pak ming wan

I met Joseph down on Cottesloe Beach pier where he was fishing with two other friends.  He’s from Iran and has been in Australia for some time and now is a naturalised Australian.  I asked him how he had adjusted to living in Australia and how he found his new home.

He had a couple of comments.  He was extremely thankful to Australia for his sons: they have jobs, have money, and most importantly they have a future.  “But what about you?” I ask.  He put down his rod, sat down on a rock and looked deeply into my eyes.  Those eyes, set so deep in his face, and thick but soft grey hair and moustache set an emotional backdrop so deep I was transfixed.  It was sad, happy, nostalgic, hopeful, and understanding all in one.  Perhaps an emotion I didn’t even know.

“It’s … hard.  Very hard to get used to Australia.  Beautiful country, but I feel so… far away.  And I can’t work: bad back. Arthritis.” He pulled down his shirt collar and pointed to scars on his neck.  The way he said it and the look in his eyes told me the gravity of this situation to him.

“I’ve had operations at St. Charles, doctor: no fix.  Very far away from home… And Australia is so … so … different.” His face changed a little and became a little sadder, like a candle was flickering a little with a brush of wind nearby.

I was amazed.  He was probably at near retirement age, but really wanted to work, and felt terrible that he couldn’t.  He also told me even though he was Australian, he felt like a foreigner here.  Being Australian myself but of Chinese descent, I knew exactly how that feels.

“But… here, I’m Muslim, my wife Christian, my friends from all different religions. There are no fights, no wars, so much … (stops) … so nice.  Not many people understand that this is special.”

His eyes teared up a little and he looked out into the ocean into the direction of home.  It was easy because it was out there, west, past the setting sun.  I looked out there too, as France was only just beyond what he was looking at.  And in a couple of days I’d have to go back.

I asked him if I could take a photo of him.  He immediately told me that he wanted his wife in the photo.  As I framed it up, I thought to ask him to crouch down to the same eye level as his wife or to get his wife to stand up – but with his bad back and his wife settled in her chair, I thought against this.  But he looked at me like he did before we started talking, so I tripped the shutter.

So there he is, standing proud, with those eyes that tell you so much.  Telling you what understanding, persistence, and happiness is.  He’s next to his wife who he left Iran for.  And there she is, by his side, as she had been for the fishing outing, looking out over the ocean, and watching the sunset out west. 

For this festive season, I hope you all have a safe and happy time with your families and friends, whether you are together or apart.  I’m hoping the best for Joseph and his family, and I think in some ways, meeting him and hearing his story was my present for this year.

On the last day of my stay in Mauritius I packed up all my gear and headed out to the SSR Botanical Gardens and later the sugar museum (L’Aventure de Sucre), as I left Grand Baie.  The sugar museum was especially interesting: it was more like a history museum for the island than about sugar (even though it was about sugar as well).  Driving throughout the island past all the cane fields, it made sense, but I didn’t realise how intrinsically linked it was with Mauritius’ history.  After this, I found myself with a couple of hours to spare so I dipped into Mont Choisy beach for one last swim, before heading south towards the airport.

As I was heading towards the airport, I passed a real sugar estate that looked more or less open but at the same time eerily quiet.  It was the Britannia Sugar Estate and I drove past the unmanned security gate to have a look around.  There was no one around but a huge pond out front where I took a photo and not wanting to trespass any longer after I saw a truck go past, I got back in my car and left.  Driving around the corner I then saw a team of workers gathering sugar cane in the field.  Le vrai aventure de sucre!  I park my car by the road and grab my camera bag and run through the sugar fields to talk to them about their work.

It was almost like a small procession.  There was the truck driver first who was towing a large trailer for the sugar cane.  After this, there was a crane that was responsible for picking up the cane from the field.  In the field, there were a couple of workers who tidied up the piles of sugar cane to make sure it was all being picked up.  Finally, the supervisor was there to ensure that all the work was being done.

I went up to each one of them and said the customary “bonjour” and asked them a little about their work.  It was a Saturday but they didn’t seem too fussed about working – “It’s just work,” said one of them quite simply.  They were rather interested as to why I was so interested in their work though.  I told them that I was a tourist from Australia and that I just wanted to find out more about how the sugar harvest, so the let me stay for about 30 minutes to take photos and mingle with them.

The boss was the least approachable of all of them.  I suppose he had to maintain his position as the leader.  As I shook his name, I had a real Sherlock Holmes moment: his hands were so smooth and soft compared to the others.  It was clear that he was THE boss.  As for the others, as I shook hands with them and got to know them a little better, you could tell that this was hard work.  Their hands were calloused, their skin tellingly wrinkled from the sun.  But, amazingly to me, they were in such high spirits.  They were committed to their work and even with me around, they stayed focused on the task at hand.

The others were really interested in why I was here. “Where do you come from?” “Are you a tourist?” “A photographer?” “Why are you so interested?”  I explained in the morning how I had seen the sugar museum and decided to try and find a real sugar plant.

“Oh…” was their mystified reply.  I don’t think they had ever considered their work to be interesting to a tourist, but here was one.

Their trailer loaded, the workers started to disperse to the next field to continue their work. I said my goodbye and as I ambled back to the car, a flock of birds took flight.  This was one great holiday: I felt so satisfied that I connected with at least some locals in these last few days.  It struck me that everyone has a story to tell and actually, most of them want to tell it.

I left Mauritius and having met people that I never imagined possible before I came here and knowing their stories widened my horizons just that little bit more.  Sometimes, venturing a little bit outside the straight line does pay off.

I was looking for some sunset photos on my final day in Mauritius and had specifically driven to the southeastern part of the island.  I was planning to take them at Gris Gris, but after surveying the area, it was facing too far south for what I wanted. So, I kept driving around the coast, and with light fading rapidly, I passed Saint Felix beach, which had a lot of locals parked there for what looked like a camping ground, so I decided to stop there too.

Walking past all the campers, I came across three boats that were moored by the end of the beach.  Perfect.  I decide to wade in and take some photos.  And then Gavin turns up.

“Bonjour!” he calls out to me whilst I’m knee deep in water taking photos of one of the boats.  We exchanged pleasantries and he waded into the water with me and took a look at the first boats.

“That’s not good,” he mumbles as he got in.  I asked why.

“It’s been raining: look at the boat. It’s full of water!”

I peered into the boat and indeed it was full of water.  Gavin then took a bucket and started to dutifully bilge the water out of the boat.  I asked him more about the boats and about what he was doing here in Mauritius.

“This is my dad’s boat.  The boat over there, that’s my brother’s. The other boat, that’s a friend’s boat.  We’re almost like family.  We go fishing in these boats and I need to get the water out to prepare for fishing.  Maybe one day I’ll have a boat too…” he explained as he continually bilged water from the boat.  In the meantime, the sun was setting and I was taking photos of the beach, sun, and the boats.  We were really alone – there was no one else in this area of the beach.  No one.

“I nearby at the Sofitel as a butler; it’s a great job, I have a lot of friends and it’s closeby.” And of the clients? “Well, MOST of them are fine.  But you know, these are people, and there will always be people that are, you know … difficult.”

I thought to myself: he’s just a kid. He’s got no ego and he’s such a nice guy.  And he’s a butler!  That really challenged the stereotype of what I assumed and knew about butlers working at five star hotels.

By now, the sun had set past some really thick clouds that were far on the horizon.  The sunlight wasn’t diffusing through the clouds, instead just slowly sliding away the blue sky to orange.  Gavin had also timely finished his work on the boat.  As I was leaving, I wished him well as he re-anchored it a little closer to the beach.  Light was falling fast on my last night in Mauritius.

“Do you want to see some fish?” I heard someone call out to me.

I was just idly wandering around the chapel at Cap Malhereux to work out why this place was so recommended by not only the guide but by locals.  I was also a bit annoyed at myself, I wasn’t able to organise the sailing trip out on a catamaran to the islands just off the north of Mauritius – and I was leaving the next day.

“Do you want to see some fish?” He repeated, whilst holding onto an old fishing rod that he appeared to be repairing with some sand paper.

I went over and started talking to this guy and he explained to me that he could take me out into the ocean to the reef to see the fish.  I’m not entirely convinced.  This wasn’t exactly like the other times where there was an office or other people.  It was me this guy and his boat.  In fact, that was how he was trying to sell it.  “Just you, me, the boat, and the fish!”

Looking up at the sky, it was a beautiful day.  Agreeing on the fee, I think to myself, “why not?” and run off to my car to grab my snorkelling gear.

“You’re really prepared! This will be great!” he exclaims as I pile all my gear into his small boat and we push off.  We start talking about this little part of Mauritius, and I learn a little bit more about my guide for this afternoon: Noel.

Noel starts up the motor and then takes a small detour past the other rich houses and calls out to random people asking them if they want to join our little cruise.  He isn’t at all successful and I wondered if he’s just doing that out of habit or if he really thinks he might have a chance.  There were three rather beautiful French women swimming by the private beach just out the back of their mansion as we cruise past.  Noel get’s a little closer and cries out to them asking them to join and of course they refuse with not so much of a wave and a firm “Non!” 

Noel looks lazily again at these three women and smiles a little before powering up the motor again and heading out to the ocean.   I guess that’s why he cruises so close to this beach, even if it isn’t to look out explicitly for clients.  He told me that he lived a little be inland from the beach and that I wouldn’t be disappointed.  He was really building this up!

We take what seems like 10 to 15 minutes to get out into the middle of the ocean.  Passing below us is the turquoise blue water on sand and the darker colour of coral.  We finally get to the mooring point and Noel anchored the boat.  He brought out a stale baguette, ripped off a piece and tosses it into the ocean.

There’s a massive frenzy of activity.  All this fish suddenly arrive and start bickering for the bread.

“OK, this is good, get in!” He said.  So I put on my snorkel and I hop in.

It was amazing: all these tropical fish and coral were just everywhere I looked. Noel kept on throwing in bread at me, so I kept on being in a storm of fish.  Eventually, Noel ran out of bread, but the fish remained, swimming by my side waiting for more food that was of course no longer coming.

I surfaced after about 30 minutes.  Noel was dozing on the deck of his boat.  There was no one else anywhere in sight: just the fish, this guy, his boat, and me.

Later, when we got back to the coast, I saw some kids fishing by the rockpools.  I talked to their father and grandfather – three generations were spending time together on this school holiday.  I told them that I was from Perth, Western Australia and they instantly brightened: they had family there and commented that there were a lot of Mauritians that were living in Australia. 

Somehow, Ile Aux Cerfs gets a rating in the Routard.  From what I could see it has been taken mostly over by a golf course and an expensive hotel, leaving only two small stretches of public beach and an expensive outdoor bar, restaurant, and shops for the other tourists who aren’t staying there.  I guess if you weren’t staying in a resort, it would be the closest to having a tropical island to yourself. 

I turn up in my small red Honda and even as I’m pulling up with my windows down, I hear someone shouting and running out to me: “Tickets! You go to Ile Aux Cerfs? Tickets!”

Running out to me. Really! I followed him inside the office to buy the ticket and to discuss the “extras”: the waterfall visit and a barbecue lunch.  I ignored his offer of a barbecue (mainly because I just wanted to see the island and also because it really wasn’t barbecue weather).

I buy just the boat ticket and a bottle of water based on his warning about inflated prices on the island.  My new friend seems to also like the idea of a drink, so he picks up a large cold bottle of Phoenix beer, and starts chugging on it right away.

Later whilst waiting on the beach I started talking to him a little. VV (his nickname – I can’t remember his real name, but it had two Vs in it) told me that he was like a tour guide for this island.  I tell him to pose for a photo with two V’s, which of course he obliged with glee.  The skipper of the next boat in the background of this photo looked on amused.

VV told me that he organised day trips to Ile Aux Cerfs, including lunches, boat rides, whatever.  He was a really friendly guy and we started sharing a little bit about our backgrounds together.

“So you’re like a salesman?” I asked.

“No, no, I organise things for people.  I give people a good time.  That’s why you’re here, right?”

We get on the boat and sure enough the skipper knows VV.  They have a couple of words and VV starts by identifying the foreigners on the boat and starts to make small talk with them, trying to work out I guess what he could organise for them. 

He then sits out on the front of the boat with his bottle of Phoenix.  He lights a cigarette under his shirt and pulls in long deliberate drags (even if the wind outside is burning out his cigarette quicker than normal).  All the tourists point to him and laugh a little: he’s just a little bit TOO cool there smoking and drinking on this tourist boat going to a tropical island.  VV motions to me to get out onto the bow, but the skipper shouts me down.

We get to the island and after about 45 minutes on the beach it starts pouring with rain.  Everyone leaves the beach like cockroaches scurrying for cover. It’s pretty miserable weather.   I don’t bother changing from my bathers and stay out in the rain, but I see a lot of others who have come here not even to swim: so this must have been disappointing.  Walking around the pier, I see another boatload of people arriving.  After the live party music on their boat and the driving rain outside, they don’t look too enthused to step off, but one by one, they do.

VV is still around the pier looking for tourists to help out.  After about one and a half hours on Ile Aux Cerfs, I tell him that I’m a little disappointed with the weather and that I’m going to leave.  VV nods, understandingly.  He’s had a hard time selling rides on donuts and on the parasails.  He calls out to the group of boat skippers and organises a lift home for me.  I haven’t had to show my ticket yet – he’s been excellent in just organising everything for me.  He seems to know everyone and everyone knows him.

Waiting by the pier are all the people I came to the island with.  It seems that we all hit our rain tolerance thresholds simultaneously.  The group of people who are taking the barbecue don’t look to enthused about eating; in fact they look pretty depressed about the fact that they have to hang around for another hour or two.  Another couple from Spain under their ponchos who had braved the weather but not come there to swim were clearly not enjoying the rain, and looked really glad they were getting back to the mainland.

Eventually, when you’ve travelled away from home long enough, you’re going to want to settle in and do something a little bit familiar.  So why not a beer or two?

Being armed with the Routard for Mauritius (it’s the French Lonely Planet equivalent), I had all the various night spots marked on the map for the area I was staying in after the resort.  However, on my first night I decided to wing it a little and just walk down Royal Parade to see what was on offer.   My requirements were simple: beer and Internet.  Preferably beer.  Company optional.

The first place I stumbled across was The Beach House.  I only went in there because as I walked past there was a group of about 6 people in front of the bar.  The men were discussing their latest round of golf whilst drinking beer and with a distinctively Aussie accent.  There were their wives tending to the kids and sipping white wine.  They might have well been somewhere in an eastern suburbs bar in Sydney.  I suppose they were looking to for something similar too.

I walked past the gate and said hi to the kids who were trying to work out how to open the gate. I went to the bar, pulled up a bar stool, and ordered a beer.

“What beer do you have on tap?”

“Phoenix.”

“Anything else?”

“Phoenix.”

“OK, a pint of phoenix.” (Which was of course a stupid question to start with, because there’s only really one beer in Mauritius. And it’s Phoenix).

I pull out my notebook and pen so that I could note down the happenings for the day and then my iPhone.  Switching on the WiFi, I see a network called “TheBeachHouse”.  Sounds promising.  I get the key and I’m finally connected for the first time in … 24 hours. Which for a computer scientist, might well have been an eternity.  I post a couple of comments about beer and free Internet whilst sipping on my first pint.  It was cold, fresh, and not too bitter. Life was good again.

To my right were two German tourists.  They saw me play on my iPhone and they too asked for WiFi access. I suppose we were the three wise monkeys on our three stupid smartphones, sipping three cold pints of Phoenix.  Thinking about this now, it was all a little ridiculous.  Perhaps someone out there took a photo of us.

I pulled out my Routard, looking for the next bar.  I had a review of The Beach House in it, which was somewhat positive, but also a little bit amusing as they had something to say about the quality of their seafood (which based on perhaps one or two reviews, might be a little unfair).  So I had to show it to the staff.

They loved it: they were famous! They looked at the Routard and the review and started calling around the other staff and the manager to have a look.  They were all kind of impressed that they were reviewed.

After a couple of pints, I thought I might try my luck at another bar: why not – I’m within stumble home distance.  So I took the Routard’s recommendation for the Banana Beach Club.  Approaching this bar, ominously there was a whole armada of taxis outside.  This was certainly one huge tourist magnet.  There was some live music permeating from within so, why not, let’s have a look.  Only tonight, it was empty.

I ordered my first pint (a Phoenix) and had a look around.

The live music was a guy playing the guitar and singing with a backing percussionist.  There were other guys alone (like me at the bar, I suppose), just hanging around at a safe distance from the musicians just lazing around drinking beer.  Next to me were a rather rotund French guy and his girlfriend working through their cocktails and their conversation in English. 

The bar itself was huge, which of course accentuated the emptiness.  It was dark as the sun had already set and the overhanging lights punctuated the dark wooden bar with bright spots every couple of metres.  I was under one of those spots with my Routard planning for what to visit the next day.  The crowd was sparse and already winding down.

It was hardly a party atmosphere and with the people not really mingling with each other, it was actually kind of sad.  And that’s when I met Brian.

“Another beer?” He asked, calling out from behind the bar noticing my beer glass bottoming out.  You always know a bar is empty when the barmen are offering you drinks.  Normally, you struggle to get their attention.

“Of course…” I responded.  Chancing on opportunity, I leaned over the bar and asked, “If you had 3 days free in Mauritius what would YOU do?” I suppose I was hoping to get a couple of local tips, which so far from my scan in the Routard were not really that evident.

We ended up talking for about an hour in between him serving drinks to others and he had a couple of tips as to his favourite beaches, what to see, where to go, what he did in Mauritius; but more importantly and finally, where to party.

“So, where’s good to party?” I ask.

“What kind of question is that?” He looked at me as if I was mad, stupid, or both.  “This place is the best, for sure!” He shot this reply back with real certainty.

I point out into the punters, which were still sparse at about 22h30.  I wasn’t mad, or stupid, or both.

“Oh, come on, man. It’s empty. EMPTY!”

Brian took a step back and considered the situation.  The bar certainly was rather empty and with the musicians packing up, it didn’t really look like it was THE place to be.

“Come back Friday.  It’s always good Friday. Locals, foreigners, they’ll all be here.  The club out back always pulls in people.  And I’ll be here working.  And you’ll see how we party.”

So I came back Friday. And Brian? Well, he was working that night, and by golly: he was right.

Our first day driving went almost perfectly to plan – we were 3 minutes early to the first meeting and about 5 minutes late to the other.  The second day was not so great.  We started our first meeting three hours late.  This might have had something to do with me parking the car into a gutter.  Not driving, mind you; parking the car into a gutter.

We were already one and a half hours late and now (yet again) lost in Port Louis, my boss and I decided to take stock, pull over and call our local contact.  As I pulled over, I thought that the gutter was smaller than it was.  Actually it was the perfect width for our car tyre.

“KER-LUNK.” Followed closely by, “Oh shit.”

“Merde!” My boss looks at me, stunned.  He half drops his jaw and half-raises his eyebrows whilst opening his eyes in a shocked stare right back at me.  Kind of like a reaction whilst swimming in a public pool and watching a kid’s turd float past.

He got out of the car and surveyed the situation.  The wheel is down into the gutter.  “Try and reverse it out!” he shouted to me. I try. Nothing.  I too get out of the car to survey the situation.

So we stand there with our hands on our hips looking at this wheel stuck in the drain. “We’re so screwed,” it screams to me in no uncertain terms. I called our colleagues to update them on the situation.

Then, almost on cue, a guy turns up in a truck – he’s parking next door.  He looks over at these two stressed out foreigners with what looks like a little interest, so I ran up to him and ask him for help.  He looked like quite a nice fellow (or maybe he’s just amused with the sight of two foreigners and a car stuck in the gutter), so anyway, like us he got out of his truck and has a look at the situation.

“You need a rock,” he said rather simply.  

“A rock?” Both my boss and I say incredulously to each other.

Simultaneously contemplating the various parameters of car size, tyre size, and size of hole, he quietly and calmly adds, “wait here”, before he disappears into his property.

“A ROCK?” We say again to each other, this time with other words that follow but are unrepeatable here.  We waited anxiously.

The guy came lumbering back with a rectangular brick, which he dropped into the gutter. It fits almost perfectly.  Too perfectly.  Simultaneously, another guy on a motorbike turns up.  Our new friend adjusted the brick right up against the tyre and gave me instructions to try and reverse over it then turn hard left to then move out of the gutter.

I fire up the Honda and try to get it out.  No luck.  The new guy who just turned up, is rather impatient with my poor gutter exit technique and tells me to get out of the car.  He gets in and with a pop of the clutch, the car comes out of the gutter. 

Success!  Cheers and handshakes all round.

At this point, my boss looked extremely relieved.  I guess all of a sudden, that turd in the pool happened to be something much less organic.

Of course, I thanked the two guys profusely. My boss, without even hesitating, insists I give them a couple of hundred rupees but these guys weren’t having any of it.

“No, no, you needed help and we were please to give it!”

“But I insist!”

“No, we insist! Enjoy Mauritius!”

“OK, but at the very least, let me take a photo of you: I want to remember you two guys…”

(Unfortunately, I have no photo of the rock.  As you can imagine, I was more than a little nervous as a couple of guys were trying to get my car out of a gutter.)

I couple of weeks ago, I was in Mauritius for work (and of course pleasure). To get around the island, I arranged for a hire car from Maki Car Rental, which was apparently small local company with a German parent company.  Apparently.  It was the cheapest I could find on the island (about half the price of Avis / Europcar and friends).  We arrived at the airport after a 10 hour overnight flight in economy.  Only, in the airport terminal, there’s no hire car stand called Maki Car Rental.

“Umm.  There appears to be no Maki Car Rental here.” I stated, somewhat blurring the ridiculous and obvious all at the same time.

For this trip, I was travelling with my boss and he shot me a look that was somewhere between worry and annoyance.  He’s a great fellow to work with: gruff and straight to the point.  Not that I needed that right at that moment.  We’ve both travelled on the overnight 10 hour flight and he’s thinking: “We’re getting too old for this s@#$.”  I’m thinking: “There goes the bonus.”  And, we still had a business meeting to get to.

Rapidly running out of conventional options (such as googling the iPhone or calling Maki Car Rental which gets me an ominous, “this number is disconnected”), I start to ask around and everyone tells us to go outside to have a look.  Pushing through the throngs with our roller luggage and business work bags, there’s a wild cacophony of “Taxi sir? Taxi sir? Where you go? You need taxi?”

It doesn’t seem to matter where you go in the world: roller wheels on business luggage are always a massive taxi fly magnet.  We wave them away bravely, and I push forward clutching my printed reservation sheet which could well have been now a crumpled bank note from an African devalued currency.

Around us were newly arrived holidayers looking to settle into their resorts, and locals returning home.  We went further outside pushing through the clouds of people.

At the end of the arrivals trolley ramp, there was a guy holding up my name printed in CAPITALS on a somewhat crumpled piece of A4 paper.  It was Arial bold, centered.  It looked somewhat legitimate, but he was standing there, like a chauffeur.  I gingerly ask him the painfully obvious, “Is this Maki car rental?” to which his response was to call out my name.  He didn’t even know what the parent German company was.  Promising.  The car was indeed a red Honda Jazz.  Pressure subsiding.  It was the middle of a blustery Mauritian day, and as he filled out the rental agreement, various sheets of form and carbon paper flap wildly like flags taut in the breeze.  He’s struggling with this and I help him by holding down the corners of the form.  It’s a real team effort: but I just wanted that damned set of car keys to get to the meeting.

My boss leant lazily on his luggage handle and idly pushed his bag around on the bitumen.  I can see the tropical hot blood slowly retract from his face.

“I need a credit imprint,” our new friend says.  I always dread this part.  It’s the blind trust that annoys me.  You have no idea what people can do with your card once they have a physical copy of it, but you have to give it away anyway.  I handed over my Amex.

Then it got very interesting.  He lazily retracts his disposable pen and reaches into his pocket and takes another pen.  This pen has a metal tip, unlike the disposable plastic one.  I raised my eyebrows with interest.  He then took a credit card imprint page and carefully placed my credit card on the car bonnet.  Followed by the imprint page.  Licking his lips like he’s about to do something really quite difficult, he then started carefully rubbing the tip of the pen over the paper and credit card to make the imprint.  Like making those pencil outline drawings of coins when you’re a kid at school.  

“Oh, shit.” I say partially marvelling at the ingenuity and apparent lack of organisation of a larger chain hire car group (which of course would have cost more).  My eyes went wide with fascination and fear.  I elbowed my boss and pointed to the guy making the imprint.  My boss’ eyes go even wider.

“Is that it?” I asked gingerly.

“This is… (smiling) the Mauritian way.  Welcome to Mauritius.” He held up the imprint and looked at it like some sort of jewel, tore off the carbon copy for me, and stapled the other to his rental form.

He then handed over the keys, says goodbye wishes us luck and walks away.  And like some sort of an apparition, he disappeared into the car park leaving my boss and I with a car with a quarter tank of petrol, a small photocopied map of the island, and our baggage in the boot.  I breathed out a small sigh of relief: that has got to be the most difficult thing done for the day.

I turned to my boss.  He comes to Mauritius almost every year for a holiday and has kept on telling me about all the great places he would show me around the island.  So, I ask him: “OK mate, so where is this meeting?”

“I have no f@#$!@ idea: I only holiday here. I’ve NEVER driven here.  And I certainly don’t know Port Louis.  I only hang around Flic en Flac. I can't believe you've hired a car! By the way, where is this Bel Ombre place we’re staying anyway…” 

He paused and considered the gravity of my original question and the moment.  A diminuendo followed by a fermata.

“You don’t know where to go do you?” He asked, finally realising what I was really asking.

“No. I don’t have a map, nor a GPS, but I know this place is close to the race track.”

“Near the race track…” he echoed and trailed off, half reflecting and half running out of energy for this conversation which has for him had more than run its course. In short: One Australian and one French guy, got car, got place to go, no map. We hadn't even started yet, and we were already lost. But we had arrived: we were in Mauritius.

Gin Palace, a photo by pakmingw on Flickr.

It's Friday... the end of the week and perhaps time for a drink after work. One of my favourite bars in Melbourne is the Gin Palace, and what else would you order but a gin martini. Here's a photo of their bar staff lining one up for me the last time I was there. I love how the lights are reflecting off the bottles and are shimmering in the distance, and the light points around the two servers are lining up like a halo. It is almost like the martini has already changed the reality around it.

Freedom, a photo by pakmingw on Flickr.

Whilst in Romania, my hosts talked to the caretakers of an old German church in a tiny village.  They offered to take us up the clock tower to have a look.  The steps were small and steep, and there was a heavy smell of ammonia from the birds that had roosted in there (despite the best efforts of the caretaker of keeping them out). Near the top of the tower was a fenced window where the birds could be seen circling the tower.  They kept circling the tower, riding the wind that was blowing relatively hard that day.  They were free to go anywhere, but they were bound by something to this church. It was if they were trapped, but free.