The 22nd Best University in Africa, and the Mobilization of a Barmy.

Various services rank American universities. US News, the Princeton Review, Fiske's, etc. What had never occurred to me before last semester was that other organizations rank world universities. One day in New Orleans while sitting at a shiny new iMac at the Howard-Tilton Memorial Library (Howie T, I miss you some), I decided to look and see where the University of Mauritius was ranked globally. The global rankings, however, didn't seem reputable. Anyway, as a means of coming up with a somewhat valid rank for UoM (it's called UoM, not UM. Not sure why), I found all of the rankings on African universities that I could find and looked up where exactly my future collegiate home fell. As far as any rankings have told me, the University of Mauritius is the 22nd best university in Africa- and number two or three of African schools outside of Egypt and South Africa. I had mixed feelings. 

So, let me describe my experiences thus far with the 22nd best university in the continent. By the way, Mauritius feels absolutely nothing like how I imagine 'real' Africa is. In fact, it doesn't generally occur to me that I'm in Africa at all. Anyway, I arrived at the University of Mauritius at 9 AM Monday morning for orientation (as there is no international student orientation, I was told to attend freshman orientation). First off, I counted four white people. I assumed that they were other international students, but my contacts at the university confirmed for me later that I am indeed the only American this semester. The rest, they said (all three of them), are German girls. Wunderbar. 

The entire freshman class in the 'Faculty of Social Sciences and Humanities' at UoM was gathered outside an auditorium at the front of campus. By front of campus, I mean it abuts the bus stop. It started to rain at about 9:05, and so they decided to let everyone in. We all huddled into the "auditorium." This is a giant room with plastic non-permanent chairs, something of a stage, and a giant screen. Everyone sat down. Shortly thereafter, a strong-minded woman with some official title yelled at everyone (in Creole) to exit the auditorium. Not having understood the woman, I simply did as I saw everyone else doing. So now, all of us (probably around 750 people) were gathered in a hallway. They probably never calculated the maximum safe occupancy level of this hallway (because it's a hallway, not a room, and because I doubt they do that anyway in Mauritius), but if they had, I'm sure we were easily tripling it. The same woman then (after 20 minutes) began calling students in according to their department. I, actually, don't have a department. Nor am I a freshman (freshers, they are called here). I am taking five classes this semester, and they are all under different departments. I am also in my third year of college. Anyway, I went in with the sociology students and was given a fancy packet. It was not nearly as fancy as said packet would have been at Tulane, but it did include a compact disk that contains the academic code of conduct. Each CD had been burned by the university, and the words "Academic Code of Honour" had been hand-written on each one. I pity the people responsible for the creation of these disks, as that must have been incredibly tedious. 

Anyway, I sat through a total of five live speeches (4 in 'English,' one in French). I also saw two pre-recorded videos that were shown on Windows Media Player across about 1/30th the area of the aforementioned giant screen. They tried to make it bigger. These were words from the chancellor and vice-chancellor. One man (both of them were Indians and spoke with very strong accents. both were also very clearly reading off of cue cards) told the class that 'to be your own boss is the best thing in the world.' The other said that we should become involved in many extracurricular activities. I don't know why, but the word 'extracurricular' is incredibly difficult to pronounce for Indians speaking English. Most of the speakers used the word at least once, and the president of the student union actually attempted to say the word for a full thirty seconds before he finally got it out. Try saying it while inverting the r's. Anyway, after this tedious session (it was 'convocation.' my Tulane convocation had a jazz band), I bolted from the group of freshers and ran to find my contacts at the university. I found them. They are wonderful. Their offices lie in the tallest office in the tallest building that is actually called the 'Tower Complex.' It's rather stifling up there. I imagine that my contacts (both women) are growing their hair out so that some Mauritian knight will climb up and save them. 

Anyway, I continued on to a couple other offices in order to make the leap from accepted student to enrolled student. I got a University of Mauritius e-mail address. This I plan on using only to join the University of Mauritius Facebook network. 

That pretty much wraps up the university story. Now onto the barmy. When I use the word 'barmy,' I don't mean foamy. It is simply a convenient contraction of two other words: bar and army. This story begins where another one ended. I lost the apartment in Ebene due to banking difficulties, as I said. As a consequence, I decided to seek out another apartment. I went to Flic en Flac, because in spite of its comparatively remote location from campus, it's my favorite town in Mauritius. It's also a beach town on the Indian Ocean renowned for sunsets (Flickr it). Anyway, the day after my experience at UoM, I went to Flic en Flac to meet with a realtor. She was French and didn't speak any English at all. She also insisted on (rather rudely) correcting my French, which was less than professional. She also did not show me any properties that I liked, and all were overpriced. 

Anyway, I went to a local hotel bar after quitting the real estate agent. There I ordered a croque monsieur and an orange soda for lunch. I also met a 57 year-old Englishman who was a freelance journalist by trade but a golfer (and a serious alcoholic) otherwise. He was drunk. Very drunk. It was 11:30 AM. He told me all sorts of depressing and despondent things about the state of affairs. He also told me that when Mauritians see white people, all they see are dollar signs. This may or may not be true, but they are also (as I've found) very congenial people, and I like them. Love them. The man's name was Tony and he told me a lengthy tale about how he'd been arrested the day before. He also told me that a man is as close to God as one could ever be while golfing. I told him that I (respectfully) disagreed. 

Anyway, Tony became too drunk to stand, and he stumbled away. At that point, a Chinese Mauritian man began talking to me. He, turns out, was part of a family clan that owned a hotel (the one whose bar I was currently in), a restaurant, and a shop or two in Flic en Flac. He introduced me to his nephew, Vincent. I would have placed Vincent's age at 18. He was 27. He volunteered that he had guessed my age at 30. Maybe it's the stubble. He's not the first one to think this, either. People assume that I'm 30 and French. Priyam, my aforementioned banker, giggled when she opened my passport. "You only have twenty years," she exclaimed. Yes. Anyway, I described to Vincent, his uncle, and a couple of the staff members about my experiences with real estate in Mauritius. Within minutes of me finishing the story, the entire staff of the hotel restaurant and bar was busy trying to help me find a place to live. It was a slow day at the hotel. The barmy had been mobilized.

Anyway, the first Chinese man brought me a newspaper, someone else brought me a phone book. Waitresses were calling their boyfriends or brothers who had connections in real estate. Vincent went off and started asking around. In less than an hour I had three appointments to look at other places. They were nicer and less expensive. The barmy pretty much saved me. I decided to rent one of the apartments that I was shown. The person offering it is a realtor. A waitress at the hotel called her cousin who worked for the realtor's husband. I have been so blessed by the kindness of strangers and fortuitous social networking. I won't describe the place until I move in due to the events of the recent past pertaining to my (would-have-been) apartment in Ebene. 

It was a very good day. And it ended with me sitting in the apartment of who will become my neighbors waiting on cab that they called for me. They were related to the driver. The neighbors are a couple, he a Hindu, she a Muslim. She is also of mixed ethnic heritage. I talked to them for a couple hours about racism and the ethnic situation in Mauritius. I also had discussed this with Vincent and his uncle. Everyone has interesting ideas about the subject here, and that is exactly what I came here to study: people. 

Anyway, Tony was having a bad day, and maybe that's why he was so displeased with Mauritians. What Mauritians gave me that day was invaluable help with almost everything. They also make a damn good sandwich. 

Consumed (in one meal from one restaurant): Beef stroganoff served over basmati rice with French bread covered in chili paste from Rodrigues. Oh, globalization. 

Also Consumed: the last of my American candy. As soon as I have a mailing address, I want pralines. And Baby Ruths. And those Hershey's Cookies and Cream bars.