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24 ROAD TRIP BEAUTIFUL MAURITIUS I In Mauritius, the world opens out to us in im- mense morning skies. The lagoon shimmers in the morning light. Beyond the reef, the Indian Ocean regains its fathomless blue. In the beginning there was nothing. A wild land sprung up from the ocean floor. The Arab sailors saw it first, the Portuguese landed on it first. In search of new routes, the Dutch, French and then English settlers opened trading posts and imported men by the thousands – slaves from Africa, then “coolies” from India – and sugar cane from Java. “ Mmmmmmmmm… ” – she hums the legendary song Amazing Grace . “ Can you hear the sound of the slaves downs in the hold of the slave ships? ” asks the Mauritian singer Linzy Bacbotte, the queen of sega music. “ It’s a song that tells of suffering, of strife, of breath, and above all of life. We are all the inheritors of this story. ” … “ Above all of life. This is our inheritance and our duty: celebrate the joy of being alive and the beauty of life. That’s what I do when I play sega to share with my audiences. It’s the soul of our people.” On the sea shores Poudre d’Or, in the north of the island. Facing the sea, a statue commemorates the victims of the shipwreck of the Saint Géran , a ship in the French West India Company. A few boats have remained in the harbour. The Creole fishermen, like the children, make the sign of the cross before setting out to sea. The bells of the parish of Saint Philomena ring out, the village bustles. A few metres away, women in saris perform their ablutions and place offerings on the altar of Shiva – apples, incense, flowers, bowls of milk and so on. The beaches all along the coast laze in the Sunday sun: Grand Baie, Mont Choisy. Little improvised altars by the water’s edge, crosses carved into the rock, sailors’ cemeteries dotted here and there, branches of bougainvillea. The weather is so clear it erases the horizon. Under the filao trees that line the beaches, families settle down for a picnic. All day there are kebabs, the Indian flatbreads, dhal puri , chilli bites. They play cards or listen to music. Little gaily coloured carts, followed by a train of stray dogs, sell flavoured crushed ice. Inland We overtake the lorries loaded with sugar cane and the local buses. We cross the villages of metal and breezeblock huts. Just around a bend, the sudden appearance of a building of fuchsia pink and pistachio green that transforms thewhole street into a dazzling temple. Here and there, the Creole houses with their lambrequins and faded floor plates add a touch of nostalgia to the air. The Buddhist pagodas, the mosques andminarets, chapels and Tamil temples abound in the countryside. The old road runs inland through Les Mariannes, Nouvelle Découverte, Crève-Cœur. The Northern Plains, flat as the palm of a hand, are covered in sugar cane fields, dotted here and there with ghostlymountains: Le Pouce, Montagne du Lion, Trois Mamelles, Pieter Both – nicknamed the “meditating monk” for the mountain is topped by a stone in the shape of a head – or perhaps rather a head in the shape of a stone – looking up to the sky. All these familiar names seem to make them less forbidding and mysterious. We drive between the high mauve stalks up to the side of the mountain. The women in the hamlets, sickles in hand, finish harvesting the sugar cane. The silhouettes disappear under the bales. It’s a hard task, as bitter as the astringent taste of pure cane juice. Others dig the iron red earth then break it up into little dark crumbs that they sieve between their fingers. With infi- nite patience, they bury the newpineapple roots. The spirit of the island From north to south and from east to west, the island tells its secrets. In the fervour of the prayers and the grave faces of the children from Mahébourg at their first communion. In the offerings – simple wicks lit on mango leaves and placed on the sacred waters of the Grand Bassin. In the buzzing forest of the Black River Gorges, home of the white-tailed tropicbirds. In the constant rustle of the wind in the palm trees, the wide-open skies and the majestic cascades of the waterfalls. In the beat of the drums at the foot of the Morne Brabant, where the slaves took refuge. In the chaos of the “Rue Royale”, where all the populations come together on market days. In the ruins of the old limestone mills and the disused sugar The shores of the 330 km of the Mauritian coastline are dotted with little improvised shrines dedicated to Hindu gods. Traditional fishing has long provided food for the inhabitants of the “African Coast”, in the southwest of the island. Privatisation and protection of marine areas since 2005 have forced the local fishing boats to go further out to sea. Les rivages de la côte mauricienne, longue de 330 km, sont ponctués de petits autels improvisés dédiés aux divinités hindoues. La pêche artisanale a longtemps nourri les habitants de la « côte africaine », au sud-ouest de l’île. Confrontées depuis 2005 à la privatisation ou à la protection d’aires marines, les barques locales sont contraintes de prendre le large.