Mauritius: A version of heaven
The island of Mauritius may be half a world away, but Jasper Gerard and family soon feel right at home.
By Jasper Gerard
4:49PM GMT 04 Nov 2008
The national emblem of Mauritius, celebrated on the flag and every tourist trinket, is the dodo. It was endemic to the island, but it still seems an odd choice, this feathered symbol of death and extinction, for not only is Mauritius very much alive and squawking, it is the future of the world.
Rarely, you see, can so many races and religions have been hurled together on such a small island with so few means of escape. Mile for mile Mauritius makes London or New York seem provincial, or at least monochrome. Since it was stumbled upon by Portugal, it has passed through more owners than a BMW on a south London car lot: Holland, France and – until 1968 – Britain. You will find folk of Indian, African, Chinese and European descent; Hindus, Muslims, Christians. Government is conducted in English but the street lingo is Creole. At a restaurant you might be served sushi, beef bourgignon, noodles, curry, or jerk chicken – all, apparently, "typically Mauritian".
So, when the war for civilisation kicks off, this would be an obvious venue to erect the goalposts. Yet locals rub along fairly chirpily, or at least without blowing each other up. Their secret, I think, is politeness. Mauritians learned long ago to accommodate awkward guests: the island groans with statues of Portuguese explorers, French colonialists, English kings, even a plantation owner who defended slavery.
So how is it? Well, your first shock is that it's a very, very long way: 12 hours, three more than to the Caribbean, and all to toast on a sun lounger. Well, while the adventurous might hunt for blue sharks in the Indian Ocean, most visitors will simply snooze, snorkel and sozzle. Oh, and frazzle.
The next shock is price: to remain an upmarket destination Mauritius has banned charters, while hotels tend to be luxurious, or at least expensive.
Oh, and the ultimate shock: climate. Picture a few hundred Brits staggering from the plane, suddenly sporting that slightly suspect Hawaiian beach look – into a drizzle they might, more conveniently, have discovered in Tunbridge Wells. It is the tropics, yet the rain is too frequent to be exotic: an area in the cloudy mountainous centre, Curepipe, is known as Little England ("if it isn't raining, it soon will be").
So Mauritius has lost a little of the fashionability that, fleetingly, made it destination of choice for the Louis Vuitton classes. But who cares? We can probably all survive a holiday without bumping into Simon Cowell or Naomi Campbell.
We haven't left the airport before we realise it is culturally weirdly close to home: within the time Cristiano Ronaldo takes to samba down a wing, two strangers have quizzed me about the future of Frank Lampard and the goal-to-game ratio of Fernando Torres. English football is the glue binding this society.
In the taxi, talking football, we pass endless fields of sugar cane. The industry is dying but still dominates the landscape, with grand plantation houses run by stragglers from the old French elite. The new industry, providing full employment, is the rag trade: factories for international designer labels make garments paraded on Western streets; truly, this is the world's most globalised, multicultural island.
But there is plenty to detain the tourist as well as the economist. Who cannot be captivated by a sign for a crocodile farm, or by a mongoose sauntering across the road? Or by the intrigue of place names such as Gris-Gris, voodoo for "sinister magic"? Or by lovely girls in traditional – read skimpy – costumes, dancing in routines that date back to the slave trade?
These are excitements for later. Reaching our hotel, the Mövenpick Resort & Spa at Bel Ombre on the less-developed southern side, Diana and I feel shattered. Not so our little darlings. For somewhere so large, this flower-festooned resort is botanic heaven, and Emilia, seven, and Freddie, four, squeal as they inspect the three swimming pools, games rooms and water slides.
"Mauritius," sings Emilia, "is delicious." And this before she tastes the addictive Mövenpick ice cream.
Diana behaves like the model modern wife and retreats to our petal-festooned suite, leaving me incapable in charge of a family. And being a dedicated modern dad, I'm soon close to nodding off. Before the Indian Ocean sweeps me off into final sleep, I dispatch the children to the kids' club, where they paint faces, make ceramics and – their favourite hobby – eat. I am soon snoring like a geriatric on Bournemouth pier.
I awake to find I'm burnt to a cinder – maybe the cloud cover is not so Tunbridge Wells after all. I also find the manager peering over to check I'm all right; a barman is hovering with drinks, another offering after-sun lotion. And though I find myself ordering rum punch, this is very un-Caribbean. Well, it's efficient, for a start. Order room service, and it arrives, on time.
This is a well planned resort. Apart from sea urchins littering the beach, there is not much to moan about. Above all, the children are euphoric, a prerequisite to adult enjoyment. They spend longer in the water than a dolphin, coming up only for ice cream. They also actually enjoy the kids' club; surely a first. Here they are taught traditional dances, resplendent in beautiful native dresses. Emilia so loves their re-enactment of High School Musical that she is still asking, weeks later, if we can move to Mauritius. It is, then, a perfect family holiday – that is, one where one doesn't see too much of the family.
So while the patient women at the kids' club ferry the children to supper, put them to bed and babysit, we contemplate the stress of contemporary life over lychee cocktails. My wife and I lean across a white linen table cloth at the plantation house restaurant and actually chat. Another night we take a boat along the coast to a nearby restaurant, Diana's relaxed smile shining in the moonlight. Holidays are said to reignite the sex lives of married couples: that's a bold claim, but if they at least get the old dears talking again, it has to be progress.
After a few days we feel obliged to rip ourselves from our loungers. The current is strong, so swimming beyond the coral reef takes effort. There are limitless water-sports, presided over by slightly wild young men, but they patiently teach me to jet ski.
The first time most folk leave the hotel is for the airport to go home, but we drag ourselves off to a nature reserve, Isle aux Aigrettes, teeming with giant tortoises and cooing pink pigeons.
This uninhabited isle, surrounded by emerald lagoons, is like something out of The Beach; but with small children in the midday sun being dive-bombed by mosquitoes, trudging through it soon feels more like a scene from The Bridge on the River Kwai. Still, it is worth the trek for the languid, seen-it-all look of the tortoises: I've encountered more cheery, balletic athleticism in Gordon Brown.
That aside, Mauritius does not exactly hum with activity. The capital, Port Louis, buzzes but doesn't excite. I would love to offer you a lyrical report about jauntily painted fishermen's huts, but there were few, and most of the villages are (half) built of breeze block.
Mark Twain ventured that Heaven was copied from Mauritius; if so, when it's your turn to take that holiday of a lifetime to the great unexplored upstairs, it might be judicious to pack a good book.
Source: www.telegraph.co.uk
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