A Quick, light read of a reminiscent daily bus journey in Mauritius…
It’s not hard to want to watch the island go by when you’re travelling on the bus. It’s like watching a program on the TV, drink in hand, snack in the the other whilst you experience in 4D. The wind hitting your skin through the small open window. The warmth on your back as you rest on the leather seat your presented with and the motion of your body moving up, down and side to side as you travel along the road weaving in and out of traffic.
The mountains are beautiful and magestic as the fog of the damp morning hangs over the peaks.
You can see the mountains from pretty much anywhere on the island… the smaller they get the more the distance becomes between me and my Mauritian home. The greenery is everywhere outside of the city. Sugar cane fields, trees and odd flower spouting through the grass. My mind is lost at this time, I know I have some minutes to go before I reach my destination and my eyes are picturing the checkpoints of the repetitive journey.
My brain works overtime every day as I relax into my seat and let myself be driven to my volunteer work. I’m watching the people, the students hustling together, smiling, laughing wearing their specific uniform and backpacks full of what can only be literature. The little street food entrepreneurs setting up their small stalls on the side of the road selling typical Mauritian dishes, and then there’s the people whom are also waiting at the never so obvious bus stops to get to their daily destination. Another journey, mind and a thousand pictures.
I always pass a run down market which looks as though it’s not used anymore, there I find a group of old Mauritian men discussing what can only be an interest they all share. Enjoying each others company, a daily ritual which keeps them smiling. Flower shops presenting beautiful bouquets, bespoke newsagents and quirky stores holding quirky names.
Always a rush.
As if the bus driver is trying to gain his personal best. There’s always a driver and a conductor or I like to call him the ticket man. You take your seat and he comes over to take your money and print off a ticket using his little ticket machine. I feel as though I’ve gone back in time. A bus in England but maybe many years ago. The doors are mostly left open and the conductor is usually on the step holding onto the rail just inside the entrance as if he could swing out at any moment. Hurrying customers on and off the bus.
Ignorance is definitely something I feel with the bus experience every day. There’s no queue to get on or any manners to let people out of their seat. Imagine if we’re at the local bus station in Nottingham and everyone starts squeezing to get onto the bus… you’d most definitely say something. It’s just not something we’d do. Unless there is somewhere in England where this is completely acceptable?
The rain starts to come down, it’s not unusual in the summer season, the humidity is high and the rain likes to pour for a good 5 minutes as if it’s playing in a rainforest. Getting in its few minutes of fame before dissapearing for a few hours and taking in all its wet glory. I never close my window, I like to feel the rain on my skin. Always refreshing in the Mauritian heat.
55 minutes, a thousand pictures, a hundred stories and a few smiles leaves us with a simple bus journey from Port Louis to The Vale…