Wow, I can't believe it's been two weeks since I got back to England. I've got a reply from one of the people I e-mailed about work in Mauritius. Here's what he said:
'Dear Dr Benett,
Very glad to read your mail and learn that you have the intention to come to Mauritius to practice medicine in your retired life. We all wish to return to our roots and do not get the chance and opportunity for a variety of reasons. I was born in China and arrived in Mauritius at a very young age and have adopted it since.
The City Clinic group is known for its H-Tech services. We have in our group 4 CT scanners including one Toshiba 64 Slice, 2 MRI and two angiography machines including the recent Flat panel G.E angiography machine.
It would be a good plan if you could come to Mauritius for a brief visit and we could work out a plan to maximize your professional expertise and experience in the City Clinic group. I am more than happy to take you in our organization. The City Clinic has two seaside hotels, one in the South East of the island and the other in the West coast. You are welcome to stay in either hotel. The group has three clinics, the City Clinic being the main institution.
We have quite a few foreign specialists employed by the City Clinic. One has MRCOG & CCST (UK) in Obs and Gynae. One has FRCS & MD in ENT ( Mauritian also came back to return his roots and he is only 40 years old, one Indian Invasive cardiologist MD., DM. One Indian anesthesiologist who does pain and palliative care.
Please do not hesitate to write if there is any further information you may need.'

Sounds good doesn't it?

The last day, for now

I missed recording anything about yesterday. That's because nothing must happened. It was my last day on the beach and sa ce passez bien.
Today was different. It is the Sabbath and I met Viv at church. She had been staying at Beau Bassin with her school friend May. After church we were invited to the Gueho house for lunch. On a bien manzer. Daniel is a retired pastor in the Adventist church and was formally the President of their churches on the island and environment, which includes Rodrigue and the Seychelles. He married Rose-May (nee Derblay).
Their house is opposite the Derblays where Max now lives with his sister Alice. They are Anglicans, strangely. Max's father Ory used to teach the children on the, now famous, veranda.
We had a fun time over lunch. Francoise and her daughter Muriel were also their. We were later joined by Danick Derblay and his wife Orelly, and their two children.
After, we went for a little walk around Balfour, a public garden named after a former governor of Mauritius. It is famous for it's giant turtles, and the view of a waterfall in the valley beyond. The other side of the valley is the presidents house. You can also see Port Louis, Le Pouse, Signal mountain, and a saddle shaped mountain called Ory.
Danick took us back via his and Orelly's house. They are a lovely and loving couple, and very generous. They played some sega for us. She on the Ravan, (a hand held drum) and him playing the guitar.
By this time it was late. Danick drove us back for an early night and early rise. Tomorrow it's home. I'm glad to be going home. It is time, but I have also enjoyed my stay, and getting to know who all these relatives are.

Mauritian identity

'I've tried three times, but you'll just have to experience it for yourself I suppose' Viv told me with a flourish, in the way only Viv can. We're talking about getting a Mauritian identity card as a prelude to getting a passport; of course.
A couple of days ago we had queued up and I'd applied for me birth certificate, just to see if I could. Today was the day for picking it up. Simple. The girl had said to just take it to a building a block away and it will be straight forward. Simple. I believe her, Viv and Edwige are sceptical. 'You never know in this country, you could be lucky. If they like the look of you, it can happen, so dress well' Edwige counsels.
The morning began with climbing Le Pouse. Denis was our guide, with me and Graham, or Gra-ham as Edwige pronounces it. In return he calls her Teddy. Edwige is Vivianne's cousin. They've been married a long time, live in Hertfordshire and have two daughters. Graham is a keen lake land walker. We drive to the foot of the mountain where we meet up with Denis. The girls go off to Port Louis
Denis has done this walk with various groups many times. Off we go. It's a steady climb, about 900m, and the sun is getting higher. It's hot, but there's a great breeze. The last bit is a scramble, medium according to Graham, and we reach the summit.
The view is spectacular. Denis points out the towns below, and the peaks. There's a great view of Port Louis, and two boats heading into harbour. The breeze is South Westerly, so the harbour is protected, unlike Grand Port down south, hence the choice of Capital city. There is a rock called window rock, or mountain. It is a slit in one of the rock faces. The ships needed to line up the window with the head of Peitr Both behind and they'd know they were on the right course.
We saw a Paille en queue, the white long tailed National bird, falling and rising with the warm air currents. In the distance we could just make out the outline of offshore small islands through the light haze. On the west coast there is Flic en Flac, and beyond it the lighthouse at Albion. 'I could stay up here all day' says Graham, and we agree.
Back at the bottom and we drive past St Pierre. This is where Dr Hector Clarenc, my great great maternal grandfather is buried along with many more from his legitimate family. We visited the grave, I must say, with mixed feelings. My great great grandmother, with whom he had several children is nowhere to be seen. I takes photos all the same.
Then it's time for them to go to lunch with Antoine and for me to collect my birth certificate and hopefully my identity card. It'll be fine, I dint need to change into proper clothes these will do. I get a taxi in.
Mauritians are a grumpy lot anyway, but this driver is particularly grumpy. Sucking his teeth, tutting and grumbling about everyone, and all sorts. It''s a bad time to go into the Capital.
He dropped me close to the right building. I walked straight in, passed over the chit, and bob's ye runcle. Simple. I produced the twenty five rupee stamp and the certificate is officially embossed. It's even got an identity card number on it. This is going to be easy.
Now off to the TM building, where the identity card should be, as good as, waiting for me.
Up to the first floor and into the room. Viv had told stories of queues stretching out of the door and waiting for hours. She'd been knocked back a couple of times for not having the right papers. Not me pal. I've got my birth certificate, hot off the printer, my driving licence (withdrawn but who's to know), and my UK passport to prove who I am.
The stark, unfriendly room, is quiet apart from a few glum Endu (Indians - Hindu) awaiting their fate. This is going to be a piece of cake. Perhaps, I should have had a shave, combed my hair, put a proper shirt on and worn trousers, but hey, I've got my documents. That should do..
I ask a man where I can pick up my ID card. He says something in Creole, which I don't get, but fortunately he also points to a woman who is currently chatting to someone else. I wait for her to finish, wondering if I'm jumping the queue.
She can see I'm waiting to speak to her, but this doesn't seem to encourage her to complete her conversation.
Eventually she stops and I catch her eye. 'Excuse me, I want to get a Mauritian Identity card' I ask politely. She pauses and looks at me up and down disdainfully as if I've just brought in a bad smell, and sucks on her teeth as she raises her eyes to the ceiling. 'Your papers' she snaps. I give her my birth certificate. 'Passport'. I hand it over. 'First time you apply?' she asks bluntly with a characteristic Mauritian accent. I nod apologetically in case this means extra work for her. She sighs and goes off into a room, without saying anything and leaves me in the waiting room, with thirty two Endu eyes looking at me. I pretend they're not but then look up and give a British smile of embarrassment 'h, hm'.
Our lady comes back. 'You av your British Nationality documents?' more of an order than a question. 'Well, I have my passport' pointing to the maroon booklet she's holding. 'Non'. 'You ave to ave your original papers' in that officious jobsworth way that officious jobsworths have of saying 'tough luck mate, you're not getting any further today'. I tried to appeal with a winning smile. No good. I suppose they have their reputation to maintain.
Back at Antoine's we all have a good laugh about it. It's lucky I don't need it. The rest have eaten and I'm catching, after he shows me his Caroom board. I remember playing this as a child. You flick, sabuteo-style, wooden discs like draughts pieces across the table into pockets at each corner.
After (late) lunch we take Antoines maid, and cook, back to her village. It's a place called Albion and we're calling in anyway to look at the light house. I remember it being pointed out earlier today. Le Phare aux Point de Caves. Edwige managers to get the key off the light house keeper, 'he's nearly drunk already', and up we go up. At the top we can see for miles, right up to the top of Le Pouse.
It's been that sort of day, from high points, to disappointments, to highs again. I'm exhausted. I think truthfully I lost my Mauritian identity when we came to England and stopped speaking creole. I am English now. Still it would be fun to try again. Next time.

More from the beach

I don't think I mentioned the purple and yellow coral yet. Today, as for many days I've been out snorkeling. At first I had thought that Flic en Flac bay had only dead coral, but then discovered some live stag horn coral. Today's discovery was quite unexpected.
On the sea bed lies, amongst much else, large boulders, naturally enough. Some boulders are of rock, smoothed over the years by the sea, but others are of dead, white calcium carbonate coral exoskeleton. I had got used to seeing these. Then I noticed that one of them was sort of glowing. It was as if it had been fitted up to a purple neon light, the sort you sometimes see at night in shop windows. It was a faint glow, but a gloriously living glow. It was a wow glow.
Of course then you notice more of them, not as spectacular, but definitely there. There are also yellow and blue bolder corals.
Another new fish today was one with a blotchy camouflage, like on a Giraffe, but on this fish's back. One moment it was there, then disappeared, then back again.
Back on the beach I hear someone call 'Hey Rasta man'. I turn round and he's talking to me. He is in fact a bit of a Rasta man himself, in fact more of one than me. I know I haven't shaven, must look at bit wild, but coming from him I take it as a compliment. He proceeds to talk to me in slow Creole which I mainly understand. He seems thrilled to discover that I'm Mauritian and that I can make sense of what he's saying. He notices my necklace and says he can make me one from coral. I ask if he can make one in Mauritian colours. Of course he can. He says it's difficult to find coral that is 'zaune' - creole for yellow. OK, I agree, but how much? He asks me to make him an offer. 400. He laughs and comes up with all sorts of reasons for it being more. We settle on 1,000 RS, twenty pounds. I know he's ripping me off, but he's been entertaining and fun. He runs off and in a suitable while, so he can say he make it from scratch, he comes back with the finished article.
It's not really in Mauritian colours and it's made of plastic beads, not really coral but I accept it. Hey Ho. It's cool man.

Weird fish

Another day on the beach, why not? You'd think nothing much happens lying around on the beach. Mostly nothing does. Time eases by rather than at it's usual hurtling pace. Swim, read, doze seems to be the cycle, until finally the sun sinks sufficiently for people to put their tops on and start to drift home. I have two bars I go to now on the way home. The bar staff are only charging me 100 rupees now, so I must be a regular.
I went snorkeling a lot, not really expecting to find anything new, but I did. There was the Picasso fish, that's what Edwige called it. A bit bigger than the angle fish but the same colouring and without the long dorsal fin. There is a 'sansbras', a huge worm thing with an open mouth at the front. it's maybe a meter long but apparently it can grow enormously long. Creepy. In the coral were three mew fish. One, a tiny deep royal blue body with a fluorescent lighter blue upper markings. The second, a bit bigger, with a yellow underbelly, a red upper body and bright blue in between. The third was the most spectacular of all. It has a square brown body with bright blue spots all over it. It's mouth and rear fin make it look like one of those chocolates you get is a Roses box for Christmas. I also saw something that looked more like a eel. Pale aqua green throughout and almost translucent, with a thin pointy hose. It shot passed, paused like the March hare, and shot off again.
From my shaded beach chair I observe that adolescent boys and girls are the same the world over. The girls walk about or stand in groups on their own giggling about stuff behind their hands. Boys play football. Er, that's it.
I'm going for tea with Edwige and her husband Graham. She is Viv's cousin by two routes. Should be fun.

A new identity and a new aunt, perhaps

A muted shriek of delight burst out from the three of us in the hushed atmosphere of the National Archives building in Quatre Bourne.
Me, Vivianne and Francoise Gueho had gone there to find the dates on some more ancestors. This really is exciting, especially when you come across something unexpected and accidentally too, as we just had.
The National Archive is an unremarkable, well actually boring, building from the outside. It is hard to find and is tucked away on an industrial estate in the meddle of nowhere. Inside it is studiously quite. On the inside men and women in suits are pouring over huge files and others are stacking those files away. On the face of it the place is drab and colourless. There are some interesting black and white photo's and references to historical events. It is, after all a library, a library of peoples ancestry. Someone comes to attend us. They are used to these sorts of enquiries. After a little scratching of heads, stroking of beards and initial disappointment we are set on the right path. We hope.
Vivianne has got stuck at Grandpere Benett's grandparents. You can imagine the number of different ways you can spell Mootialoo in an essentially illiterate age, and which is the first name and which the family name of some of these ancestors?
We were meant to be looking for the marriage dates of one pair when, by mistake, we came across the birth of one Yerramah Mootialoo. She was born 25 th October 1918.
Well we couldn't contain our excitement. Yerramah, you see, was granpere's mother's name. Granpere was born in 1895. You see what I mean, he was 23 when this girl was born.
After high fives, illicit photographs of the event and 'what do we do now?', we get the bus into Port Louis. To the office of registration of births, deaths and marriages to be exact. We need to find the names of this child's parents.
While we are going there I thought I'd see how hard it is to get a copy of my birth certificate. Why? To see if I can get a Mauritian identity card, of course. With this I should be able to get a passport which will be fun in itself, but would give me the rights of a Mauritian citizen, in particular rights to work here and buy property.
It could hardly have been easier. After a short queue, I show them my driving licence, and remind myself that I am 'John Ivan' on my official documents. ' Typical Mauritian eh' snorts Viv when I tell her. The helpful young woman finds me on a screen and the birth certificate will be ready for collection on Thursday . I will then have to queue up for the identity card at a building just down the main road. We'll see how straight forward it is then. How exciting!