the eclipse
I stop and talk to anyone who will listen. No one speaks English; at least, not to me. For the first time since I arrived, I am getting unsmiling looks such as were par for the course in Philly.
Sunday. No, my sleep struggles have STILL not ended. At 4:30 I’m awakened by a nightmare in which I’m sharing a home with someone I suspect is a cannibal. I find meat in the freezer I can’t identify and wonder if I should take it to the police to find out whether it is human flesh.
My bedsheets are soaked in sweat. I change them but can’t get back to sleep. At the sun rises, I give up.
My mind is full of noise and chaos, my things are scattered about the house in testament to how I have not settled in. I tell myself I need to meditate and I need to straighten up the mess in the house, but all this feels beyond me, and I am possessed by the urge to get out of the house and wander.
I go to the beach and photograph the sun rising, swimmers already in the ocean and boatsmen stretching on the sand in preparation for the day’s work. I wander down side streets and alleys taking photos. I need this; I’m regaining a sense of connection to this place.
I make a delicious breakfast from the fruit stand booty. Still though, I am eaten in turn by the angst about housing and the sleep deprivation I would normally be pacifying with smoke. I send Shan a text and off I go to Goodlands.
It feels good to already be out of the touristy spot and seeing more of the island. I hop off the bus at a random spot and wander around.
The side streets are very residential. Between passing cars and motorcycles the loudest sound is the wind rustling through sugar cane.
Everywhere there are signs of Hinduism. Shrines and temples large and small, icons flanking homes, Sanskrit lettering in iron fences. Dogs bark at me from behind fences and from rooftops, the ones outside shy away.
I stop and talk to anyone who will listen. No one speaks English; at least, not to me. All these folks on the Internet who say everyone in Mauritius speaks English must be living in an expat bubble, I think. I download a translation app and enter “I’m looking for a home here. I’m living in Pereybere now; too expensive. Do you know anyone looking for a tenant?” Some people I show it to answer no, some shrug, the waitress at the joint I buy a lamb burger at walks away without a word.
Can’t help but notice that people are less friendly to me here than in Pereybere. For the first time since I arrived, I am getting unsmiling looks such as were par for the course in Philly. The men who smile and gesture their appreciation of my beard all have beards themselves. I ask Google the question that I have put off asking: “Is there anti-Muslim prejudice in Mauritius?” but get nothing useful. Perhaps it’s just me. Maybe I’m just having a bad day and not projecting the right vibe. But Goodlands looks like a tough nut to crack; getting in here will take some time, if it is possible for me at all.
I walk along the main road, buy water and sunglasses, photograph the town’s largest temple, a gorgeous and fabulously ornate thing.
It occurs to me that I haven’t the foggiest notion of what to do in a Hindu temple, and just as I’m mentally preparing myself to ask permission to enter, a priest comes out and locks the gate.
Back home, I return to the public beach. Now I see the side that Lovisa doesn’t like; it is very crowded with many people playing music on their sound systems; a bit much for a relaxing experience. I swim a bit, pushing myself to have more exercise, but it does little to relieve my angst. What a pain to feel both tired and tense. I pace the water’s edge. I no longer feel up for trying to be social, but hate the feeling of disconnection in the crowd.
But my mood improves after having some lamb from one of the big food trucks, the one where they are always playing beautiful Qur’an recitations. Shan texts me and I remind him that tonight there will be total lunar eclipse; the moon should turn red. We arrange to meet in the morning in Port Louis, the capital city. I photograph the sunset, dance a bit to the music around me, change into warmer clothes and return to the beach for the eclipse.
I climb what might be a lifeguard’s chair if only it were facing the ocean and not the road (don’t ask me what it is) and start this journal while watching the moon, playing Hello Psychaleppo on my phone, and trading texts with Shan. “This is fun,” I tell him, “and best of all, no one is calling the police on me as they surely would if this were the USA.”
As the moon reaches full cover and turns blood red, I feel the urge for sweets and hop into a restaurant for a takeout order of gulab jamun.
“Have you seen the moon?” I ask the waiter. “No,” he answers. “I can’t leave…” and gestures around the restaurant.
“Oh come on!” I answer. “Just come out with me now and have a look from across the street. My dessert can wait! Life is too short!” He relents and comes with me. He is awestruck. The restaurant manager, seated at a table, reads his expression and comes out as well. In an instant all the customers have followed us and we are all in the street looking at the moon. A man on a scooter stops as well.
“You see?” I tell the waiter. “Now no one is going to complain about your taking a minute off!” He laughs and thanks me profusely. I tell him my situation, and he advises me that Port Louis would be a good place to look for a home. We exchange numbers and he promises to keep an eye out for me.
I return home chuckling and savoring the sweet taste in my mouth and the cool night breeze. Of course this is the place for me. How could it not be?
