MAURITIUS - THE INDIAN OCEAN PARADISE
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WORDS © MARION FRIEDEL
Mauritius, the Green Isle, home of the rare "Twopenny Blue" postage stamp, rises like a floating garden above the surface of the Indian Ocean. The sugar island with its strangely fissured mountains, turquoise blue lagoons and beaches that stretch for miles, is a holiday destination to dream about. The island is home to Indians, Creoles, Chinese and Europeans. The people and their festivals make a visit to Mauritius seem like a tour of the world’s cultures.
It was twenty-five years ago that I first looked up Mauritius on a map of the world. It appeared even smaller there than the postage-stamp which brought it international fame. Everyone knows the story of the "Mauritius Blue" - but in those days few people could tell you the precise location of the island iself, lost in the wide expanse of the Indian Ocean.
After a 15-hour flight we landed on the "green isle". The Plaisance airport lay in the middle of sugar-cane fields. The cane, growing to a height of 16 feet, formed a corridor along the road to the capital, Port Louis. Only now and then could we catch a glimpse of the rugged moutain peaks which dominate the landscape of Mauritius. They are jagged, sharp pillars of volcanic rock, created millions of years ago.
Our taxi, an ancient British Morris, shared the road with heavily laden ox-carts and trucks carrying the harvested sugar-cane to the refinery at top speed - with overloaded bicycles and mopeds, with goats and pedestrians. Our progress was slow. At harvest-time the "green isle" acquires another dominant colour: the red of fire. In order to make harvesting easier the cane is first burnt back. Walls of fire tens of feet high, and clouds of smoke, plunge the landscape into a fascinating whirlpool of colour. Men and women, blackened with soot, work like Trojans, hacking down the sticky cane. We watched them for a while and experienced the legendary friendliness of the Mauritians. Smiling and waving they offered us a piece of cane to chew and asked us where we were from and where we were heading for. We told them the Trou aux Biches hotel, on the mile-long white sandy beach of the same name. Even in those days it was a good sized luxury chalet complex. Twenty years later we were going back there, but the road looked very different.
New, multi-lane motorways sweep across the island. Every international make of car, even the most prestigious, can be seen on the highway. The sugar-cane is still short and a tender green, so we have a wonderful view far across the high plateau to the impressive mountains beyond. However, we have no time for a pleasant trip into the country. Our driver puts his foot on the gas and complains about the other drivers who do the same. The breakneck journey on a highway with four lanes in places, is nevertheless held up by pedestrians, cars trying to park, bicycles, goats, chickens and dogs. It is dangerous, as the many accidents testify. Near the capital, Port Louis, our journey comes to a halt. We are stuck in a traffic-jam. In the little island metropolis, home to 140,000 Mauritians, a building boom is in full swing. Tall concrete buildings and the imposing skyscraper of the Mauritian National Bank soar heavenwards, container-ships are berthed in the harbour, and the rush-hour traffic is controlled by traffic-lights.
Finally we turn on to the minor road to Triolet. The longest roadside village in Mauritius is decorated with thousands of little white flags for the Indian festival of Maha Shivaratree, which is about to start. In the narrow, crowded street which bisects the village, there is much to attract the eye: market stalls stacked with tropical fruit, mobile snack-bars, two grocer's shops with advertisements for Pepsi-Cola and Phoenix beer, women in colourful saris waiting at a bus-stop, a group of Moslem students of the Koran. Next to a scrap-merchant there is a little restaurant, a knitware shop with fine cashmere and thick Norwegian sweaters, which are knitted in Mauritius for export, a small mosque, from which the muezzin loudly calls the faithful to prayer, an impressive health centre, a play-school and the Hindu temple of Shivala, one of the island's most splendid religious buildings.
At the little police station we turn left for the hotel. Of all the 100 miles of sandy beaches which fringe the island, the Trou aux Biches hotel has picked one of the loveliest stretches. But all the beaches on Mauritius are open to the public and this one is buzzing with activity, both aquatic and commercial. The hotel's beach is over half a mile long and makes a suitable backdrop for weddings. Tour operators make the tempting offer of "a wedding in paradise". Facing a crowd of well-oiled sunworshippers on their beach-mats, a European bride and groom, sweating profusely in veil and morning-coat, sit smiling on decorated thrones. In a temperature of at least 50 degrees centigrade, the hotel management serves champagne and wedding cake, while a cassette-recorder plays the Wedding March. The all-in price includes a video recording of the ceremony, a short trip in the water-ski launch, the place of honour at the Sega floor-show that evening, with dinner to follow and the privilege of being the first dancers on the floor of the disco. Tourism provides jobs for 40,000 Mauritians. Along with the sugar-plantations and the textile industry, tourism is the third pillar of the rapidly growing economy.
o-one knows who were the first people visit the island. In 1507 Arab seafarers showed the first Portuguese explorers the route to the island we now call Mauritius. It was uninhabited. All that was to be found were some hitherto unknown plant and animal species. The true "aboriginals" of the islands were the flightless turkey-like birds known as dodos. Weighing up to 50 pounds, the birds were easy to catch and made a welcome addition to the menu for hungry sailors. In 1691 François Leguat, the first French settler on the neighbouring island of Rodrigues, wrote about the solitaire, a relative of the dodo: "In the forest they are difficult to catch, but much easier on open ground, since we can run faster than they can. Once the creatures are caught, they begin to shed tears and refuse all form of nourishment until finally they die." After 1681 no more dodos were seen alive. The phrase "dead as a dodo" has become a proverbial way of describing anything that is well and truly extinct.
The Portuguese only took a brief interest in the uninhabited island which offered no promise of trade or exploitation. They were followed by the Dutch. In 1683 they christened the island "Mauritius" in honour of Prince Maurice of Nassau, and used it as a supply-base midway between the Cape of Good Hope and Ceylon. They founded the first settlements at Warwijkks Haven and Flacq, and introduced sugar-cane and a breed of deer from Java, which to this day enriches the diet of the islanders. Yet even the Dutch were unable to survive there for long. The hardwood forests were soon cut down, there was no mineral wealth, and, most important of all, there was too small a population to provide forced labour and revenue. Plagues of rats, tornadoes, tropical diseases and lack of leadership combined to make life a hell on earth. Five years after the Dutch had consigned their entire settlement to the flames, the French landed on Mauritius and named their new acquisition "Ile de France." In fine style they began cultivating sugar-cane, cotton, wheat and spices. They purchased the necessary labour on the international slave market, since only with armies of slaves could the white Europeans gain a foothold on the island and turn it into a flourishing colony. Unlike the Dutch, the French had no racial inhibitions and intermarried enthusiastically with their African slaves. The island became a notorious hideaway for French pirates, from which they plundered many a vessel of the British East India Company.
But when France had been defeated in the Napoleonic wars, the good life also came to an end for the buccaneers of the "Ile de France." In 1811 the British captured the island and smoked the pirates out of their lairs. Under its fourth colonial flag, the island awas once again named "Mauritius".
In 1835 slavery was abolished throughout the British Empire. Immediately the African slaves abandoned the sugar plantations of Mauritius. They refused to continue working for the pitiful wages that their former oppressors offered to pay them. In order to prevent sugar production from collapsing - which would have rendered Mauritius worthless as a colony - the British brought over contract labourers from China and the overpopulated southern provinces of India. In the next hundred years up to the 1920s, a total of 453,000 of these so-called "coolies", including 103,000 women, were brought to the island. Very few of them ever managed to return home. Hong Kong Chinese soon organized the retail trade and opened the island's first gambling-dens. Punjabi Moslems, respected for their cleanliness, ran the hot food stalls and snack bars.
The island came to exemplify British imperial values combined with French flair, since the French sugar-barons and traders stayed on under British rule. With an area of little over 770 sq. miles (2,000 sq.km), the island became a new home for Europeans, Africans and Asians. Every Mauritian is, whether by choice or compulsion, an "incomer."
Since 1968 the island has been a self-governing democracy, with a population now numbering over one million, or 1,365 per sq. mile (525 per sq.km). The ethnic and cultural variety, the tolerant and easy-going behaviour towards one another, are what give Mauritius its fascination. Smiles and laughter come naturally to the islanders; these are the oil on the wheels, so to speak, of an intricate social mechanism. This diverse blend of peoples celebrates twenty-one national holidays and listens to radio broadcasts in ten languages. The official language is English, but Creole (an amalgam of French and African dialects) is spoken or understood by nearly everyone.
he festival of Maha Shivaratree is the biggest event of the year. In February over 300,000 white-garbed Hindus set off from every corner of the island on a religious marathon lasting several days to the Grand Bassin, a sacred crater lake nearly 2000 ft high in the south of the island. On their shoulders they balance tall and wide-spreading bamboo structures called Kanwar. These imaginative creations wrapped in tissue-paper and decorated with flowers, mirrors and tinsel, represent the god Shiva.
Early in the morning, before the hordes of pilgrims block the motorways and villages, we set off for the Grand Bassin. The sky has a light film of cloud today, which must make life easier for the pilgrims on their strenuous march. On the main road we see the first columns of pilgrims. We drive at walking pace past the little bunches of young people singing happily and clapping in ecstatic rhythm. Barefoot, or wearing worn-out rubber flip-flops, some with their feet wrapped in cloth, they plod up the mountain road which climbs ever more steeply between tea-plantations. Other pilgrims who have rested and are already heading home, come towards them with bottles of holy water from the lake. The sky is now steadily darkening, violent gusts of wind tug at the bamboo edifices and it suddenly starts to rain.
We feel guilty as we drive, dry and comfortable, past the rain-soaked and windswept crowds. On our radio we hear the first cyclone warning. Our Chinese guide, King How, reassures us. A level 1 warning does not mean very much; the cyclone is still a long way from Mauritius and may well head off in another direction altogether.
At the Mare aux Vacoas, the largest fresh-water lake and reservoir on the island, our journey comes to an end. The road ahead is barred to vehicles. Everyone walks the last few hundred yards, even those with foot complaints. Around the edge of the crater are crowded countless decorative bamboo displays, a temple, big tents full of exhausted pilgrims, a loaded ambulance, and stalls selling food and drink. Tens of thousands of the faithful besiege the steps and the bank of the lake lower down. Loud Indian music and the voices of priests reciting from Hindu scriptures echo across the lake from loudspeakers. The pilgrims entreat the god Shiva to forgive them their sins. Reverently they lay their votive offerings on the sacred waters. These include bananas, white flowers, little boats made from leaves, carrying lighted candles, and coconut-milk which is slowly poured into the water. Unperturbed by the rain, wind and constricted space, each worshipper smilingly makes way for the next. To our amazement many Creoles also take part in the Hindu ceremony. Yet for our Chinese guide, King, who three days ago had been baptized with the Catholic name of Joseph, this is far from unusual in Mauritius. The gods of other religions have power too. The best thing is to appease all of them. The proximity of the four great religions of the world - Hinduism, Islam, Christianity and Buddhism - has led to a great tolerance between the faiths. In almost every town and village in Mauritius there are Hindu temples, mosques and churches. In Port Louis there are Chinese pagodas as well. Christmas is an official holiday for all religions. Like the Christians, all other households put up decorations and give presents.
The loudspeaker announces a level 2 cyclone warning. This means that the festival must be abandoned. Joseph King How urges us to hurry - level 3 means an absolute ban on driving. Cyclones - the circular storms with euphonious girls' names - always represent a dangerously unpredictable phenomenon. They are a disaster which regularly afflicts the island and its destiny.
For example, on 29th April 1892, no less than 1,200 people were killed and over 2,000 injured within two hours. A third of all houses in Port Louis were destroyed and some 20,000 people made homeless. For this reason, since the 1960s all houses have been built of concrete. They withstand cyclones but are seldom a pleasure to look at. It is rare to see a well-preserved colonial building - but the oldest on the island is the government palace in Port Louis, built in 1763 by the French governor, Mahé de Labourdonnais. The little capital exudes the charm of a slightly dilapidated small island town. Very little of its rich colonial heritage has survived. The townscape is characterized by functional concrete buildings next to little wooden shacks.
ur return trip is stormy. Rain, branches and leaves whip against the windscreen. Trucks rumble by carrying loads of pilgrims. When we finally reach our hotel, we scarcely recognize it. All the windows have been boarded up, the reception area, bar and beach restaurant have been completely cleared out, and the boats hauled far up the beach. A large sign asks the guests to remain in their rooms - until further notice.
On television there are half-hourly reports on the progress of cyclone "Ingrid." Not until the following morning can we be certain: Mauritius has been lucky. "Ingrid" is raging far out to sea, but for days the sun-hungry holidaymakers are lashed by the rain-storms of a deep tropical depression. The Mauritians have to live with these natural catastrophes, which occur at regular intervals, especially between December and March. On the other hand, two other fatal scourges, cholera and malaria, were stamped out in 1952 thanks to a large application of money and chemical technology.
When the all-clear is given, life returns to normal. Near the village of Rose Hill, yellow-clad Tamils prepare for the fire-walk, a penance that consists of walking on red-hot charcoal. It is a terrifying sight - even the official tourist bureau of Mauritius says so. The faithful gather early in the morning outside their small temple in the midst of fields of tall sugar-cane. At noon, to the sound of prayers, tree-trunks and branches are set alight in a shallow trench about 20 feet long. Then the participants submit to a ritual ablution in the nearby river. At the same time laundry is being washed in the river, nasty-looking things are floating past, the noisy singing of some cheerful Chinese echoes across from a nearby hostelry, and a muezzin summons Moslems to prayer. But none of this seems to interrupt the concentration of the penitents. And they certainly need it: the priests use sharp needles to prick the skin of the faithful, and their cheeks and tongues are pierced with skewers. But, incredible as it may seem, not a drop of blood is shed. It is said that fasting and concentration make the body insensitive to the pain. Yet the expression on some faces, and sometimes even tears, tell a different story. Barefoot and in a trance the penitents make their way in a long procession to the temple, where the bed of ashes and glowing charcoal awaits. Although it has rained almost continuously today, the spectacular fire-walk attracts hundreds of eager spectators. Even here the Mauritians display their hospitality once more. With a friendly gesture people push us closer to the railing, where the heat of the glowing coals hits us in the face. The priests are the first to step on to the charcoal. Those waiting attempt to conceal their anxiety, but their tense faces and bodies trembling like aspen-leaves, their staring eyes and rapid breathing all betray great stress. Then things start to happen quickly. After the priests, first the men and then the women take the plunge in rapid succession. The final step, into a basin full of milk and water, is a great release for everyone. I stare in disbelief at their feet and see no sign of burns. But through sheer excitement I have burnt my own fingers on my cigarette. The apprehensive, reverential atmosphere is suddenly broken. Relaxed and cheerful, the celebrants troop inside the temple where, after ten days of fasting, a feast awaits them.
The Mauritians amply compensated for our bad luck with the weather. Instead of roasting on the beach, we had taken to the road and been introduced to their culture and way of life. Ever since then the most fascinating thing about the island of Mauritius has, for us, been its cosmopolitan inhabitants.
MAURITIUS - THE INDIAN OCEAN PARADISE
WORDS © MARION FRIEDEL
WORDS © MARION FRIEDEL
Mauritius, the Green Isle, home of the rare "Twopenny Blue" postage stamp, rises like a floating garden above the surface of the Indian Ocean. The sugar island with its strangely fissured mountains, turquoise blue lagoons and beaches that stretch for miles, is a holiday destination to dream about. The island is home to Indians, Creoles, Chinese and Europeans. The people and their festivals make a visit to Mauritius seem like a tour of the world’s cultures.
It was twenty-five years ago that I first looked up Mauritius on a map of the world. It appeared even smaller there than the postage-stamp which brought it international fame. Everyone knows the story of the "Mauritius Blue" - but in those days few people could tell you the precise location of the island iself, lost in the wide expanse of the Indian Ocean.
After a 15-hour flight we landed on the "green isle". The Plaisance airport lay in the middle of sugar-cane fields. The cane, growing to a height of 16 feet, formed a corridor along the road to the capital, Port Louis. Only now and then could we catch a glimpse of the rugged moutain peaks which dominate the landscape of Mauritius. They are jagged, sharp pillars of volcanic rock, created millions of years ago.
Our taxi, an ancient British Morris, shared the road with heavily laden ox-carts and trucks carrying the harvested sugar-cane to the refinery at top speed - with overloaded bicycles and mopeds, with goats and pedestrians. Our progress was slow. At harvest-time the "green isle" acquires another dominant colour: the red of fire. In order to make harvesting easier the cane is first burnt back. Walls of fire tens of feet high, and clouds of smoke, plunge the landscape into a fascinating whirlpool of colour. Men and women, blackened with soot, work like Trojans, hacking down the sticky cane. We watched them for a while and experienced the legendary friendliness of the Mauritians. Smiling and waving they offered us a piece of cane to chew and asked us where we were from and where we were heading for. We told them the Trou aux Biches hotel, on the mile-long white sandy beach of the same name. Even in those days it was a good sized luxury chalet complex. Twenty years later we were going back there, but the road looked very different.
New, multi-lane motorways sweep across the island. Every international make of car, even the most prestigious, can be seen on the highway. The sugar-cane is still short and a tender green, so we have a wonderful view far across the high plateau to the impressive mountains beyond. However, we have no time for a pleasant trip into the country. Our driver puts his foot on the gas and complains about the other drivers who do the same. The breakneck journey on a highway with four lanes in places, is nevertheless held up by pedestrians, cars trying to park, bicycles, goats, chickens and dogs. It is dangerous, as the many accidents testify. Near the capital, Port Louis, our journey comes to a halt. We are stuck in a traffic-jam. In the little island metropolis, home to 140,000 Mauritians, a building boom is in full swing. Tall concrete buildings and the imposing skyscraper of the Mauritian National Bank soar heavenwards, container-ships are berthed in the harbour, and the rush-hour traffic is controlled by traffic-lights.
Finally we turn on to the minor road to Triolet. The longest roadside village in Mauritius is decorated with thousands of little white flags for the Indian festival of Maha Shivaratree, which is about to start. In the narrow, crowded street which bisects the village, there is much to attract the eye: market stalls stacked with tropical fruit, mobile snack-bars, two grocer's shops with advertisements for Pepsi-Cola and Phoenix beer, women in colourful saris waiting at a bus-stop, a group of Moslem students of the Koran. Next to a scrap-merchant there is a little restaurant, a knitware shop with fine cashmere and thick Norwegian sweaters, which are knitted in Mauritius for export, a small mosque, from which the muezzin loudly calls the faithful to prayer, an impressive health centre, a play-school and the Hindu temple of Shivala, one of the island's most splendid religious buildings.
At the little police station we turn left for the hotel. Of all the 100 miles of sandy beaches which fringe the island, the Trou aux Biches hotel has picked one of the loveliest stretches. But all the beaches on Mauritius are open to the public and this one is buzzing with activity, both aquatic and commercial. The hotel's beach is over half a mile long and makes a suitable backdrop for weddings. Tour operators make the tempting offer of "a wedding in paradise". Facing a crowd of well-oiled sunworshippers on their beach-mats, a European bride and groom, sweating profusely in veil and morning-coat, sit smiling on decorated thrones. In a temperature of at least 50 degrees centigrade, the hotel management serves champagne and wedding cake, while a cassette-recorder plays the Wedding March. The all-in price includes a video recording of the ceremony, a short trip in the water-ski launch, the place of honour at the Sega floor-show that evening, with dinner to follow and the privilege of being the first dancers on the floor of the disco. Tourism provides jobs for 40,000 Mauritians. Along with the sugar-plantations and the textile industry, tourism is the third pillar of the rapidly growing economy.
o-one knows who were the first people visit the island. In 1507 Arab seafarers showed the first Portuguese explorers the route to the island we now call Mauritius. It was uninhabited. All that was to be found were some hitherto unknown plant and animal species. The true "aboriginals" of the islands were the flightless turkey-like birds known as dodos. Weighing up to 50 pounds, the birds were easy to catch and made a welcome addition to the menu for hungry sailors. In 1691 François Leguat, the first French settler on the neighbouring island of Rodrigues, wrote about the solitaire, a relative of the dodo: "In the forest they are difficult to catch, but much easier on open ground, since we can run faster than they can. Once the creatures are caught, they begin to shed tears and refuse all form of nourishment until finally they die." After 1681 no more dodos were seen alive. The phrase "dead as a dodo" has become a proverbial way of describing anything that is well and truly extinct.
The Portuguese only took a brief interest in the uninhabited island which offered no promise of trade or exploitation. They were followed by the Dutch. In 1683 they christened the island "Mauritius" in honour of Prince Maurice of Nassau, and used it as a supply-base midway between the Cape of Good Hope and Ceylon. They founded the first settlements at Warwijkks Haven and Flacq, and introduced sugar-cane and a breed of deer from Java, which to this day enriches the diet of the islanders. Yet even the Dutch were unable to survive there for long. The hardwood forests were soon cut down, there was no mineral wealth, and, most important of all, there was too small a population to provide forced labour and revenue. Plagues of rats, tornadoes, tropical diseases and lack of leadership combined to make life a hell on earth. Five years after the Dutch had consigned their entire settlement to the flames, the French landed on Mauritius and named their new acquisition "Ile de France." In fine style they began cultivating sugar-cane, cotton, wheat and spices. They purchased the necessary labour on the international slave market, since only with armies of slaves could the white Europeans gain a foothold on the island and turn it into a flourishing colony. Unlike the Dutch, the French had no racial inhibitions and intermarried enthusiastically with their African slaves. The island became a notorious hideaway for French pirates, from which they plundered many a vessel of the British East India Company.
But when France had been defeated in the Napoleonic wars, the good life also came to an end for the buccaneers of the "Ile de France." In 1811 the British captured the island and smoked the pirates out of their lairs. Under its fourth colonial flag, the island awas once again named "Mauritius".
In 1835 slavery was abolished throughout the British Empire. Immediately the African slaves abandoned the sugar plantations of Mauritius. They refused to continue working for the pitiful wages that their former oppressors offered to pay them. In order to prevent sugar production from collapsing - which would have rendered Mauritius worthless as a colony - the British brought over contract labourers from China and the overpopulated southern provinces of India. In the next hundred years up to the 1920s, a total of 453,000 of these so-called "coolies", including 103,000 women, were brought to the island. Very few of them ever managed to return home. Hong Kong Chinese soon organized the retail trade and opened the island's first gambling-dens. Punjabi Moslems, respected for their cleanliness, ran the hot food stalls and snack bars.
The island came to exemplify British imperial values combined with French flair, since the French sugar-barons and traders stayed on under British rule. With an area of little over 770 sq. miles (2,000 sq.km), the island became a new home for Europeans, Africans and Asians. Every Mauritian is, whether by choice or compulsion, an "incomer."
Since 1968 the island has been a self-governing democracy, with a population now numbering over one million, or 1,365 per sq. mile (525 per sq.km). The ethnic and cultural variety, the tolerant and easy-going behaviour towards one another, are what give Mauritius its fascination. Smiles and laughter come naturally to the islanders; these are the oil on the wheels, so to speak, of an intricate social mechanism. This diverse blend of peoples celebrates twenty-one national holidays and listens to radio broadcasts in ten languages. The official language is English, but Creole (an amalgam of French and African dialects) is spoken or understood by nearly everyone.
he festival of Maha Shivaratree is the biggest event of the year. In February over 300,000 white-garbed Hindus set off from every corner of the island on a religious marathon lasting several days to the Grand Bassin, a sacred crater lake nearly 2000 ft high in the south of the island. On their shoulders they balance tall and wide-spreading bamboo structures called Kanwar. These imaginative creations wrapped in tissue-paper and decorated with flowers, mirrors and tinsel, represent the god Shiva.
Early in the morning, before the hordes of pilgrims block the motorways and villages, we set off for the Grand Bassin. The sky has a light film of cloud today, which must make life easier for the pilgrims on their strenuous march. On the main road we see the first columns of pilgrims. We drive at walking pace past the little bunches of young people singing happily and clapping in ecstatic rhythm. Barefoot, or wearing worn-out rubber flip-flops, some with their feet wrapped in cloth, they plod up the mountain road which climbs ever more steeply between tea-plantations. Other pilgrims who have rested and are already heading home, come towards them with bottles of holy water from the lake. The sky is now steadily darkening, violent gusts of wind tug at the bamboo edifices and it suddenly starts to rain.
We feel guilty as we drive, dry and comfortable, past the rain-soaked and windswept crowds. On our radio we hear the first cyclone warning. Our Chinese guide, King How, reassures us. A level 1 warning does not mean very much; the cyclone is still a long way from Mauritius and may well head off in another direction altogether.
At the Mare aux Vacoas, the largest fresh-water lake and reservoir on the island, our journey comes to an end. The road ahead is barred to vehicles. Everyone walks the last few hundred yards, even those with foot complaints. Around the edge of the crater are crowded countless decorative bamboo displays, a temple, big tents full of exhausted pilgrims, a loaded ambulance, and stalls selling food and drink. Tens of thousands of the faithful besiege the steps and the bank of the lake lower down. Loud Indian music and the voices of priests reciting from Hindu scriptures echo across the lake from loudspeakers. The pilgrims entreat the god Shiva to forgive them their sins. Reverently they lay their votive offerings on the sacred waters. These include bananas, white flowers, little boats made from leaves, carrying lighted candles, and coconut-milk which is slowly poured into the water. Unperturbed by the rain, wind and constricted space, each worshipper smilingly makes way for the next. To our amazement many Creoles also take part in the Hindu ceremony. Yet for our Chinese guide, King, who three days ago had been baptized with the Catholic name of Joseph, this is far from unusual in Mauritius. The gods of other religions have power too. The best thing is to appease all of them. The proximity of the four great religions of the world - Hinduism, Islam, Christianity and Buddhism - has led to a great tolerance between the faiths. In almost every town and village in Mauritius there are Hindu temples, mosques and churches. In Port Louis there are Chinese pagodas as well. Christmas is an official holiday for all religions. Like the Christians, all other households put up decorations and give presents.
The loudspeaker announces a level 2 cyclone warning. This means that the festival must be abandoned. Joseph King How urges us to hurry - level 3 means an absolute ban on driving. Cyclones - the circular storms with euphonious girls' names - always represent a dangerously unpredictable phenomenon. They are a disaster which regularly afflicts the island and its destiny.
For example, on 29th April 1892, no less than 1,200 people were killed and over 2,000 injured within two hours. A third of all houses in Port Louis were destroyed and some 20,000 people made homeless. For this reason, since the 1960s all houses have been built of concrete. They withstand cyclones but are seldom a pleasure to look at. It is rare to see a well-preserved colonial building - but the oldest on the island is the government palace in Port Louis, built in 1763 by the French governor, Mahé de Labourdonnais. The little capital exudes the charm of a slightly dilapidated small island town. Very little of its rich colonial heritage has survived. The townscape is characterized by functional concrete buildings next to little wooden shacks.
ur return trip is stormy. Rain, branches and leaves whip against the windscreen. Trucks rumble by carrying loads of pilgrims. When we finally reach our hotel, we scarcely recognize it. All the windows have been boarded up, the reception area, bar and beach restaurant have been completely cleared out, and the boats hauled far up the beach. A large sign asks the guests to remain in their rooms - until further notice.
On television there are half-hourly reports on the progress of cyclone "Ingrid." Not until the following morning can we be certain: Mauritius has been lucky. "Ingrid" is raging far out to sea, but for days the sun-hungry holidaymakers are lashed by the rain-storms of a deep tropical depression. The Mauritians have to live with these natural catastrophes, which occur at regular intervals, especially between December and March. On the other hand, two other fatal scourges, cholera and malaria, were stamped out in 1952 thanks to a large application of money and chemical technology.
When the all-clear is given, life returns to normal. Near the village of Rose Hill, yellow-clad Tamils prepare for the fire-walk, a penance that consists of walking on red-hot charcoal. It is a terrifying sight - even the official tourist bureau of Mauritius says so. The faithful gather early in the morning outside their small temple in the midst of fields of tall sugar-cane. At noon, to the sound of prayers, tree-trunks and branches are set alight in a shallow trench about 20 feet long. Then the participants submit to a ritual ablution in the nearby river. At the same time laundry is being washed in the river, nasty-looking things are floating past, the noisy singing of some cheerful Chinese echoes across from a nearby hostelry, and a muezzin summons Moslems to prayer. But none of this seems to interrupt the concentration of the penitents. And they certainly need it: the priests use sharp needles to prick the skin of the faithful, and their cheeks and tongues are pierced with skewers. But, incredible as it may seem, not a drop of blood is shed. It is said that fasting and concentration make the body insensitive to the pain. Yet the expression on some faces, and sometimes even tears, tell a different story. Barefoot and in a trance the penitents make their way in a long procession to the temple, where the bed of ashes and glowing charcoal awaits. Although it has rained almost continuously today, the spectacular fire-walk attracts hundreds of eager spectators. Even here the Mauritians display their hospitality once more. With a friendly gesture people push us closer to the railing, where the heat of the glowing coals hits us in the face. The priests are the first to step on to the charcoal. Those waiting attempt to conceal their anxiety, but their tense faces and bodies trembling like aspen-leaves, their staring eyes and rapid breathing all betray great stress. Then things start to happen quickly. After the priests, first the men and then the women take the plunge in rapid succession. The final step, into a basin full of milk and water, is a great release for everyone. I stare in disbelief at their feet and see no sign of burns. But through sheer excitement I have burnt my own fingers on my cigarette. The apprehensive, reverential atmosphere is suddenly broken. Relaxed and cheerful, the celebrants troop inside the temple where, after ten days of fasting, a feast awaits them.
The Mauritians amply compensated for our bad luck with the weather. Instead of roasting on the beach, we had taken to the road and been introduced to their culture and way of life. Ever since then the most fascinating thing about the island of Mauritius has, for us, been its cosmopolitan inhabitants.
MAURITIUS - THE INDIAN OCEAN PARADISE
WORDS © MARION FRIEDEL