crash
I took the nest back to my room... No doubt the magical part of my mind hoped that the bird’s genius would rub off on me, and I would figure out how to take what I find here and stitch from it a home.
I love the birds of this island, and I’m particularly fond of the bright yellow Village Weaver. Its name derives from the pear-shaped nests it builds from grass. It was night when I first saw their nests, and I mistook them for fruit, there are so many hanging from the trees around the beach.
One morning I found one the wind had knocked to the ground. I marveled at the beautiful arabesque weaving. The smell of grass was sweet. I took it back to my room and have treasured it since. No doubt the magical part of my mind hoped that the bird’s genius would rub off on me, and I would figure out how to take what I find here and stitch from it a home.
On the other hand, the feral dogs are losing their charm. When I arrived they seemed harmless, even cute, snoozing in their burrows on the beach, and I was touched at how people take care of them. But once the heat wave passed I saw them running recklessly in packs, barking at people as if the streets and beach were their territory, and showering people with sand as they dug their holes.
One day I saw a stunning sand sculpture on the beach depicting a female figure nestling a tiger and a zebra, seemingly the Earth Goddess in the Peaceable Kingdom. Hardly had I finished photographing it when a dog came over and pissed on it.
It’s getting time to either see about extending my time in this holiday rental or find another, and I’m feeling inclined towards the latter. A change of environment would be good, and this house does not charm me. My complete lack of warmth or attachment to this apartment is something I take note of as my heart seeks a sense of belonging or confirmation that I am approaching a new home. I have no idea if another place in the same price range will be any better, but there are enough things that annoy me to make me inclined to spin the wheel again.
The windows have no screens, leaving a choice of letting the air go stale, or praying the curtains will stop most of the mosquitoes. The only hot water is in the shower, so I boil water on the stove for shaving and washing dishes, using dish towels as hotpads, giving myself a few little burns in the process. I’m grateful for gas burners, but the lowest setting is so high I’m often holding a pot or pan above the flame to avoid burning my food, and trying not to set the dish towels on fire. The kitchen stinks of mold, and I have given up on airing out the cupboards; the mold obviously has a deep foothold in the wood.
The lighting is all glaring fluorescent tubes on the ceilings, and some fluorescent wall lights made slightly less unpleasant by shades. Previous lodgers have left behind two candles in a bottle and some decorative thing that also was not designed as a candlestick. I have tried to make my meals more appetizing by using these. The first time I blew them out I sent wax and soot flying across the table. I’ve been more careful snuffing them since, but the soot they produce is like motor oil for its difficulty in cleaning and ease in accidentally spreading.
But most of all I’m feeling that I’m deep in the tourist zone and not making progress on getting out. I’m not finding anything on the Internet in the way of good housing deals; these attempts only confirm what people keep telling me: I’m only going to get a break through word of mouth. I often meet local people at the beach, but none have proved to be housing connections. I’m not even meeting any more of my fellow lodgers; they come and go from their respective rooms, dashing across the yard from the mosquitos. I have once returned to Port Louis for affordable shopping, and the bus takes more than an hour.
On Sunday, September 14th, after getting to bed too late, I am awoken by violent nightmares at dawn. As has become my custom whenever I feel disturbed, I rush out to the beach, and try to take refuge in the here and now.
But then there is a loud noise from the street. I realize it’s not good when everyone on the beach runs there.
I stand on the wall dividing the beach from the sidewalk and see that two cars have crashed and are totaled. The driver of one is in the street screaming in pain, the other has walked to the sidewalk and sits silently back against a wall. After a few minutes, an equally motionless but breathing passenger is carried out from the first car. Everyone is yelling. I can not make out a word, only sensing anger and horror.
Is no one calling an ambulance? Too much time passes. It is very early but traffic is coming. Will other cars pile up as they come around the bend? Should I try to play traffic cop to prevent that from happening? Why should that fall on an outsider like me? Why is no one else doing that?
Seeing nothing I can do, I get out my phone and take a few pictures. Then another car drives up and four men jump out. They seem angry. They spot me and direct their fury at me. If they speak any English, they make no attempt to, but they make it clear that they want me to delete the pictures I have taken. I decide to comply and show them that I have, but they aren’t satisfied. They try to grab my phone. One grabs my shirt and tears it in half. No one intervenes. I get away and walk home. My torn shirt draws a few stares.
I text my local friends and they confirm my suspicion: that it was a mistake to take pictures of the accident because the assumption is that I would have shared them with the police, not that anything I captured showed anything that could be kept secret. That this could have happened at so early an hour when almost no traffic was on the road is a likely sign that one of the drivers was drunk or on drugs; the sudden arrival of the four men made it likely that they were friends of one of the drivers, and there’s reason to suspect they were gangsters.
Gavin leads the conversation back to my need for housing. He asks how much I’m paying for the apartment I’m staying in and is shocked. $20 USD a day? That’s like 1,000 rupees; ridiculous. We plan to get together on Wednesday, the last day I have scheduled to stay here.
I get on-line and start looking for a different hotel to stay in. Something no more expensive, and closer to Port Louis. The options are few, and it seems booking a hotel this way while avoiding the touristy parts of the island is a contradiction in terms. I choose a place in Pointe Aux Piments. Links through booking.com, same company Anoushka’s place is listed with. At least it looks closer to Port Louis, while being close enough to the shore that it won’t be an inconvenience to continue swimming on the regular. And I’ll be closer to beaches that have been recommended to me: Troux Aux Biches, and Mon Choisy.
I don’t want to deal with this again too soon, and decide to book a couple of weeks there. I think I’ve calmed down, but in days to come when I ask myself “What was I thinking?” I need to remember that this incident with the car crash had happened a few hours earlier.
