Adventures in Domesticity (read: Take-Away) and "Sweet Home Alabama." Twice.

It persistently amazes me how many things one has to buy in order to set up a home. I made a list as soon as I moved in to my apartment, which is "furnished." Included in my monthly rent are: the furniture in the apartment, water, electricity, and a 'femme de menage' who comes twice a week. To me, that sounded like I wouldn't need to purchase many things in order to consider this apartment home. I was very wrong.

I find myself walking to the store (read: supermarket. It's called 'Spar.' Thus I frequently tell my neighbor that I am going 'Chez Spar' and it's grammatically correct) almost daily whenever I've discovered some other little domestic necessity whose heretofore presence in my life I'd taken for granted. For instance, I've been scouring supermarkets and stores across the island looking for a normal-sized household trash can with lid. I've also had to buy detergents for everything from my clothes to my dishes. I've purchased a giant squeegee on a pole so that I can push the standing water off of my back porch after heavy rains. How I've been able to find a giant squeegee and not a common trash can escapes me. I've also purchased various insecticides so that I might exact revenge on the little things that live in my kitchen and bathroom. The porches and my bedroom seem to be kept mostly insect-free due to the ever-watchful (and hungry) lizards. I named the latest one 'Reptar.' 

I also have yet to purchase food for the apartment. One might think that this would be first on my list of things to buy, but I've been hindered by the dubious condition of the cooking utensils that came with the furnishings, as well as by unsettling noises that may suggest that I'm sharing the apartment with another nasty (more rodent-like) household pet. Indira, la femme de menage, seems to have the same suspicions. I hope to have greater peace of mind (and less bumping and scratching in the bathroom/kitchen walls at night) once I get in touch with my landlord and sternly explain the situation. I might be disgusted, but hey, it's the tropics. You might have guessed by now that 'femme de menage' means 'cleaning lady' in English. Indira comes on Monday and Friday mornings, when/if I remember to leave her the keys. Let me say that I would never have actively sought out such a femme. She seems to be professionally attached to the apartment building, and she seems very cheerful. I hope that we can become friends. 

The aforementioned lack of food in the apartment has led me to delightfully desperate measures. I asked Lucia, my neighbor, if one could go to restaurants in Mauritius and ask for something to purchase and take home. I said all of this in French, of course. Lucia, being always helpful, replied that this was indeed a possibility and that I need only enter the restaurant and say, "J'ai envie de faire un take-away." It seems that occasionally the creolization has gone in my (Anglophone) favor. It is worth mentioning, though, that in order to be properly understood, one must pronounce 'take-away' in a French accent. I probably sound very silly, but it seems to get the job done. One might also think that ordering take out from some of the best restaurants in Flic en Flac could get expensive, and it does- but only in a relative sense. I veritably hemorrhage roupies. But, for instance, in equivalent terms, the spaghetti carbonara with curry rice I had for dinner cost me about Rs 120 (read: approximately $4). Said spaghetti came from Chez Pepe, the Italian restaurant down the street. There are also two Chinese restaurants, three snack stands, two seafood restaurants, and one Indian restaurant within easy walking distance of my residence. Let my also clarify that these designations are very fluid: Friday night I had Peking Duck, curried lamb, and 'Sicilian Fish' at the buffet at one of the Chinese restaurants. Also, every single restaurant I've entered has some kind of curry dish on the menu. Some of them are pretty innovative. Chez Pepe, for instance, offers a dish whose translated name is Indiana Shrimp. I don't know why Pepe seems to think that Indiana is a great shrimp producer, nor do I pretend to know why the dish consists of curried shrimp in some kind of pasta, but it's his place so he's the boss. 

Lucia also feeds me on occasion. This weekend was the festival of the Assumption. Being a non-Creole-comprehending Methodist, however, I still don't quite understand the customs associated with the holiday here in Mauritius. I do know that Lucia and her entire family gathered for a barbecue to which I was graciously extended an invitation. I stayed for a bit, but found that Lucia's family was trying to accommodate me by speaking French (slowly) or what English they knew. While this made everything understandable for me, I could tell that I was interrupting the spirited pace of the family gathering by obliging them to speak in their second or third languages. I asked them to speak normally, and I would pick up what I could, but they persisted. I bowed out before dinner so that they could enjoy their holiday as a family, but they were still there the next night when I stayed for dinner. They gave me wonderful food and some cake. The food was served with a homemade paste of piments (chilis). I told them that I was afraid of hot chili peppers, but I tasted them anyway out of curiosity. I realized that my fears had been justified as I turned bright red while my eyes watered and my mouth burned like something out of the book of Revelations. While uncomfortable for me, I think the family was greatly amused. 

Anyway, after leaving the family barbecue early, I went out to a club with a couple of my newfound friends- one Canadian and one English. Both of them are lovely girls. Anyway, we headed to a club in Tamarin, which is another coastal town a few kilometers (I'm getting used to the metric conversions for distance, but don't ask me about weight or temperature. Yet.) down the coast from Flic en Flac. The club was owned by a delightful South African man named Willie, and its clientele seemed to be much more Franco-Mauritian than any other place I've been so far. For possibly the first time since my arrival in Mauritius, I was not in a visible racial minority. Oddly enough, I found this rather jolting. After acclimating, I found that many of the people at the club were Franco-Mauritians who were a couple of years younger than me. I saw one of them passing around an American drivers' license while standing next to me. I couldn't help but inquire. Turns out, the fellow is half-American and half-Mauritian, but he lives with his mother in Houston, Texas. I was delighted at having met him and so we started talking. Our conversation, however, was interrupted by a familiar tune from the DJ. "Sweet Home Alabama" began pulsating through the club, and everyone seemed to be pleased with the choice. I quickly left the Texo-Mauritian and took to the dance floor with my friends. Let me say that I know many of the songs that are played here in Mauritius, but only one will make me sing along as loud as I can. 

My Canadian friend went up to the DJ and informed him that there was a native Alabamian in the club, which the DJ then announced to everyone. I didn't notice this at the time, though, because I was too enveloped in my own homeland bliss. The DJ followed the Southern rock song with "Africa" by Toto. My two geographies had been presented musically back-to-back completely by chance. If he'd played Louis Armstrong next, I might've begun crying. After the song, my friends and I went outside for some air and sat at a table. About an hour later, the DJ announced that he was going to play a song again for the young American. For the second time in one night, Lynyrd Skynyrd lit up the dance floor. Willie, the owner, gave my friends and I libations on the house. This time, the DJ followed with a string of American rock songs, including "Sweet Child of Mine" by Guns N'Roses. I wonder if Axl Rose has ever heard of Mauritius. 

On the school front, my schedule at the university seems to be hammering out, thanks in large part to the benevolence of a lecturer who I probably will not even have. Turns out, three out of my five modules were scheduled for the same Tuesday-morning time slot. I've had to pick alternatives. And, as it happens, I will be studying 20th Century American literature at the University of Mauritius in a class taught by Dr. Wong. I was given some course material to photocopy by other members of the class. They also had photocopies, not originals. It occurred to me that the university is (allegedly) violating scores of international copyright laws, but they cannot afford the books for everyone. Not wanting to (allegedly) violate copyrights myself, I asked if any of the books were available for purchase. I would have to order them online. I would pay three times the cost of the books in postage from the US, and the books would likely arrive by mid-November. In the interest of not failing the course, I made the photocopies. All 167 pages. For the first two weeks. I'll probably still order the books. I also may or may not have joined a student group affiliated with an extremely liberal international non-governmental organization (I won't name it. But its initials are AI) for the express purpose of becoming friends with a couple people who work with it. Due to this, I will officially never be able to successfully seek political office in Alabama or Louisiana. I will also say that joining the Mauritius section is far cheaper than joining an American section. I know this because once, in high school, in a fit of rebellion, I considered joining. I didn't. Being 15, I would have had to mow the grass four times to raise the necessary $20. In any event, it costs about Rs 150 (about $5) to join here. Once again, I hemorrhage roupies. This time in the name of a human rights t-shirt and some Congolese political prisoners. I will say that it almost always pleases me to take part in things like this if only just to aggravate my father. I love you, Dad. 

Update: Swine flu has finally come to Mauritius. I was told today that normal flu is generally not a huge concern due to the nation's tropical locality and relative isolation. People are going a bit crazy. There are masks. And students' parents are keeping them home from school. Even university. Being a non-residential campus, most UoM students, I've been told, still reside with their parents. It's an interesting 'campus culture.' More to follow. And if someone could mail me some Tamiflu, just in case, that'd be awesome.