Mauritius - a hotbed of corruption!

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Francis was in his late fifties, bald and in possession of a paunch. I would no doubt replicate the look in fifteen or so years. I shook hands and sat alongside him in the car.

As we set off for the first stop of the tour: a local sugar factory, I asked Francis about himself. He told me he first became a taxi driver in 1982. “Back then, everything so cheap. Families could live well and raise their children. Not like now. Everything very expensive: food, cars, houses. I am lucky because I have no children, only a wife. I don’t know how people survive if they have children.”

We were passing the old Post Office, a colonial building once part of the slave-processing complex I’d visited earlier. Over on my right I could see Fort Adelaide, jutting out above a line of commercial buildings. Nearer still, at street level was a busy bus station. Ten or so large buses sat waiting for passengers. Milling around one stop was a collection of old ladies, all of them wearing colourful dresses.

“Even fish is expensive in this country,” added Francis. “And we are an island surrounded by ocean! It is not right.” He explained that the hotels bought most of the island’s daily stock, driving up prices for the locals. “That is why I went to work in France for ten years. I got a construction job in Paris. I saved lots of money. But living in France made me realise how badly Mauritius is run.” He paused and looked at me. “You can probably guess why?”

“Corruption?” I hazarded.

Francis nodded solemnly. “Corruption.”

I would soon discover that corruption was Francis’s favourite subject, but for now, with the outskirts of Port Louis firmly behind us, we turned towards the sugar factory. Fields of tall sugar cane, higher than the car, flanked both sides of the road leading to it, reminding me instantly of my childhood. I mentioned to Francis about my old friend from Mauritius, and how his parents had emigrated to England in the late sixties.

“They did the right thing. They would be sad to see what has happened to their country.”

We pulled into a spare bay in the car park. An empty tour bus was already there, together with quite a few cars. All of this meant l’Adventure du Sucre was not going to be the working sugar factory I’d hope for. I predicted a tourist-friendly attraction awaited me.

Francis told me would wait in the car. “Take your time,” he said. “There is no rush.” I nodded and walked towards the main building. After paying the entrance fee, I entered the adventure, finding it to be exactly what I feared: a museum (old photographs, restored machinery and endless information boards explaining about the sugar making process). I bypassed one group of people huddled around an exhibit that displayed a sugar cone (a handy way of transporting the stuff on ships, apparently) and then bypassed another loitering near a mock-up of a sugar transportation ship. One man, clearly bored out of his skull, watched me with envy as I skipped past the wooden vessel and entered the final section of the museum – the obligatory gift shop. Fridge magnets, keyrings, cuddly Dodo toys and bottles of rum were waiting for us. I ignored them and headed straight for the bar. My entry ticket included a sample of local rum made by the factory. If I liked it, I could then buy a bottle of it. I handed over my ticket, and the woman behind the counter poured the most meagre of measures into a tiny glass. I necked off the brown liquid in a split second. I grimaced and then went to find Francis

He seemed surprised. “Did you not find the entrance?”

I told him I had found it, and had been through the entire factory. Francis looked at his watch. “But you have only been inside for fifteen minutes. That must be the record.”

I didn’t know whether to be proud or embarrassed: probably the latter. Back on the road north, Francis started talking about corruption again, and gave me some prime examples.

“If you want your car fixed, you must wait a long time. Unless ...” Francis looked at me. “Unless you pay a little bit under the table. Then they fix the car quickly. It’s the same with a house. If you want a plot of land in a nice area, then ... you pay the backhander. Your passport needs renewing? It will take months, unless ... you got it: pay the bit on the side. Money is king in Mauritius. It turns all the cogs and greases every wheel.”

I murmured consolation, which gave Francis an excuse to carry on. “You need a new permit to drive a bus, you want to import some goods from South Africa ... the list goes on. Corruption is rife. And do you know who is to blame? Yes, the politicians. They take their cut while the poor man gets poorer. That is why crime is rising in Mauritius: the underclass has had enough.”

I nodded in sympathy, but couldn’t really add to what he was saying; I simply didn’t know enough about Mauritius. All I knew was that it had a decent airline, an efficient transport system and, as far as I could tell, a working infrastructure.

Our next stop was a botanical garden, the oldest in the southern hemisphere according to Francis. Again, he told me to take my time, and I told him I would. I paid another entrance fee and entered the massive area of plants, ponds and animals. The latter were small deer, giant tortoises (housed in pens) and stunning red finches, which were free to fly wherever their fancy took them. I found a lily pond and stared at the huge circles in the water. Only a frog leaping between them would have made the scene better.

One section of the gardens was set aside for trees planted by visiting dignitaries. The King of Swaziland had planted a Black Ebony tree in May 2000. It looked healthy and well cared for. The president of Zambia had planted an even taller tree. Both were much better than the effort planted by Alberto Chissano, president of Mozambique, in 1993. It was no longer there. Only a bare patch of grass remained where the tree should have been. I carried on walking, finding that Robert Mugabe’s tree, a Gastonia Mauritania. It was massive and thriving, far taller than one planted by the president of the Maldives a little further along. Even though it was over five years old, it was a tiny sapling, a few inches above the ground with a scant offering of branches. What made it worse was the tree from China opposite. It was perhaps the tallest tree along the avenue.

I heard a waterfall. I scanned through the trees but couldn’t see any sign of it. Then the waterfall found me. The heavens had unleashed a tropical torrent, soaking the path I was walking upon within a moment. I sought refuge under the leaves of a large palm, watching as a phalanx of tourists ran for it, screaming all the way.

Back in the car, Francis and I drove further north. We passed a policeman armed with a speed camera. Francis tutted and shook his head. “Another prime example of corruption. Imagine I am driving along, minding my own business, and he stops me: this is what would happen. First, he will write me a speeding ticket or perhaps a ticket for failing to indicate a turn properly. To pay this ticket means taking a lot of time out from my day. I would need to go to this office, that office, see this official, get a stamp from the captain, but the policeman has another way – and this has happened to me many times. I take his ticket and I fold a two-hundred rupee note inside it. Then I pass it over and he waves me away.”

Two hundred rupee was about six dollars. Francis second-guessed what I was thinking. “Two hundred is not much, I know, but that policeman, and many more just like him, will stop maybe thirty drivers a day. That means he will take about six thousand rupees, maybe more.” Six thousand was about $170. Not bad for tips, I thought.

Francis continued. “And it’s not just the police who are corrupt: it is court officials, hospital admission officers and even customs officers. I know this because my brother is a customs official. He is so rich that he is building a second house for tourists to rent.”

Despite the alleged corruption, the people we were passing looked happy enough. A group of grey-uniformed schoolchildren were hanging around at a bus stop, waiting for one of the large red and white Ashok Leyland buses to pull up. All of them were smiling and joking around. And a group of older women seemed jolly too, wandering along the street with bags balanced on their heads.

The traffic thickened, as did the number of tourists. Flip-flops, sunglasses and sunburned skin walked a busy street lined with cafes, bars and souvenir shops. The place was called Grand Bay, home to some of the best resorts on the island – the type of place where a couple might spend their honeymoon.

Francis parked in a tight spot by the public beach. I got out and took in the view: small boats sloshing about in the aquamarine water, stray (but harmless) dogs lounging in the shade, a well kept beach of yellow sand and people frolicking in the Indian Ocean. At one end of the beach was a fish market. Though there were only about five or six tables, each one was full to bursting with colourful fish. One table was full of bright orange fish, another with squid, and a third with huge chunks of tuna larger than my luggage. A local man wandered over and pointed to a long silver thing about a metre long. The proprietor nodded and grabbed a knife, slicing open the fish’s belly. I assumed he was removing the innards before handing over the prime cuts, but I was wrong. The man wanted the innards and nothing else. They were weighed, bagged up and passed over.

I found Francis talking to another man further along the beach. He introduced him as his cousin. “Welcome to Grand Bay,” the man in the T-shirt said, sticking his hand out.

I shook it and gestured at the ocean beyond us. “You see this every day? You are a lucky man.”

He looked at the boats bobbing up and down. “I guess I am.”

I asked whether sharks lurked out in the water.

“Of course. But the sharks here are very laid back. They see the people are relaxing and they relax too. Plus, there’s plenty of fish for them out there. Eating a tourist is hard work for these Mauritian sharks. They prefer to swim around, open their mouths a little, and then dance with the squid. They are rasta-sharks.”

Our final stop on the tour was a place called Cap Malherureux (French for Cape of Bad Luck due to the British attacking them there and the number of ships destroyed on the nearby rocks). It was situated on the northern tip of Mauritius. As we drove to there, Francis gave his final talk about corruption. I think he could tell I was tiring of it.

“Mauritius is home to Muslims, Hindus and Christians, but the prime minister of Mauritius is always a Hindu. Always was and always will be. And there is a rule about tax on the island. Anyone who lives in the cities and towns has to pay tax to the government. But people who live in the villages do not pay this tax. Jason, can you guess who mainly live in the villages?”

“Hindus?”

“Exactly. The prime minister looks after his own people. If you want to obtain a certificate for owning a market stall, and you are a Hindu, it will happen quickly. If you are a Christian, or even worse, a Muslim, you stand no chance. Unless, of course, you have money. Cash trumps everything in Mauritius.”

Cap Malheureux turned out to be another beach, though a much less touristy one. In the ocean were a series of black outcrops and boulders, but the main sight was a red-roofed church. The outside was better than the interior, and after a brief look at the bare altar, I went back to the beach to observe the fish darting between the rocks.

I found a quiet spot and sat down, resting my weary limbs. The view was great and the peace and quiet even better. I could see why people would return to Mauritius, and maybe one day, I would too. But for now, I headed back to Port Louis with Francis. Now that he had corruption off his chest, he seemed jollier, pointing out where he lived and even taking me on a detour to view his brother’s – under construction – house. When he dropped me off at the hotel, I shook his hand and he passed me his business card. “When you come back with your wife, let me know. I will get you a special deal in a hotel. I’ll organise things for you to see.”

I thanked him and said goodbye. Tomorrow I was heading back to the airport. This time my destination was Madagascar.

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