us hope he got a return on his investment. I think he has, don't you?
After the speeches we have a huge family photo, on the same veranda as the photos all those years ago. One in the can for posterity. As aunty Marceline said ' I am proud of the blood in my veins'.
Tonight we're going to a Sega show, then lots of them are going home tomorrow, but it wont be the last I see of my family, I'm sure.

Le Morne

Friday was another great family day.
Viv has arranged for a boat trip to a remote beach. We have to be at La Gollette at 9 sharp. We are heading to the south-west of the island near Chamarel. The district is Black River. This is a mysterious part of the island where we never ventured when we lived here.
For a start, it was too inaccessible. The roads were just tracks and no one had cars anyway.
Secondly, it was a frightening place. It was where the African slaves would escape to, and where they went when they became free people. It was a place associated with voodoo and witch craft. It was an ungodly place.
Today it is still poor. Lining the road on the way we drove past a corrugated iron collection of shacks. In La Gollette it is noticeable that there are many more black people.
We find our boats, somewhat later than nine o'clock, and set off. First stop a patch of new coral to snorkel over. The blue and purple tips showing that they live. All sorts of brightly coloured fish weave their way between the coral antlers.
Then a beach barbecue for lunch. Plenty of food and rum and we all have a great time. There are about twenty six of us all together. It takes some organising. Well done Viv.
Another little swim and back to base after an exhausting day. I sleep for a hour before out again for dinner, then a Sega show and off to bed. Tomorrow is an even bigger family day.

Long Mountain and Mr Subramanien

Today may prove to be one of the turning point days of my life.

I could have gone with the others to the beach or Chamarel in the south. Instead I had a really strong sense that I should be with my parents. So I went to Quatre Bourne with them. Mum was meeting an old friend from her teaching days. meanwhile dad, Marceline and I went to Queen Victoria hospital. I was born there and I had a vague idea I might bump into someone who knew the family name and they could be a contact. I think I'd like to work in Mauritius in a few years time when I retire.
The hospital is a bit of a cottage hospital by our standards. It's all on one floor, but there are surgical theatres, and an outpatient block. I took photos. There were cues of people at the gynae and cardiac clinics. Some of the buildings have been replaced but many are the same as they were 54 years ago.
It seems to have suffered from cut backs too, as the once well tended gardens are barely attended lawns. We didn't bump into anyone.
The family moved here because Granpere worked there. He was an 'Infermier', a sort of specialist nurse and did all sorts, including midwifery. After we went to see dad and Marcelines house. It had been knocked down of course. The surrounding fields of sugar cane were built over. The place had changed.
Later we went to Mountain Long, where Granpere had worked earlier. It is little more than a village, but it had a small hospital. Above the village is the imposing and stark edifice of Peitr Both, the second highest mountain in Mauritius. Long Mountain looks pretty basic, like you'd imagine a third world village high up in the mountain. It is isolated, now still with one road in. At least it is tarmacked.
The sugar cane fields are all around but there is also green countryside. There is a cool breeze, and a stream where my mother was taken to by my father when she first came to the island aged 23 years. Sounds romantic, and it was good to see them walking hand in hand to the stream, but it must have been terrifying too. This country would be a marvelous place to work sometime.
Earlier, after the hospital, we had tried to find our old house in Quatre Bourne again. Dad couldn't remember exactly where it was. The corner of Farquar and Ollier, he kept saying, but the streets are not named well and we got lost several times. We almost gave up.
Luckily mum has a friend who still lives near our old house, so we called. After a few more failed attempts we finally found her and she showed us the way.
In fact Phyllis is one of the reasons we moved to this location. I remembered that her son is a doctor, perhaps he can help me find a contact on the Island, to fix up a retirement elective. No luck, he is in England. Perhaps this pipe dream isn't to be, after all.
We found our old house. It was as we left it, structurally, but every thing else has changed. Before there were fields all around, no concrete fence and surrounding houses. Still it had kept it's originality and charm.
As I looked through the fence, my father opened the gate. From the house a stern looking man emerged. 'Excuse me, but I am Yves Benett. We built this house, would it be OK to have a quick look at it'.
The expression on the man's face changed instantly and was replaced by a broad smile. 'Of course' he grinned, barely containing himself. 'I remember you. You taught me at the Royal College' in his best Mauritian French. It turns out he was very young and dad had left soon after, but still he recognised the face and remembered the name. 'You have a very famous name at the Royal College' also bouncing with joy. 'Please. Come in and have a look if you wish'. So we did. Inevitably it was smaller than I remembered, but I did remember the lay out. This man, Mr Subramanien, clearly loved this house. 'What do you do now' asked my father as we were going round, no doubt curious to find out what had happened to his forgotten student. 'Oh I was a humble civil servant, but retired now just today'.
We looked round, mum noticing little changes, but essentially tastefully kept. We took photos of us and the house and Mr Subramanien.
As we were leaving I asked if he'd like me to e-mail the photos to him. He was delighted and went to get his card. Then I don't know what made me ask, but I asked 'What did you do in the civil service?'
'Oh I was in the Government. Permanent Secretary in the department of Education, and before that in Health'.
Is this a coincidence, or is somebody telling me something? We shall see, but there aren't many days when this much happens. So now I'm exhausted and having an early night. Probably.

Day 4 Port Louis and Grand Baie

'India will never be British while Mauritius remains French'', so said Pitt and before long it was British. We were to find this out on our tour of the 'history of sugar'
We had set off on another travel day, this time to see the capital. We passed through Bamboo again and called in at the church where Granpere and Grandmere were married in 1921. The church is still run by Mme Eclezio, a famous name in Mauritius. Her son has been awarded a Nobel prize for French literature. When we all emigrated to England one of dad's cousins is said to have remarked about the loss of status that comes with emigration, that 'even Mme Eclezio will be sweeping the streets of London.
We also learnt that my grand mothers' father, David Davis had done as my Granpere did and changed his name from Ducachan (not sure of correct spelling). It seems our family comes from Hyderabad, although this far from certain
It seems that after the abolition of slavery in 1807, the British continue to import 'indentured' Indians. These, though technically not slaves were treated as such, with poor wages and conditions until 1824. This is the origin of my family in Mauritius.
Today we are proud to explore this past, but it must have been very different in those days for Indians are regarded as lower class, as opposed to the more aristocratic French. They had fled the French revolution and set themselves up in Mauritius, safe from the revolutionaries.
So we had a brief stay in Port Louis and set off for Pamplemose, a botanical garden established during the French period. It covers 26 hectares, so we took a guide who should us the best bits. He was funny too. I have some great photos of rare plants.
After that lunch and off to Grand Baie. A quick swim and home.
I'll tell you the story of how Mauritius passed from the Dutch to the french and then to the English another time.

Mauritius 2010

I'm in Mauritius and no e-mail connection, apart form this brief one. However, I am keeping a daily diary which I'll load on when I get home. So far visited Beau Bassin and Maheborg, but here for three weeks so plenty to tell when I get back.

Day 1 Finding everyone
'Ivan?' someone shouts questioningly from across the road. I'd just gone into Flic en Flac to get some washing powder. It’s Najia, Marie-Claire’s daughter. I couldn't tell at first, but it had to be someone from our lot, so I crossed the road.
'Hey. Small world. Fancy seeing you here?' I gave her a little hug. Jeurn, her father, was there too. They had arrived yesterday and were taking a stroll also. 'Where are you staying?' We exchanged Mauritian addresses. It turns out there not far from me, and really quite close to Sheila, Mum and Dad. The rest are staying at the Pearl Bay Resort.

'We'll see you on the beach at about ten' we agreed. Marilyn is here with her sons Daniel and Alex. Daniel has two boys too and they’re here. I hope we can all meet up soon. So I head back to my apartment. I have a studio flat in Flic, about 300 yards from the beach. It's actually a converted garage. Still it's reasonably well converted and reasonably priced. Pearl Bay, I find out later, is a much more plush hotel complex, I might have booked in there. In fact I'm going to be moving to Tounes' campement in about a week. Toune is my father's cousin, and although I've never met him, he is part of the family.
So I get to the beach and sure enough we all gather. My cousin Francis is also here with his children Dolly and William. He has a car. After an excited exchange of travel stories my generation decide we have to go to Beau Basin, where we grew up. So we leave mum and dad on the beach. Me, Vivianne, Francis and Sheila pile into Francis's hired car and away. Well, after tasting a Flic en Flac beach pineapple drenched in a sweet and spicy syrup, that is. Ah, a Mauritian taste alright. Yesterday just when we had arrived I'd had several gateau pimment, and samosa. The tastes of the island.
First stop is at a church in Bambou. It's the Catholic church where my grandfather and grandmother were married. It is a beautiful, and still maintained, colonial Catholic church, but not so ornate as some. We sat in a pew imagining the gathering. No doubt many disapproved, but those present would have been looking on joyfully, wondering if such a marriage could survive. 'What, an Indian and a French girl?'. Grandpere must have changed his name before the wedding to Benett from Moochialoo. In fact Granmere Suzzanne was also of mixed race. We saw a picture of her mother, Marie Davis with her father David Davis. David Davis had also Europeanized his name from an Indian one.
After the church, it’s on to a cemetery in St Martin. 'Granpere's people came from St Martin' Viv tells us authoritatively. Viv spent much of her last visit chasing our ancestors, the records being in Bambou. There were no Moochialoos burried here, but there is an interesting story of a Jewish part of the cemetery occupied by so exiled Jews during the war. There is also a family connection, that one of our more distant cousins married a Jewish man and came back to Mauritius. He has been tending the graves.
On to Beau Basin and we stumble across Rue Pere Laval. 'This is where Rose-May lives' Francis suddenly says, and goes into the drive. Rose-May Abraham is in and not at all flustered to see us all. We go in and exchange memories of that house. It is relatively small, and I have few memories of, but I distinctly remember the Lychee tree which we climbed up, or was it another one. We took photos anyway.
After that we had some food in the square, Dahl Pouri and some Biryani Poule. Heavenly tastes. We stopped off on the way at Queen Elizabeth College where mum taught and we went to Kindergarten just at the entrance to the school. I never knew it was so close. Then on to Rue Telephone. That's the road we lived on. At one end the Rose family. At the other the Benetts.
A little walk further to the end of the road and we can go across the roundabout, over looked by Sacre Couer, to Marilyn’s junior school. I wonder where my junior school was as I have no memory of this one. Then La Rue Mosque where at one end lived the Cheron family. Further down that road and it’s back onto the main Rue Royale. Apparently there we small bars on this bit of the street. This was where the men would gather and drink rhum.
Finally I get back to my apartment for a rest. We're meeting later for a meal at the Pearl Bay resort and some Sega.

Day2 Maheborg and Blue Bay
‘That’s where Marie-Claire pushed Marilyn off the roof’. We peered up to the top of a two floor building. ‘That second floor wasn’t there, but we lived on the first floor, in the apartment with the balcony’ continues Viv. Of course Marie-Claire hadn’t really done that, the two girls aged about four and five respectively, had climbed onto the roof and were throwing stones onto the road. Luckily, well beyond luck probably, their maid, Cécile, was alert and saw Marilyn fall to what would have been death or severe disability. A cousin, Louis Abraham I think, seeing what had happened rush to the roof and caught Marie-Claire just as she too was about to loose her balance.
We had come to Maheborg, Mauritius’s second city, to see the Cheron house. They had moved there from Beau Basin where Guydoux, the father, had set up and bought a pharmacy. They lived literally, over the shop. The location is the busy main street. Noisy, bustling and dirty. The buildings are a metaphor for Mauritius itself. Faded, unrenovated and in some places literally falling down. ‘I love it, I feel as if I’ve come home’ declares Daniel, Marilyn’s son, without irony. The shop we pass is blaring out ‘Exodus’ by Bob Marley. I’m not sure about home, but certainly there’s a feeling pf returning to our roots being here. Not so much Maheborg as Beau Basin, but I think I know what he means. ‘You could buy something cheep here, I expect’ I encourage him. ‘I think I might just do that’ he replies optimistically.
Maheborg is where the ‘Grand Port’ is, a huge natural harbour formed by the reef. It was here that, in 1810, the great Mauritian sea battle between the French and the English fleets took place. French culture was, by then, already established, but the Island’s governance passed to the English. Overlooking the Grand Port is a mountain that looks like a lion. Guess what the name of the mountain is. The lion is lying down; its head is looking up into the sun and its back feet trailing in the sea. It is a pretty cool sight, and the more you look at it the more like a lion it becomes.
Mauritians now speak French and English, but they prefer to speak to each other in Creole. There was a lot of Creole being shouted in the market we visited, and the best bargains are made in quick fire Creole. There are also food sellers calling for business as you pass them. I bought some Makacha-a-coco. Makacha is like a small sweet bread bun. The ‘a coco’ bit is a coconut filling, like a doughnut. An authentic taste of Mauritius.
Another authentic taste is the Biryani. That’s where we go for lunch, to the best biryani in town. When we arrive, a little behind the others having stopped for rum cocktail, they have run out, so were making a fresh batch.
It was after the biryani that we went to see the Cheron house. A very nice Chinese person let us into the back yard to see the very spot where Marilyn nearly fell to her fate. It is strange, and good, that people are prepared to let about twenty complete strangers into their house just because some of them used to live there.
After Maheborg we went to Blue Bay, a beautiful little beach further north. This beach is not as gentle as it first looks, for it has claimed the lives of many young people. It suddenly becomes vey deep not far out and is prone to rip tides. Still none of us is in the mood for being brave and we content ourselves with splashing around in the cool salty water.
Some stay, including me, to watch the sunset, ‘le couchez du solei’. It’s been a long day. Our driver, we’d hired a taxi for the day, is very patient and waits until we’re ready to go. Then it's back home for what should have been an early night.Instead, we stayed up to listen to Viviane’s latest discoveries about the Benett family. She has found a photograph taken some years ago of the old family, at a gathering. They are lined up on the veranda of the Derblay house which we are visiting later in the week. We’re going to have a similar photo of our generation. Who knows, in a hundred years time the next generation might do the same. What a shame then that we’re not all here.
Internet connection lost, not sure why, anyway I’m keeping a diary for my blog to try to be able to recall what we did and saw.

Day 3. A day on the beach. The priority is toilet paper. I have been taught a severe lesson from ignoring advice about street trader food. It seems to be a passing thing but all the same, better safe than sorry. While I’m there, why not get a Mauritian SIM card, they’re all the rage. The helpful girl answers yes when I ask ‘ esque vous parlez Anglais?’ . As I said they all do. I‘m also starting to realise that the French I thought I knew was partly creole. Not so much the words as the accent. For example, I’ve never been sure how much to emphasise the ‘r’ in merci, thank you. My inclination is to hardly use it at all, and now I see why. It sounds more Scouse than Parisian.
Well I couldn’t get into my phone to try the SIM card. So I bought a new phone. The most basic one they do. Perfect, I’m all set up now.
Today is a lazy day, or it was meant to be. I did actually spend large parts of it on the beach. I also swam out to the reef, well nearly to it. I decided to go out with Jeurn, he is a good swimmer. I’m less confident, having been scared to death as a child by stories of rip tides and children drowning. However, if I have my flippers I can go anywhere. So off we went.
The coral on the Mauritian reef is mostly dead. It is white, crumby and lifeless. What a damn shame. There are bits of healthier coral and all I can do is hope that someone is thinking about it and looking after it.

Day 4 Port Louis
Factions are beginning to get established as the group is too big to keep as a single entity. People want to do different things at different times. Tomorrow we’ll be together on a boat ride, but today a group is setting off to the Capital, Port Louis.
The government buildings are being renovated so we can’t go in. The botanical garden and natural history museum are also closed. Never mind, plenty of time later. The Cordon shopping centre is open. It is modern, new and bright. We attempt a bit of bargaining but really it’s too soon to be buying souvenirs (I wonder what the French for that is). It’s too hot outside. I must come back when it’s cooler.

The tenth of the tenth of the tenth

It’s the 10th day of the tenth month of the tenth year of the millenium. That’s got to mean something. For me it meant that I woke up after an early night for the first time on successive nights of the weekend. It’s been, sort of, out of choice. I didn’t really want a big one. So when Cath phoned to ask me round for a soiree, I said I had something on, which I did. The thing I had on was to meet up with Tim, but he’d got smashed the night before and wasn’t up to it. I wished I’d known before then I could have seen my brother who was in town. So I stayed in. I wanted a gentle weekend and that’s what I’m getting.

That’s not to say it’s been uneventful. Not at all. I discovered Skype. I spoke to Emily for the first time– live from New York, ladies and gentleman, and could see her as she spoke. She is beautiful. I hope Shaun doesn’t mess her about, as it seems he may be doing. Also I spoke to Tan Sicito from New Zealand. He’s lovely, but not beautiful, well not physically anyway. Who says technology has gone too far.

Talking of the men’s group, I haven’t been since John went mental for me suggesting we might consider the viability of the group. I guess he’s built his career on belonging to a men’s group. Anyway, I have withheld much of what I think from this blog. I feel fondly for the group and the times we had, but with Ian and Ken gone it's not the same. I still get on with some of them on an individual basis, but I think it was something for a different time. Perhaps I’m wrong, but we weren’t going anywhere as a group.

Another thing that happened yesterday was that Fee dropped off the tape I’d lent her. I hope it helped her. Strange really that she must have dropped it off and scurried away. I e-mailed her to hope that she had made a copy.

There are couple of big things happening this week. Firstly, I’m presenting the business case for the tier 2 cardiology clinic. If it comes off I shall be able to control the referrals through, managing most of them, and being able to place pressure on secondary care to reduce activity.

Secondly, I’m going to Mauritius again. Wow. I’m beginning to get excited and really looking forward to it. This time my cousins will be there and maybe we can relive some of our youth. Can’t wait.

So on the 10/10/10 what exactly have I learnt. Maybe nothing. After all, here I am on my own, at 54 years old.

I think I’ve learnt three things. Trust God, love one another, and believe in yourself, or do I just re-learn them every ten years. I'm sure I knew that on the 1st January 2001.