Early morning, Sunday. The dogs and I drove to the South, intending to visit Riambel, about an hour from Beaux Songes. We stopped for a leg stretch in the sheltered corner behind Le Morne. This shallow backwater separates the mainland from l’Ilot Fourneau, it’s a breeding ground for sedentary sea creatures. The animals pranced in murky water, wagging tails, sniffing down crab holes, so I sat under a filao watching water birds and catching the breeze. A handful of fishermen were casting the seine for bait. You’re not allowed to seine fish between the1st of October and 28th of February because that’s breeding season; I wondered if two 10-litre buckets of baby trevallies a day could help to deplete Mauritian waters.
A school and public facilities hide in a cluster of trees. I came across two brightly coloured communal toilets and was thinking how festive when I opened the door. The latrine hurled itself at me, freshly replenished, buzzing with flies. I recoiled, held my breath: how does a communal utility achieve this level of decay without nauseating its users? Cheeks flushing, I shouted obscenities at no-one as I took up my camera. Thank God there are no tourists, I muttered and quickly glanced around to confirm I was right. Click, click. It was cold comfort that I’d found a couple of trophies for the ecology Facebook group.
I continued to walk on the coastal stretch and my mood eased as I imbibed its stillness. You’re aware of an unhurried busyness here, a slow determination to combat life’s struggles. Even on Sunday, fishermen were fixing nets and cleaning boats. Unkempt, baby on her hip with a child clinging to her skirt, the woman at the tabagie reeked of poverty. I whipped out Rs500, and, averting my eyes, told her to get a treat. She snatched the note. “Lazy drunks,” someone described Le Morne Villagers later, and I was sad.
As we travelled on, I stopped to capture the emerging postcard scenes, made luminous with the rising sun. I threw myself into La Prairie’s dazzling aquamarine and watched picnickers feasting on biryani while their children pottered in the water.
