The journey from the airport to the resort is only about an hour. A pleasant drive; an air-conditioned, nice smelling, spacious car driven by an attentive- and most importantly- silent driver. His much-appreciated silence gave me the opportunity to take in the lay of the land.
Mauritius is beautiful. Exquisite even. The airport is situated in a town close to Grand Baie, a busting metropolis of new shopping centers, huge shinny buildings and plenty of construction. I wasn't really expecting that and was surprised when I drove past a few clothing stores that looked like they were worthy of further investigation. The interior of the island is comprised mainly of huge- as far as the eye can see- fields of bright green sugar cane. In places, the sugar cane stretches for miles and miles, and the only thing breaking the flat, green monotonous horizon are the large jagged mountains that rise up straight out of the earth.
Wide-open spaces are punctuated by small roadside towns; an eclectic mix of old and new. Street markets selling pineapples and coconuts are located next to a MacDonalds's, an interesting blend of old architecture next to modern buildings. We eventually headed in the direction of the coast, and I finally got my first real glimpse of the sea.
The bluest sea I'd ever seen.
It was a brilliant turquoise, surrounded by huge white beaches, which were dotted with palm trees and what looked like some kind of small pine tree. It was unusual to see white beaches lined with small clumps of trees that created little forests. Beautiful, and all I could think of was sitting under one and looking out onto the beach.
I arrived at my resort- La Trou aux Biches- around midday. I wont even go about trying to pronounce that name out loud, my French is very rusty and the first time I attempted it, the last word came out as 'Bitches'. And I'm pretty sure that is not the intended pronunciation, considering the way the customs officer glared at me after asking, "What my destination was?"
But the question of how to say it, really didn't matter once you're inside the thing of tropical beauty. The reception is grand, triple volume ceilings rise up, giving the feeling of ultimate space and freedom. The floor is made entirely of white beach sand with actual palms planted in it.
It's also surrounded by a small moat of water, and to get to the rest of the hotel, you have to cross a small bridge. Once across the bridge I found myself in a thick, dense tropical garden. Several paths cut their way through the flora, dotted with signs that read Pool, Spa, Salon, Shop, Tennis Court. I had a feeling that the Spa would become one of my regular stomping grounds. I followed the concierge through the garden; the colors around me were intense; bright pink flowers popped out from behind the lush leaves. Â Huge palm trees rose up, heavy with an abundance of coconuts.
My room was located on the ground floor, only about fifty meters from the beach. I stood there for a moment, as the concierge fiddled with the keys and took it all in. The sea was dead calm, as still as bath water and probably the same color. In parts it was completely transparent, creating the illusion of boats that seemed to float in mid air. The water looked shallow, and I imagined that you could probably walk all the way to the distant reef where the sea became a dark sapphire color. The beach was scattered with deliciously inviting looking loungers, positioned under umbrellas made of dried palm leaves. People were lying like lizards in the sun, whilst others bobbed up and down idly in the water. It was picture perfect. A post card depicting the very best of lazy, hot holiday relaxation.
I thanked the guy for carrying my bags, and walked into the wonderfully cool air-conditioned room. The room wasn't huge, but very comfortable. A large four-poster bed dominated the floor and a small well-appointed lounge area lead out onto a covered patio. The patio contained a table and chairs, but best of all, a hammock was stretched out between two wooden pillars.
It felt like a hundred degrees Celsius outside and the bar fridge with the cool Coke, started looking very inviting. I grabbed the Coke, and climbed into the hammock- hard to get your balance at first- and for a moment I thought I might tip out and fall on my face. But after some violent sways and difficult readjustments, I got the hang of it.
Nestled comfortable in its folds, I experienced this amazing sensation of weightlessness, as if I suspended in mid- air. Floating on the wind itself.
Instant relaxation. Instant bliss.
I lay there sipping my Coke happily whilst looking out over the quiet sea. With each cool sip, each gentle sway and the feeling of the cool sea breeze on my face I started to feel more calm and serene than I'd felt in almost a year. The feeling was like catching up with an old dear friend who I hadn't seen in ages.
And then a thought?
Why the hell sit and look at the beach, when I could be on it?
I jumped out the hammock and quickly changed into my swimming costume.
Sunglasses. Check.
Sun-cream. Check.
Towel. Check.
Hat and Book. Check.
Upbeat holiday attitude. Double check.
I shoved everything into my beach bag, one of my own creations, and headed for the beach. But when I hit it, I realized that I hadn't brought my slip- slops and the hot sand scalded the bottom of my feet. I screeched and ran for the nearest lounger, jumping onto it eagerly and instantly set about rubbing my fiery feet.
Once the stinging had worn off sufficiently, I stretched out and went about the important job of relaxing. The sun was hot, and my body was pale, I've never been one of those girls who tans easily. Being blessed with strawberry blonde hair and a freckly complexion, means I never really change color- well, to anything other than bright red. If I'd had the money, I might have considered a spray tan so that when I pulled off my dress and exposed my body, I didn't look like a reflector board. I lathered myself with an SPF 50+ before stretching out.
"Bonjour Madame, " A little voice said. I turned. "Would you like a drink?" The waiter asked in a thick French accent, which always makes things sound so much more appealing.
Now this is the life. Lying on the beach while waiters bring you fabulous drinks. He passed me the menu and I flipped through it, excited by all the exotic sounding creations.
"This one," I said pointing at a picture of a Coconut shell oozing with umbrella's and pieces of pineapples.
"Of course Madame." He said and disappeared.
I gazed around the beach again. A few people looked like they'd been lying in the sun indefinitely; dark and bronzed to the point of being shinny. A couple of children were splashing in the shallow water and attempting to build sandcastles, but the sand was so soft and flyaway, that they we failing dismally. Some energetic souls were canoeing up and down and others were playing Frisbee. I've never really seen the point of physical exertion on holiday. In the distance I could make out the small silhouette of someone fishing on the reef.
The sea was beckoning me; but the lack of slops and fresh memory of burning soles, left me less than eager to attempt it.
"Here we go Madame" The waiter suddenly appeared and handed the most tropical drink I'd ever seen. Navigating your lips to the rim was a challenge in itself; one had to first part the sea of umbrellas and twirly straws, and then push through the sea of floating fruit.
But when I sipped it... it was an island in liquid form. Coconut, pineapple and the warm distinctive splash of Rum.
Cool.
Strong.
Delicious.
I put it on the little table attached to the lounger and began opening my book, but as I was raising it, something caught my attention. Â Someone.
To my left, about three loungers down, sat a man. The person of interest stuck out like a sore thumb, and I couldn't believe I hadn't noticed him sooner. For starters, he was the only person not wearing a bathing suit. Instead, he was dressed in a t-shirt and shorts. He didn't look relaxed either. Far, far from it.
He sat bolt upright in his chair. He had a laptop perched on his crossed knees and an iPad and cellphone on the table next to him. Technology overload, especially for the beach.
Stranger than the menagerie of gadgets though, was the fact his hands were just hovering above the keys.
Not moving. Not typing.
Dead still.
I must have watched him for about 5 minutes. And in that time, he did nothing more than stare at the computer screen. He was so still that I wondered if he hadn't fallen asleep, or in some bizarre twist of fate, had maybe died in that position and was somehow stuck in it. I studied him a bit more.
Scruffy thing.
Messy dark blonde hair highlighted with flecks of grey. Not that he was old, he was obviously just one of those guys that got the salt and pepper look early. If I had to guess his age, I would say mid-thirties. Big dark sun glasses, not the cool kind either. Well, nothing I recognized anyway.
He also had the start of a beard- definitely a week more than a five o clock shadow. Not my thing.
He was wearing a short sleeve button down shirt, off white-ish in color. But when I studied it closer, I realized that it had definitely once been white. Poor thing had probably landed up in the colors wash, giving it a strange sort of greeny-creamy, beige hue. The top few buttons of his shirt were undone and you could definitely see a fair splattering of chest hair. Again, not really my thing.
His shorts were a strange length, neither here nor there. Sort of knee length, sort of not. They were made from a hot, heavy looking black fabric- who wears that to the beach?
He looked tall. Not freakishly so, but definitely more than average. Large, broad and well built. Not a gym bunny though. In fact, he looked like the kind of gym that had never set foot in a gym- not his thing.
Creative type I imagined. Advertising maybe. Advertising types often have that intense vibe about them, which he had right now as he stared relentlessly at the computer screen.
And then, just as I was convinced he was dead and perhaps needed to investigate further, he opened his mouth and started mumbling something.
He was talking to himself. Very odd indeed.
What on earth was he saying? The mumbling soon escalated until it looked like he was engaged in a full-blown argument with himself. His hands even joined in at times, still not typing though.
Then suddenly- rather violently- he slammed his computer shut and turned to meet my prying gaze. It was as if he'd sensed I was staring at him. Mortified, I quickly averted my eyes and buried my face in the book hoping that I hadn't caused offence.
A few minutes later I peered tentatively over the pages to make sure he wasn't still looking in my direction.
But he wasn't.
He was back at his laptop, wringing his hands.
Fascinating.
Oh well, not my concern.
I had another long sip of the cocktail, started feeling slightly warm and fuzzy.