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.