Three Weeks Down

"Your Lane is the Middle Lane"

Whatever weather, the human traffic lights are on duty.

Thursday night, nine thirty, and my cheap local pork cubes, garlic, ginger, chillies, wine vinegar, fresh rosemary and tomatoes, are simmering away behind me. Just got some haricot vert to use up, so'll chuck 'em in in twenty mins or so. Otherwise the last two days have, basically, revolved around waiting on my house. Refused to check in today, as not going to come across as if I'm pleading and panicking; which of course I am! No, I'm a stalwart, but just want names on paper. So instead, today, I decided that I was going to get sorted regarding my tartan 'trouse'. When I was back home in Scotland, in September, my dear mother bought me two yards of Ancient Stewart Hunting Tartan material, for my birthday/Christmas present, at a mere forty eight quid a yard. But it's so beautiful. I find, in more cases than not, the Ancient patterns are much nicer than the modern. Take the Modern Royal Stewart, said, in some circles to have been designed by Queen Victoria, how f'ing dare she, (and even her Hun husband dared to dabble in tartan designs!), it's too garish in my eyes. Even if this last point isn't the literal truth, any British subject is allowed to wear the tartan, by kind permission of Queen Elizabeth?? What right does she have deciding who wears wot, she's not one of us! 

Port Louis, the Waterfront. Plus optional young lovers

Every photo opportunity for Pancho as
 she poses with the hundred and eight year old Marguerita

Anyway I've talked to a couple of  'those in the know' locals about who they might recommend as the appropriate fine tailor to do the job, to no avail. Ok, they're otherwise occupied, so I've decided to go alone, and this morning I scooted in to Port Louis, first checking in on the Suzuki dealership, to reconfirm my interest in their pending delivery, of precisely one, Burgman Scooter; the motor I want to indulge in. While there, Audrey, advised me to go to Rose Hill, a town another twenty minutes away, as that was supposed tailor heaven. But, first, I reckoned I'd go down to the Waterfront Arcade and go and see if there was an appropriate looking Boutique, with some clothe conscious person, who might be able to give a bit more in depth insight into my plight. There was only one boutique that I came across downstairs, Unika, and when I entered four lady members of staff pounced, though were consequently stumped, and bemused, by my inquiry. Meanwhile the gentile, very nicely attired, smartly bearded gentleman, Ahmed, who, of course, turned out to be the owner, was precariously balancing on a chair rearranging the hanging of a tapestry. When all was angled up correctly, he dismounted, the minions edged away and "And how can I help you"... He understood my plight perfectly and said that I must meet his tailor, Aslan, 'a gentleman's tailor'. no less. "Can you come back tomorrow". "No". "Well do you have a car". "No, but I've got a Scooter". "Spare helmet". "Yes". "Well Aslan is only two minutes away" (unspoken was if you drove like a Mauritian). So helmets on, Ahmed's beard tucked in, and we're off. Now I've only done a couple of forays out on the Scooter with a passenger, and I'm fine when I've got a bit of speed up, but when maneuvering through two lanes of traffic, with a mass of other scooters and motor bikes of various sizes, who are pros at this weaving in, out, over and under, business, I'm sort of taking it safe, with, maybe a couple of gentle weaves. Otherwise I wait in lane, as the gap between neighbouring wing mirrors offers very little margin for error. It's not far but the whole time Ahmed is going on "No, no, no, your lane is the middle lane, go down the middle lane", by which he meant the dotted white line dividing the cars, trucks, buses, minibuses et all. I was doing my best, but it wasn't up to Ahmed's standards. I will get better I'm sure, but you have seriously got to be checking both wing mirrors while double checking over both shoulders.
Well we got to Aslans' and his wee shop was a peach. Loads'a stuff he'd made, all looking really well tailored and, icing on the cake was, he understood everything I wanted before I'd fully explained it. So I'm feeling confident me trouse are in good hands and will be back on Saturday morning for my fitting. 


Names on Paper

Here she is again with her sweetheart and Security.
 And it's Security in the forground! 

It's been over a week now since we verbally agreed on the house and four thirty this afternoon is when we're supposed to make this understanding rather more concrete. On my side I need to pay up one month's rent, one month's as a deposit and one month's as the agent's fee. First, though, I need a bank account and I need to get some money in to it. As it was, the Commercial Bank of Mauritius minion had come to the office on Wednesday to collect all the necessities needed to process our accounts, and said all should be ready the next day, or at the latest today. Checking in with the office and no one seems unduly bothered about what the status is, so I head on down to the bank to see if I can find out who our visitor of two days ago had been, and to find out where we stood. Ramana was away for his lunch and his partner in crime said the account should be open by Tuesday! Well, I reckoned we could do better than this and it just needed a wee bit of stirring, so I got Rams number, and on arriving home, called him to be told that the others' account's had been set up, but not mine. Though he did promise to deal with it within the hour. This hour turned in to a second, and then after this had ticked by I had to leave to go and sign the deal. As it was, as I passed by the office, he actually rang me, and so I was able to instigate a last minute transfer, via Brenda's computer terminal. So far so good, except I wouldn't actually receive the money till Monday, at the earliest. On to the Agent's, and all went very smoothly. Jean, the landlord, seemed an honest enough guy and was quite open about the fact that he'd like to sell the property if possible, but that it'd so far been on the market for a year and a half, without any nibbles. One or two, very minor points were ironed out, and names on paper... I now have a fantastic home for, at least, the next nine months; after six months either party can give three months written notice. Abracadabra or even Whoopiee!


On the Buses  

Ahmed, Aslan & the trouse

Saturday and I'm off to play golf with Jess and Pancho at the Anahita club, which is supposed to be rather lovely, but first it's off to the 'fitting' with Ahmed and Aslan. Speeding through the Saturday morning traffic, (touch wood, I'm getting quite good at this, at least going solo) I arrive at the Waterfront nicely on cue. The girls, now knowing by business is with the gentlemen, don't pounce, and within two minutes we realise this isn't a fitting at all, but the final product completed. The trouse are the most comfortable I've ever worn, due to both tailor and material, the design matches perfectly down both legs and I'm delighted. I feel a photo coming on, and so with the manageress failing miserably, Ahmed sacks her, and hands the duty over to the youngest girl, who'se obviously far more in touch with the technologies of the modern day. After the first few, rejected, attempts, I'm trying to loosen Aslan up, as he's acting a little nervously in front of the camera. 'Yes, yes, you must loosen up now Aslan', says Ahmed, who positions himself in exactly the same manner, with exactly the same expression, for every snap that's taken.  

Please note the inverted destination top right - home!

Specialized product sales at the Saturday Market.
Two fishing rods on the left and plastic bags on the right 

The golf was great fun, the course is stunningly beautiful and enjoyable to play and the hour and a half drive around the bottom of the island showed a completely different landscape; to be explored in greater detail soon. But as we finished at dusk I left Scooter there with the intentions of picking him up again the next day. And so I decided that the hours journey down to the South East should involve my introduction to the Mauritian bus service as, so far, my only contact with the buses has been avoiding 'fly on the windscreen' scenarios, with me taking the role of fly. At nine thirty I'm down at a bus stop on the Coast Road, central Grand Baie, thanks to Irish, who detoured out of her way to work and dropped me off. The first bus arrived and I put my situation to the conductor, asking which bus, and in which, direction I should be going. Hop aboard, he indicated, and I was off. And just to verify that fate works in mysterious ways I noted that the buses destination was St Antoine, my posh address, on the outskirts of Goodlands. So when the wind is blowing excessively, or the rain is lashing down in true tropical style, I can always voyage back to Grand Baie by bus. Thirty minutes, rather than Scooter's fifteen, but dry. Half an hour later and it was all change at Goodlands, and again the first bus that came along was the right one and this time we took a rather scenic, wending route, to cover the, normally twenty minutes journey, in an hour and a bit. Still, I'm learning backroads here. Again, at Flacq, it's time to change and the bus driver points out which bus, out of the masses at the main terminal, I should go for. Forty five minutes later, I'm woken from my snooze, aand off on a twenty minute walk down the drive and in to the Anahita. After a swift demi I mount up on  Scoots and wend my way back up the coast, finding a nice place to stay next weekend, as we're playing a two day competition down here at the Anahita and La Touessrok courses, satisfying my hunger with a two quid Biryani and visiting the Hindu Temple, whose name escapes me, along the way. Job done            

Old Dogs

Out and About

As good as any rural road through France, I'd say

Interesting day today, as after two weeks and a day I decided that it was time for an exploratory adventure. Most people go on holiday for a maximum of two weeks and consequently do the whole deal in that time, and here am I, just now, heading out for my first official tour. Did Port Louis and a bit more, but then there was always an ulterior motive. My objective today was, to at least get close to that mountain I keep on seeing, the one with the huge boulder perched on top. Don't know yet the story, but believe it must have one... There's got to be a Hindu God involved there somehow? Maybe Hannuman  threw a rock three times around the planet to knock the Elephant off the Turtle's back (courtesy off Terry Pratchitt. Don't sue please ), or something equally dramatic. I will monitor the situation...

We'll see how it looks in six months or so,

 when it's all painted up

A day out sitting beside the road

My objective, when exploring, is to decide on a direction, and then take whatever road seems to head that way. Sometimes it might peter out or veer away from the intended path, but whatever, as sometimes you need to get lost in order to find out where you're going (another mantra of mine). But here, on the island, you're never going to be too far off track. This time, half an hour due South, and about to start the climb up in to the hills, I come across a temple, only partially constructed, and set out in a field on it's own. What I found interesting was the multitude of images on the dome and where they had been fabricated? I've seen a million temples in India, but you always just presume they've been there since time immemorial. So I stop, take the obligatory photos, and then have a chat with a guy sitting beside the road with his two kids. He informs me that all is done by a Port Louis contractor, but actually more interesting is he goes on to say that the temple is dedicated to Mariamman, or Amman, as he refers to her, who is the South Indian Mother Goddess of rain, fertility and disease. She is generally worshiped in rural areas and her temples are usually situated by a landmark, such as a tree or rock, which holds some special significance. I will go back one day and see the finished product, when it will be all painted up, each individual figure all detailed bright and cheerily.

La Nicoliere Reservoir

Back on the road and I head up in to the hills, though of course we're not talking an Alpine range here, but still, it's all very beautiful and lush. Eat your heart out Cyprus, with your dry, dusty, blandly coniferous, Troodos mountains! I refer to Cyprus as I lived there for four years. Don't get me wrong, as I had a great time there and made many special friends, but, from my view point, the landscape's a bit bland and many of the people a wee bit confused, as they consider themselves Western, though are actually Arab, disguised as Westerners. (Gross generalization Tony, so don't go taking offence now!) After passing the La Nicoliere reservoir, where the guys are fishing at the point where the channeled water pours out, presumably the churning water attracts the fish, I move on to my mountain with the boulder on top. Still don't know it's name or anything about it, but will in time. It's not actually that dramatic, except for that there boulder! The road has gone from climbing up through lush, varied, tropical forest to arable land encompassing

little hamlets, with the inevitable cockerels running across the road and dogs barking out of boredom.

Lunch time in Hollywood

Arriving in St Pierre I feel a spot of lunch coming on and, being Sunday, most places are closed up, but then I come across the Restaurant Hollywood, which looks as though it should fit my bill perfectly. The boss, Chinese in origin, gets me a bottle of Phoenix, the local, very tasty, brew and I peruse the menu. Twenty minutes later and I'm tucking in to Pekinoise Noodles with prawns, beef , shrimp, veg and shredded omelette, with pimente (hot dip) and that sweetish vinegar stuff you get in Chinese restaurants, on the side. All for a tad over thee quid. You could go to the Burj Al Arab and it wouldn't taste any better. You can't better an ultimate of it's kind. After lunch I began heading South again, but after getting lost in the suburbs, for lack of a better word, of Highland, which I felt drawn to because of my Scottish heritage, splatters of rain started descending, so I decided I'd see if I could outrun the pending storm. I did, and after four or more hours wending my way South I was back home in forty minutes. Abracadabra, all done...        

Fate works in mysterious ways...

Looking down from Restaurant Juan,

 my potential breakfast Dhosa haunt

 Tuesday evening and the last two days have primarily revolved around waiting to hear from Immobiliers'. The two properties I'm deciding between are from different agents, yet within two hundred yards of each other, on the same abandoned sugar plantation. The one, bartered down from seventy to sixty five thousand rupees, with a stunning garden, four bedrooms, two bathrooms, airy, and with beautiful furnishings, is, to be honest, way out of my price range, unless I stick to my 'throw caution to the wind for a year and just live' attitude. The other, still magnificent outside, with, in fact, a much nicer pool area with thatched bar cum kitchen cum bbq outhouse; but three bedrooms, only one bathroom (oh, life is tough!), and mere ok furnishings  (no, that's actually too harsh as it's all fine). And I can have the landlord remove the naff prints of the pwetty little girl with a glistening tear leaking from her eye, etc. More important was that the asking price, monthly rent, of sixty thousand rupees seems way over the top. But, as I said before, I queried this last week.

As it happened, mid morning yesterday and Miss Patsy rings me to casually say that the landlord of this smaller property has dropped the price from sixty to forty five thousand; were they trying to initially rip me off or what!  I give Terrie a couple of hours to come back to me about the bigger house, and then when I ring her she informs me that it had been taken by the other couple who had viewed it. So that's that then, the decision has been taken out of my hands, fate has intervened. Funny, though, how such business's are all 'contact' when they're in the hunt, but don't inform you of the status once there's nothing in it for them, as with Terry here? Well now, let's not loose this other baby, let's commit and get some signatures down on paper. Look here, I was in love with the place and felt it couldn't be topped and then, bizarrely viewed a property, which aesthetically, did surpass it. But it's absolutely magnificent and I'm back in budget, saving a mere, coming on, four hundred and fifty quid a month! This amount more than covers the hire purchase on the Suzuki 400 Scooter, with a hundred smackers to spare; am I on track or what! But slowly, slowly, as don't believe anything until it's all signed and sealed.

Let's annoy the posh punters,

 sunning themselves, up over that there wall

Today I went up to Goodlands, the small one street town where my, hopefully, potential new home will be, and just had a wander up and down the hustle and bustle, as it is seriously congested, and that's why they're building a ring road. It really must be bad if the municipality has accepted this expense. But consequently there's a lot of action. Trucks, tractors ladened with cane, scooters duckin and divin, CD sellers pumpin out the tunes, tourists clickin and old boys a'watchin. Now one thing I've been missing is what had been my thrice or four times a week Indian Dhosa breakfast; see's you through the day. A Dhosa is a very thin, rice flour, crepe, usually around fifteen inches across, with generally, a ramekin sized bowl of veggie sauce and a coconut sambal and pimente sambal. The crepe can be presented in a variety of ways, and the most well known, is as a loosely wrapped tube, four or so inches in diameter, with a couple of spoons of potato bhaji inside, and this is known as a Masala Dhosa. I, personally find it a wee bit heavy and out of preference like a 'Ghee Roast', which is plain, but brushed with ghee, and served with the dips. Otherwise you can experiment with Kashmiri Dhosa which, from my experience, has some nuts, raisins and peppercorns in the mix, Mysore Dhosa, with a hot chilli paste slathered over it, Plain Dhosa, without my cholestrol inducing ghee, and no doubt millions more, depending on which part of South India your restaurateur is from. But the point is, is while cruising up the street, soaking up the atmospheres, I spot Restaurant Juan, up  on the first floor, brightly painted up, and saying 'come on up for an eleven 'o' clock demi', so, under such circumstances who says no... Up I went, got my beer, and settled down at the one table on the balcony, which  overlooked the high street; perfect vantage point. Talking to Juan, as no other customers at that time of day, I can tell there's a story attached to this Spaniard, but that is to be found out in the future. More importantly is he's got Dhosa's on the menu, and yet over the last two weeks everyone has said 'No, not here'. Five minutes cycle ride from pending home and I've found a potential breakfast location. The rest of the morning is spent checking out my potential, local, beach locations, and so far, that seems to be Grande Gaube, ten minutes drive away. Despite the local lady, down on the beach front, can of beer in hand, serenading the posh punters up over the wall in their smart digs, it's beautiful. And then I met Browney...  

Browney; An old dog, been around the block a few times, got a few stories to tell... 

  

Homing In

House Hunting – Step 1 

Not exactly complaining but

a bit modern for an aging crusty like me

Madame Patsy has been the most enthusiastic at enticing me out to view my potential Chez Moi, and so we head off to view four very different options. We set out and come back to just around the corner from where I’m presently staying, and, granted, this is prime location so more expensive, but the villa, which would be a fairly good find back in the UAE, has small rooms, an uninteresting garden, tiny, murky, pool and in serious need of a lick of paint. Now I’ve said my maximum is 50,000, but all four of these places she has quoted at the same 60,00 Rupees a month (1,300 Stirling), which sounds a bit of a coincidence to me. Driving twenty five minutes out of town we arrive at plot two, which is more in the country, but the owner, who worked in a bank for forty years, lives next door with his five yapping dogs, so it’s a bit of a Mosque situation. He’s desperate to find someone as he’s saying he’ll do this, that and the other, just to find a taker. And I can tell it used to be a prime rate holiday let but has, like everywhere else, been hit by the recession. In fact, the woman who owned the first property was gagging to find a punter as well! The ball, I believe, is definitely in the punter’s court for now. So number two was better but we can surely aspire to greater things.

Feel my destiny is to move out of town

so want vistas more along this line

Twenty minutes on and the third spot has a lovely veranda, and, of course, this is the spot where you spend most of your time. The interior is also great, but the garden is lacking a bit of je ne ce quoi. So, as dusk nears, we move on to the last option for the day and hmmm, this is really rather spot on. The sun is setting over a fantastic garden, with big drooping trees, just waiting for the double hammock to be strung up. A beautiful pool area with thatched outhouse mini kitchen/bar/bbq is complimented by three different verandahs, each accommodating different times of day, and there is a nice sized sitting room. The only downside is only one bathroom to go with three smallish bedrooms. But then you don’t live in a bathroom and this lacking is actually a bargaining chip! Along with everything else is that this was a sugar cane plantation manager’s house so, despite being four hundred yards from the edge of town, a largish supermarket, and even church, if that’s your cup of tea, there is no sound beyond the birds and other naturalness. More places to see from other agents but this might be very difficult to better. Just need to work on the price I feel.  

Surely it can’t get better!

Will it...

The next morning Terrie, who I like and communicate well with, despite recognizing that all Estate Agents can potentially make a Piranha’s gills turn to jelly, takes me off to view one property. We both accept that I’ve pretty well made up my mind, but you never know, so let’s have an adventure at least. Ironically we’re going to Goodlands, around fifteen to twenty minutes away, which is where the last house I saw last night is located. Goodlands is most certainly not a tourist hot spot but hustle bustle local, with one road leading through it, which is pretty chaotic at the best of times and manic during rush hour periods. In three or so months the bypass will be completed, so zoom, around it you go. The place yesterday is the far end of the town, and maybe four hundred yards away from this pending road, which would be great, as it’d cut travel time to Grand Baie down to no more than fifteen minutes.  

Or won't it... Become my first year's home in Paradise?

Anyway we get around the town and seem to be getting closer and closer to yesterday’s venue, and I’m thinking ‘Oh shit, I’ve done it again, as this is the same place’! Yesterday Terrie took me to the first place I saw with Madame Patsy and it was all a wee bit embarrassing, what with the house owner gagging for a tenant and already knowing I wasn’t interested. Anyway, as it is, we in fact turned off a hundred yards earlier, though onto the same plantation. The plantation closed down a few years back but, as with estates around the world, such, in fact, where I spent the first nine years of my life, when my Dad was the Estate Manager for Sir Michael, limp wrist, Duff, who owned a mere seventy two thousand acres, be it sixty two was mountainous Snowdonia, in North Wales, provided housing for everyone from the gaffer to the farm workers. Now these dwellings tend to have been sold off, but they are out on what was the old estate, and usually, as in this case, vintage country dwellings. Well engrained with beautiful surroundings and total P & Q (peace and quiet).

So there we are, visiting a house a mere two hundred yards from yesterday’s deliciousness. But this time the villa is, incredibly, even more magnificent! A wee bit more pricewise, but stunning garden, bigger, lighter, airier rooms, etc etc etc. I’ve got to do it if I can get it as, shit, you only live once and I have to have this experience one time in my life. We’ll see, as apparently another couple are returning tomorrow for a second viewing, but is this just agent pressure or the truth. Whatever, we’ll find out on Monday. The only thing apparently in my favour is that the old dear who owns it likes the idea of a single person, so not introducing screaming bambinos, or whatever, to a tranquility zone Could be a long weekend waiting? No of course not as we’ve got golf, Aston villa versus Chelsea, ‘Cummon you blues’ and all other unknown quantities pending. 

Enter the Novice Nerd

I've said before that I tend to be rather excessive and so it seems to be proving now as I enter the world of modern day technology. My mobile is for phoning and texting, as I accept that you need to be in touch, though it's primary use as it's there in my pocket, is for checking the time, so making a watch, which I don't like wearing anyway, redundant. My view might change, as it has with everything else I'm going to indulge myself in, while I warble on here, but I presently do hope I don't feel the necessity to get myself a gooseberry, as surely the vast majority of us don't need that depth of instant communication. Viewing the markets, not that I do, checking the latest porn attachment, that a certain Aussie might forward, and seeing Chelsea's line up for today's game can wait till I get home and get on the Internet. Ok, I accept a financial trader warrants it on the first account, a certain Aussie, hopelessly addicted to porn, on the second and I guess someone, I don't exactly know who, might on the third. But such as 'you're house is on fire' or 'can you come in to the office urgently' tips the balance in my eyes to warrant instant communication, so making a phone necessary.But now I've taken on techno stuff with a vengeance only time will tell!

If my ramblings are tolerated by anyone who passes by

then I can puff away contentedly

Three months ago I committed to Facebook, but then got bored with it after a day or two, returning to my view that this is just the ultimate in trivia, as I read stunning insights into life such as 'I'm bored, maybe I'll make a cup of tea' or 'OMG, LOL',  and so I forgot about it until this last ten days or so. The rebirth is really to do with situation, free communication and a new life scenario, giving me the time to do something I've tentatively tried in the past, without ever feeling I'd achieved what I was wanting to. Now with an 'all for one and one for all' cavalier  attitude I've embraced not only Facebook but I'm writing this and have set up Skype. I should have appreciated the last years ago, as if folk have got a reasonable connection, it's amazingly clear, you can even see each other, and most important its"freeee" But then again it has not been the time until now, as the life I was living was a ticking along type life with very little to report, and so, such as checking in with my Mum was as far as communication went and she doesn't have a computer.

If not... Then all is bared!

Actually a very important aspect aiding me has been that since Jonathan cleaned out my laptop, revamping it with all these lovely programs, everything seems much easier to use. So the positive aspect of Skype is self evident, and Facebook is a great laugh at the moment as, for example, after ten years incommunicado, I track down my old school mate Spiky,  despite his low profile since he scandalized the British press and public with his, and his mate's, interoffice emailing along the lines of 'Corrr, look at the tits on that one'! Haha, I just love that, well worth the ten year wait. Or this morning when I, getting up at four thirty, go on line to find Tony and Jacky in Cyprus,  at three thirty, as they were about to head off to bed.

Wending one's way towards the Anahita

The big one is me starting this, my first blog. As I sort of said before I have tried to write in the past, but never felt enthused by what I'd put down. Here, though, not only do I have the time, but there is a whole new world of experience to try and relate, while the passion of whatever it is is still bubbling away. And if I'm going to push myself to continue then I reckon I need to bite the bullet and publish what I say, opening myself up to response and criticism. So if and when the comments start coming in saying 'What a load of bollocks, you self centred, silly little man' then I'll know I'm not up to it. Likewise if someone says 'Hey, that's quite fun what you write' then I can feel mildly chuffed and be encouraged to continue... Only time will tell as so far no one has come across my secret ramblings!

Grande Baie and Locality

Port Louis

Central Port Louis, the small town metropolise

Now it’s Friday and over the last couple of days I’ve been getting a bit more ingrained, changing my criteria for the home I want, etc, and getting my laptop revamped by the lovely Jonathan. A few months ago Mizu, the dear Gypo I worked with at the golf club in Ras Al Khaimah, kindly downloaded the pirated Microsoft Office for me, and ever since nothing has worked properly. Not that an Egyptian could admit he’d fucked up, heaven forbid. But now Jonathan has cleaned everything up and downloaded all these marvelous programs I know nothing about. Pretty pictures change as my backdrop, sticky notepads appear to write messages on, and I did have the weather report for the next three days until I unwittingly pressed something and it disappeared in to the ether. Can obviously be retrieved but I have no idea how! This is the learning swerve.

Traffic control in Goodlands for 7.00 am rush hour

So today I’m going to head into Port Louis ostensibly to look at scooters. Half an hour down the road and I hit the gridlock going in to the capitol, but that’s where the bike pays off, as you weave through to the front of the queue. Now I don’t want to be blasé about riding here as you’ve got buses who take the attitude ‘I’m bigger than you’ as they hurtle down the road, a myriad of other driving quirks, dogs wandering out of the bushes, potholes and tropical rain. At least with the last you can pull over for ten minutes till the sun comes out again. But yes; going to have to be very careful and sensible driving out here.

First impression of Port Louis and it’s the size of an average town spread around the base of a rocky hill with a buzzy commercial centre, districts of traders of different nationalities and the Waterfront, similar to those you find dotted around the world, where locals and tourists wander, eat, drink and otherwise soak it all up. My main reason to come in to town was to look at bikes and at ten thirty I met Dennis, the DHL National Customer Manager, as his card describes him, and he took me off to the BMW showroom where he was hoping to get his cut from my buying a Beemer 1200 costing the equivalent of a large family car back in Britain. At least it drove home how expensive vehicles are here with the hundred percent import duty. I then by chance passed by a few other bike shops, as there seems to be districts for the same products, as in other Asian/Middle Eastern countries, and learnt a bit more. Motor bikes are great and I’ve enjoyed in the past, but after my three new hips scooters are definitely the future, unless I go for a car? But hey, this island life says ‘wind in your hair and tropical rain is cool’. Hopefully I’m sensible enough for it not to say ’God, these massive grazes with grit engrained in the seeping soars are agony’, as bucks around the world experience on the annual holiday in Albufeira, Portugal, for example! Let me just clarify that I’m not necessarily going to buy new as am not oozing dinaro, and am perusing the ‘A vendre/For Sale’ sections of the local paper for secondhand vehicles. My dilemma is that on a bike you need some power to escape tricky situations and the 125 does not have enough, especially with a passenger, and so I’m looking for bigger, but they’re few and far between. Though I have found the perfect one and so far it’s the only option along these lines on the island – The Suzuki Burgman 400. It’ll be very unlikely that I find one secondhand and the price is a horrifying amount for what one would expect to pay for such in most other places in the world, but then there are only two major expenditures; home and transport. Except of course the yacht, small airplane, innumerable holidays et all. Anyway as per one of my mantras – Slowly slowly gets the Monkey.

Come Dine with Me

Yes Stephen, there is fresh milk

Back home, after the day out, and the boss rang asking whether I’d like to come to a Barbie, with the others, tomorrow night. With the only sub clause being would I do it? Well of course I couldn’t resist a first cooking challenge, so the rest of the evening was planning my attack. Then the following morning, yesterday, after going for the medical needed for visas and presenting the piss and shit samples, I did my shop and went to his abode to start preparing. This was around eleven to twelve, and from then on I wafted through the day getting my:

Homemade burgers – Angus fillet of course with the bits and bobs.

Chicken kebabs marinated in a yogurty type thing.

A couple of fresh Red Snapper basted in a Thai type concoction with dipping sauce.

Tatty and green bean salad courtesy of Ainsley as he’s the greatest on bbq recipes. Easy and very yummy.

Lettuce and tomato salad

And a carroty mayonnaise number.

Oh, and I nearly forgot, the homemade garlic bread…

The rented house is very well equipped but I still double checked that there was gas in the one of the two bbq’s I was using, and I’d got all my serving platters and utensils, but it was still only when I was all fired up and ready to go that I found the hiccup, as there were no bbq cooking utensils! Made it interesting using a cake knife and table fork for turning stuff over on an overloaded griddle, but we got there, even though the aesthetics were a wee bit lessened as I couldn’t get a clean sweep under the cookeries, as one would with a real metal spatula etc. But unknown challenges are a spice of life. I give myself a seven and a half all told and one day maybe I’ll get a perfect ten. Cesar was happy too as he was sorted for the next few days from the left over’s. Being Filipino there will be minimal wastage as even the fish cheeks are devoured. Of course I only nibbled as I can never cook and eat, as am too hyper. The only time I can eat, when I’m supposed to, is when in a scenario where you sit down, such as at a restaurant. Buffets or casual eating events and I tend to just get nicely pissed, while possibly riffling a few bits and bobs to take home to eat yet later still.   

Every Day’s like a Christmas Day

Sugar cane photo for now

Most of us must surely remember Christmas as a kid. The all consuming excitement on the night before, and then when we did finally get to sleep we were immediately awake again and up to see what that legendary fellow Father ‘nothing perverted about me climbing down the chimney and in to the bedroom of a small boy’ Christmas had left us! We’ll that’s what I’m relating to now; not the small boys' bedroom bit, but the fact that I’m waking up at five, or whenever, and there is no way I’m going back to sleep, as I’m far too excited and wanting to see what the new day has in store for me. I reckon I’m one of those who tends to live at the extreme ends of the spectrum, either peaking or troughing, and not spending much time in between. And God knows, as well as many a friend, that I’ve troughed deeply down in the wells of depression and thoughts of suicide, so consequently, I guess, I am now really appreciating being on a high. 

Well there’s an irony for you, as, as I sit here again an hour and a half after that last paragraph, having been up to the clinic to finalize my medical, in order to get my visa, I'm in a very different space, Anna, the rather delicious Russian doctor, was the last step in the process, and all my tests had come out fine, except a slightly high white blood cell count. But then does excess fag and booze abuse affect that? At the end though, she looks at my chest X-ray and sees a wee blotch, so sends me off for a closer inspection; another X-ray. ‘I’m sure it’s all fine, but just in case…’ Job done and I’m asking the radiologist ‘And’ and he says ‘Please just take a seat and wait till the doctor can see you’. Thirty minutes I’m sitting there thinking ‘Well here we go, I’ve cracked it and made it to paradise, only to find I’ve got terminal cancer'. An hour ago I was up in the sky and now, shiiit, I’m on the way out. It really was a very long wait, but then, when the following year she called me in, all was ok and the blotch had been caused by a shadow from my vertebrae. But… Point most definitely taken. Mind you I’ve been chain smoking and getting pissed on Pastis since, trying to calm the heart down! (It’s now actually late afternoon so seven or so hours have passed.)

American Jack

Early morning on a mildly overcast day; Grand Baie

Gosh, the cheaper eleven day rate on the hire scooter comes up tomorrow, so that shows how long I’ve been here. Passed in the blink of the proverbial, except that eternal spiral into despair yesterday. I was about to say let’s forget that, but no, emphatically not, as there was a massive lesson in there somewhere and not just the ‘how really stupid smoking is’ one. But… So saying, as blasé as it sounds, I used to have my mother saying ‘You’ll change your tune when your older’, when aged eighteen, I used to say that I’ll be dead by forty. But in all honesty I’ve stuck by that, as many could witness, and so consequently, ever since, every year has been yet another one beyond my presumed expiry date. Another week and I’ll be thirteen years beyond the expected. Surely a nice viewpoint so gotta be a positive. ‘Every day’s a bonus point’ (still haven’t forgotten yesterday though, don’t worry, so all in perspective).

Been dipping myself further into this novel world of the ether space today, though hopefully won’t warrant being classified as a nerd/bore/self indulgent type though. Just give me breathing space to find my level, indulge me for a wee bit longer.

And this is later from just over the road from the office

End of the day and had to decide about what to do about transport, as scooter lease comes up tomorrow. The realistic direction is to go for the cheaper month’s lease, as not going to commit to anything dramatic for a while yet. Consequently after looking at some alternatives my best deal was still with my present boys; all power to Pascal, a massively dedicated landlord; owner of where we are presently staying. Up by six, I note, as I’m on my Christmas day morning even earlier bird number. He’s in action coordinating, as he is till late in to the evening. Anyway he is the one who sourced who he felt is the best supplier of whatever it is his guests want, and has come up trumps again on this score. Therefore I ended up talking to Jacque ‘No, Jack, like an American’, the boss of the scooter rental company and more besides.

And the view out from the local watering hole The Beach House

It took me coming on an hour to find Jack’s shop, less than fifteen minutes away, but then that’s part of the learning ‘where you are’ process. From my hour of shooting the shit I reckon the boy, and engrained family, have fingers in many a pie and so got potential… We’ll see.

Besides the bike hire, boat cruises, GPS rental and guided country walks, the flip of the coin seemed to revolve around tourists having fun, possibly with a capitol F. Especially the bachelor type and ‘Oh goodness gracious me that’s moi’. As I was leaving he encouraged me to come down on Friday night to the, to all appearances, restaurant, where anything from a massage to an all nighter, for around twenty five quid, was on tap… Three days to go so who knows? Massif occasion as Florencio Avalos reaches the surface in Chile. One of those times when you put on the TV and there streaming live is a moment in history. Ominously, the only other two I can think of at the moment,  are when going into Aggis’s bar in Proteras, Cyprus, to see a plane fly into the Trade Centre, in New York, and returning to my cottage in the hills, after finishing the inevitably long day in my Bistro back home in Forres, Scotland, and seeing Locherbie village up in flames. Well this, at least, is a joyous one. Florencio who was the self appointed photographer for the group was fairly subdued, but the second guy up, Mario Sepulveda, really shows the Latin emotions that we expect, hugging his wife, briefly, before being far more enigmatic towards El Presidente. But I guess it’ll be the only time he meets the top man, so better make the most of it before his fifteen minutes is over and he fades back in to insignificants. Obviously a joyous man now, but I reckon in the not too distant future he’ll be speaking what’s on his mind, having been a Union official and previously critical of the safety measures taken at this mine… fireworks pending! 

Getting Started...

Action Stations

The following morning as I wake up in one of the boss’s five spare bedrooms, the one with a stunning view over the bay, the rest of the crew, barring the Irish One, are straight in to action on the house hunting front. Irish, like me, didn’t finish partying last night till four and so stayed the night. I was well chuffed to get her into bed on day one. It was a struggle, but in the end she relented, though sadly in another room to me. It was one of those situations when you gently tap, then shake, shake harder and then wonder if a swift sharp slap across the cheek will get her on her feet to make the move from armchair to bed. In the end we got there though. 

The others are not hanging around and the Dragon views her flat that she’d already decided on from pictures while still in Dubai and commits. It’s apparently great though. Within moments Madame, Karen and Cesar have found a four bedroom house together, so leaving just Irish and me still hung over and not yet settled in to our apartments, let alone thinking about future homes. What I do do though, later on, is get the 125 Scooter. Very wobbly to begin with as I’m used to motor bikes with legs either side not perched up in front of me, but practice, practice. Otherwise my Saturday is taken up watching golf as this is of course Ryder Cup weekend, Europe versus them over there.

The Dodo Legacy 

After years of sand it's all lush, lush.

Home hunting will come but, shit, we’ve got these rooms for a month and for a couple of days I need to adventure, so, not that golfing is exactly adventuring, the following day I head off with the Boss, Pancho Villas the golfing Bandit otherwise known as Marguerita, his delightful Mexican wife, to one of the island’s best courses, the Belle Mare Plage Links course, where I perform in my usual haphazard, fairly appalling, way. Pancho is at that stage where she is a thirty six handicap, having just started playing, going on twenty six or less and so consequently thrashed us two even if we added our scores together. Great strike and is a sporty type, but only just started playing. We need to get her an official handicap and then she’ll be down in the teens in a year. But what a nice change playing a course with indigenous greenery and not just f’ing sand as a hazard. Fairways were nicely wide as well, so accommodating to my slice.

On the boat over to Le Touesserok

with waves breaking over the reef in the distance

After our game we head further down the East Coast to take a boat over to Le Touesserok, an island golf resort, for lunch. Thai prawn and squid salad later and we’re off home, but this time we take the scenic route with the Boss who doesn’t drive, having been brought up on an island half a mile long, with no cars, map reading a very poor map and the wifey driving. It was nearly perfect with just minor hiccups like ‘turn right’ translating into Spanish as ‘left’ and ‘Oh, we were supposed to be going away from those mountains not around the other side of them’. Anyway I was able to see a fair bit of the island so grand.

Back to the Ryder Cup and then a hastily arranged meal for the troops at the legendary ‘best nosebag on the island’ venue, and it was delicious and a spot on setting, though dare I say it, extremely pricey. Again I seemed to overstay and found myself walking home at two in the morning having sensibly left the Harley in the car park. Naturally, as in any major production, the obligatory three dogs who just have to come out to accost the unwary stranger weaving down a deserted, dimly lit, street arrived on cue. Do I scream for help and wake up the neighborhood or just run for my life on my ‘you’re running days are over’ hips? Neither of course as I can immediately sense that these boys are far more frightened of me than vice versa. I guess it’s the Dodo legacy!

Move over Bellamy, Davey Jones will be adding this caption

Four hundred years ago this island was uninhabited and had no predators. In fact the ‘King’ was El Dodo, a flightless, really stupid looking bird. So consequently when the first humans arrived who sadly happened to be the Dutch the Dodo waddled up to them saying ‘Helloooo, will you be my friend?’ But we all know the Nedderlanders who are a rather calculated bunch. So despite not talking Dodo they still took it upon themselves in their drunken rage to say ‘No’ and obliterate the species irrespective of the fact they didn’t even taste particularly nice. Any that managed to get away were done in by their dogs and the rats that they kindly imported.  

It’s Monday

Quickly recapping and let’s remember we are here relocating the business and so today is the beginning of the working week. Ok, I’m not a full time employee, in fact I'm not exactly an employee at all, more of a small fitting/fixture. But for the rest of them midday is action stations and so, in order to align with Europe their hours are midday till eight in the evening,  they go off for their first day and, of course, there are the inevitable start up hiccups. But shit happens and the phones, internet, scanners etc will iron themselves out over the next few days. Though I do feel tempted to bang some heads and say ‘Come on now we’re in Paradise so mellow out, Rome wasn’t built in a day’. But I’m the insignificant one, wafting in to the office for a few minutes and doing my bit, before returning to the golf, so it’s easy for me to say. Not involved in all that technical stuff I don’t and don’t want to understand. So it’s all panning out to be absolutely bloody brilliant and tomorrow, weather permitting; I’m off on a cruise on the scooter to get some local bearings.  

Scooting in Mauritius

So I got the wee 125 the other day and I believe it’s got to be the future. You stick to the speed limit here; you don’t get ten clicks grace from my brief experience these last few days. Any stretch of straight road and there may well be a couple of coppers hovering in the bushes waiting to pull you over. Today I saw a guy pulled over by three lady plods looking all neat and natty in their nicely pressed uniforms... Still, can think of worse ways to go.

Looking down from the hills

Anyway yesterday was initiating  the house hunting scenario, so I was up at five as it happened and by half six I was off cruising down the coast road to the capitol Port Louis, and then in the other direction up to the point Grand Gaube, half an hour away, just to see the possibilities. What I learnt was that as beautiful as the Grand Gaube might be there is nothing else there, so would be having to come back here for any socializing. Consequently I have to find a home within fifteen minutes of Grand Baie, which has the shops and plenty of entertainment and is where I have to come every day to work as it is. Most expensive area on the island but swings and roundabouts. It is lovely and maybe I can have all my mildly rich, darling friends, come and stay and supplement my ‘retiree’s’ income with a donation into the kitty, as I’m now potentially going to be an official retiree by visa! Bedooing, as actually thought myself such since I was early thirties. But this time it’s official!

So I started at one end of the road and cruising to t’other went in to all the ten or so Immoubiliers/Estate Agents I saw, giving them my criteria – No complex, peace and quiet, indigenous old garden, budget and categorically no Mosque within shouting distance. There were the little operators who will most likely be minimal in response, the uppy over priced ones and three I reckon will work. Still, we’re only talking about a small town, and there are only going to be so many properties to see, and they’ll all be knowing what’s where, when and how. And then of course one just clicks in certain direction and follows down those particular paths… We will see.

Even I can admit a Swissie might be Right

Pin the tail on the Panzer?

So after yesterdays initiating the house hunting I decide I better go and play golf again and see if I can perform a wee bit better than the other day, so off I go with golf bag slung over my shoulder back to the Links course. Exactly an hour later I arrive to be told they’re chocker as the holiday season is now in full swing; and that’s just three days after last time I played when I noted the course had players hacking around but wasn't exactly heaving. Having just worked for a golf course for two years I realize there is a certain mentality that needs to be exuded out to potential punters, which is along the lines of ‘we’re doing brilliantly, oversubscribed with both members and visitors, but ok, we can just squeeze you in with another two ball, but consider yourself lucky and you’ll have to pay full wack for the honour’! In fact I got residence’s rate and ten minutes later was on the first tee aching in my hands from throttling and shoulder from the weight of carrying my bag for the last hour.

 My playing partners were Connie and Doris out from Switzerland, and after introducing ourselves and the girls turning down my suggestion to play strip golf, the opening tee shots showed that Connie, built like a miniature Panzer tank, could hit the ball far further than me, though not necessarily straight, which I can also relate to. At least we have something in common! As the round progresses I learn her pet topic concerns the ground keepers and other locals, conveniently placed beside the course, appropriately where a ball is going to land, nicking them. ‘I voz here five years ago and, ja, the same zing happened zen. I knew ver my ball should be, but nien, it’s gone, and zer is zis man standing in the shade viz ze air of innocence’. Yes, yes Connie, I thought, Swiss paranoia is setting in. But actually through the game there were three occasions that one of our balls disappeared from a seemingly perfectly safe shot and each time there he was standing right on cue… And when you start thinking suspiciously it does take the edge of the enjoyment. Still we will monitor the situation in the future. Naturally when mentioning this to the management it was all ‘oh no, I never, never heard that one before’, which I believe must be a crock of bull.