The Ship I Never Found, and the Beach I Finally Did

I was excited about yesterday when I woke up. I was on a list of people that was supposed to tour an American naval vessel in Port Louis harbor. I was told to arrive on Saturday no later than 12:50 PM at Quay A. My hotel is very centrally located in Port Louis, in fact I have walked to the waterfront nearly every day since I've been here. Thus, I decided to walk. This was a mistake. 

What I didn't realize is that most of the port facilities are located several kilometers (I know. Metric. I'm forcing myself to convert) from the downtown waterfront. At about 11:15 AM, I asked a kindly harbor policeman where I might find Quay A. He pointed up the coastal highway and didn't really say anything. He muttered something about a gas station. At this juncture I probably should have sought out more precise directions. Had I ascertained at that moment the exact location of Quay A, I likely would have immediately found a taxi. A nice, air-conditioned taxi. It was hot, and I was consuming liters of water in an effort to replace what I was sweating off. I also purchased some vegetable samousas. Mmm. 

I began walking in the direction the officer had pointed. I passed many things- most of Port Louis, an(other) open-air market, a large bus station, a UNESCO World Heritage Site (the Aapravasi Ghat) (the birthplace of the world indentured labor trade), and a Shell gas station. Still no Quay A. I would have assumed that I'd gone too far or in the wrong direction, except that along the way I passed a trio of American sailors. One was wearing an Alabama hat. Roll Tides were exchanged. In retrospect, I probably could have asked the sailors where Quay A was. This did not occur to me at the time- I was too pleased by the homeland paraphernalia. 

I finally saw a sign that said "Terminal I: Quays A, B, C, and D." Ah. I followed its arrow. The only quay I found was D. This is unlucky, because I continued walking hoping to eventually reach the other three. I never found them. I did, however, find a fish terminal. I know this because it smelled like stank. The next sign of note along my journey read: "Beinvenue en Pamplemousses." I had walked into another district entirely. That district is named Pamplemousses and lies just north of Port Louis. Its name means 'grapefruits' in French. I think that's silly. 

Anyway, by this time I had missed the ship tour, which disappointed me immensely. I sincerely wanted to tour the ship, but even more, I wanted to meet other Americans. Not counting the sailors, I have met exactly one other American in Mauritius, and he works at the American embassy, which is where I met him. There are plenty of Europeans though. As a consequence, Mauritians often assume that I am European. This is beginning to agitate me. "Non, je ne suis pas francais. Je suis americain." I did feel bad for the Spaniard I met last night. Not a lot of people on this island speak Spanish, and he does not speak French. As a consequence, he communicates with Mauritians in broken English, while they respond in broken English. I can only imagine what's been lost in translation.

Anyway, after giving up on the quays, I retreated to the bus station near my hotel. I then boarded a bus, hoping to make it to somewhere on the eastern coast of the island. I took the bus to a rather lackluster inland town named St. Pierre, where I hoped to catch a connection somewhere else. After St. Pierre, I found myself in Flacq. From there I took a bus whose route was supposed to go to a coastal town, but apparently only the A, B, and D buses on this line went to that town, and I had accidentally boarded C. As a consequence, I ended up taking the bus to the end of its route to a place called Goodlands. This town is located in the North of the island, very close to any number of very popular beach resorts. Goodlands itself though, seemed pretty dismal, especially now that the sun had set. 

By this time, it was nearly 19:00 and knew I needed to get back to Port Louis. I waited for a bus. None came. A young Indo-Mauritian introduced himself and asked me where I was going. He informed me that I had missed the last bus into Port Louis, and that I was trapped. I immediately hailed a taxi. My new friend translated my French into French Creole, and within a minute I was on my (expensive) way back to Port Louis. The taxi driver did teach me my first Creole word, though. Zou (pronounced 'zoo'). It is an evolution of the French word 'jour,' which means 'day' in English. I'm making strides. Teensie weensie strides. 

The bus station is saw while trekking to nowhere did help me, though. Today I went to it, just to see where its buses were going. I boarded a bus hoping to go to the beach, and finally, I made it. Flic en Flac (flickr it) is beautiful, and I still have a little bit of sand in between my toes. 

Spotted: Muslim women swimming in the Indian Ocean in burkhas (not really humorous, just culturally relevant); also, chickens roaming free on the streets of Flic en Flac. 

Smelled: Stank (from the fish pier, from other people on buses, and from manure used to fertilize sugar cane fields); also good aromas (from Indian perfume, from a couple tropical flowers, and from food vendors on the street).