With a shivering and surreal sense of d�j� vu I stood in the departure hall of OR Tambo gazing up and searching for the same letters - Mauritius - I had scanned for on the morning after my wedding.
Surely now, 10 years on and happily divorced, I wouldn’t make the same tragic mistake of December 1997 as I prepared to fly back to that magical Indian Ocean island?
On that occasion both I and the trouble-and-strife had mistaken the time of departure for time of boarding. We had arrived to check in, blissfully unaware of the looming crisis, only to confront the sullen face of the Mauritius Airline employee and hear her deflating words: “You do realise your flight takes off in five minutes!”
I’ve never grovelled or begged as much in my whole life, but ultimately the punctually-minded captain vetoed our plea to scramble onto his plane seconds before departure - in spite of the efforts of the ground crew.
So while our luggage, checked through from Cape Town, flew off to our intended rendezvous, we spent the first two days of our marriage with relatives in Pretoria on a six-day honeymoon abruptly reduced to four. At least Air Mauritius had allowed us to fly two days later.
I never really recovered from that simple error or managed to forgive myself. And when the wedding ring was thrown at me a few days later, in a heated tantrum, the honeymoon had pretty much degenerated into war of the roses as I first began to question the potential longevity of our matrimony.
‘Till death do us part’
Nine gruelling months later, of course - a lot longer than Britney Spears but significantly shorter than “till death do us part” - it was all over. It took a few years for me to see the funny side of things and realise the day of emotional exorcism.
Then, almost a decade later to the day, I was back in Joburg staring at the Air Mauritius schedule and making a careful note: Departure: 1.20pm. “That means check in is at noon,” I whispered to myself, reaffirming my determination not to miss the plane this time around.
I made it, with an hour to spare, and what a thrill to savour settling into my seat, before soaring into the blue sky and gliding through silky clouds swathed over the Mozambique Channel. I was returning to Delicious Mauritius, single and satisfied on a pilgrimage of sorts with a delight of Richter scale proportions surging through the psyche.
I’ve always loved Mauritius. It’s a sweet, beautiful jewel of an island and a cathartic destination for tortured souls that invokes fantasies of tropical romance, moonlit beaches and warm, indulgent seas.
Mauritius is the perfect place to fall in love. So would this be a second honeymoon, metaphorically speaking at least?
The destination was the Club Med’s new, La Plantation d’Albion, on the west side of the island and the resort’s website had billed it as the “perfect place to indulge the sensuous pleasures of romance”.
‘I’ll look after your wallet if it’s too heavy’
That’s just marketing, I had told myself. The envisaged fairytale seldom lives up to reality. Nevertheless, four days in tropical splendour, the perfect oasis for tired, dog-eared emotions, would give me the chance to swim every morning to magical reefs, paying the tax upfront ahead of some serious partying and festivities hosted by an iconic leisure group that has patented fun on a global scale.
La Plantation, a 21-hectare hideaway tucked into one of the last remaining natural beaches on the island, has been carefully constructed with a garden of exotic flowers and trees flowing through the village among landscaped ponds to two unspoilt, salt-washed beaches, glistening in the setting sun to the west.
It is the first of five Trident Villages planned, the flagship of the range created at a cost of �50-million (R557-million) catering to a slightly more sophisticated traveller but still embracing the fun-loving sect who have become trademark residents to Club Med destinations worldwide.
It was at breakfast, over a small, seductive litchi that I first met the mermaid from Perth. Australians really do not know how to say “litchi”. It sounds more like “laai chi” rolling off their tongues and I told her so.
Then: “I need a moonbag to store all the stuff in my pockets,” I said casually to the slim, curvaceous looking Aussie litchi lass with champagne eyes and a sparkling smile.
“Oh, that’s okay. I’ll look after your wallet if it’s too heavy,” she retorted cheekily.
“Do you like swimming?” I said, bold enough to ask for a date. Being a tri-athlete, a typically sports-mad Aussie, she loved it. Half an hour later we were submerged: Just the two of us stroking in a warm, turquoise nirvana. Only the fish, darting around reminded us this was still Neptune’s domain. A few hundred metres away the Village - picture-perfect in a frame of tropical trees, sandy white beaches and billowing, fluffy clouds - served as the visual anchor of terra firma.
We didn’t reach the reef on our first swim, a reconnaissance of currents and conditions. Only the gentlest ebbing of the tide serving notice that even the most benign ocean is a possessive being, seeking to claim all who indulge her pleasures.
Instead we swam from cabin cruiser to buoy, jetty and craft.
There’s little to beat a fruity island breakfast after a sensual swim. And at Club Med you are spoilt for options for the rest of the day and night.
There’s the Spa Cinq Mondes, a Zen-like experience carved into volcanic rock with a Turkish bath, where bare feet caress Indian slate floors and the window shutters are plant fibre.
Crackle finished mud walls and Indian motif carvings complete a sensation winding up in the relaxation room, where you can lie back and enjoy the panoramic seascape of ocean and sky.
“I don’t think I could feel any more relaxed than I am now,” I said to my mermaid after soft fingers, but firm hands, had sent us into the orbit of starry-eyed ecstasy. Then I was dragged off to aquatic exercise classes in the village’s main pool.
My Aussie mermaid was a star performer, while I floundered clumsily and the robust gentil organiser (GO) mademoiselle poked fun at my effort.
The only other participant was a big, laddish bloke from Blighty, grinning like a Cheshire cat detoxing off the charter flight from Europe before heading back to the bar. He squealed gleefully in paradise on reflection that storms and snow were battering the homeland. His journey had been a legendary odyssey in which the band, flown in from Paris, spontaneously sparked life into the mile-high party by hitting the high notes at high altitude.
The focal point of the village is the zen pool. In typical Mauritian style, it is set against a backdrop of deep-blue ocean. It comes with a cocktail bar and restaurant, where bookings are essential and late breakfasts are served from 10am until noon for over-zealous remnants of the night before.
If you’re going to fall in love at this village - or at least become infatuated - chances are that the magical juices will start to flow at the zen pool.
Particularly if Club Med have created the party mood while Mother Nature sets the backdrop with streaks of fiery comets punctuating the horizon at sunset over an ocean receding into darkness.
So while musicians gently begin to pluck the heart strings with seductive melodies and chords, and while smiling waiters keep the pink champagne and fruity cocktails flowing, don’t be surprised if all in an instant that warm, glowing awakening starts to surface.
We left at around midnight - although nobody notices the time in a tropical island paradise.
But it was early enough to avoid revelries culminating in a mass, multicultural skinny-dipping crescendo in the wee hours allegedly started by the French.
All I cared about was that my princess didn’t turn into a pumpkin. But that, after all, only happens in fairytales.
The rooms - 266 sprinkled throughout the village - are spacious. Curtains, rugs and hangings reflect a harmonious mix of the Indian, French and Chinese influence of the island.
Sixty deluxe rooms - 50m2 in size - feature skylight views of the heavens from the bathtub. They open onto a secluded beach, offering sweeping views of the sea, the sky and tropical palms.
The beds would easily accommodate Jacob Zuma and all of his wives and any pyrophobias are diluted by the assurance that sugar cane bagasse roofs are treated with a special fire-proof retardant.
It doesn’t take long in Mauritius for life to become blissful.
When the heart stirs, particularly in Indian Ocean paradises that seem so remote from the rest of a troubled world, you feel as though you are floating on a Robin Crusoe-cum-Disneyworld cloud of surrealism. It’s just not the kind of place where you would want to worry about the Davos Economic Forum, the Dow Jones or sub-prime mortgage meltdowns.
There are simply too many visual pleasures and active indulgences to occupy the senses.
And so we swam to the reef, a 40- minute effort.
On arrival, into a kaleidoscope of fish, rock and plant, I exulted: “Look. Now we can stand!”
“Oh. I’m not sure I want to do that,” replied the Aussie mermaid.
“Why on earth not?”
“Because there might be stone fish!”
“Do they sting?” I asked gingerly.
“Yes!”
“Can they put you in hospital?”
“Yes?”
“Can they kill you?”
“Possibly.”
In an instant I was treading water, the triumph somewhat diluted.
That evening, at Club Med’s showpiece event of the La Plantation launch, Mauritian president Jugnauth Anerood arrived as guest of honour without blaring sirens or flashing lights shovelling all traffic out of the cavalcade’s path.
Instead, the VIP reflected a humility and dignity that all elected heads of state should emulate.
The cuisine was magnificent - Asian, African, Mauritian and Western, cultivated to satisfy all palates, and the entertainment - imported from Paris - set a vibrant mood.
Club Med know how to put on a show with some style, but it was the South Africans who aroused special feelings of warmth and patriotism.
Garth and Dylan, of the travel industry, were mischievous, fun and irreverent and Elaine Youngelson, of Club Med, could never be forgotten.
There were two defectors - both Australian - to the South African camp - the mermaid from Perth and Antony, the handsome and frivolous Melbourne playboy, a hedonist who just loved our easy-going nature.
Both giggled with unbridled freedom while the Europeans tried to portray a sophisticated and superior elegance, neglecting once again to let their hair down in the spirit of the occasion.
They just loved us! But our enthusiasm raised a few eyebrows in the village - notably in the Aussie camp - with Georgina, the Club Med PR from Sydney still smarting at the Wallabies World Cup humiliation, passing one or two comments about my mermaid missing out on a couple of exclusive Australasian activities.
“Aren’t we here to have a great time and indulge the pleasure of love between two continents?
“And if Club Med is the matchmaker, isn’t that what this is all about?” I asked, unrepentant.
The officials at Club Med, one a South African named Candice from Joburg, are taught to be friendly in a family-type environment, but not too intrusive or obsequious, knowing when to withdraw and not hover around annoyingly.
Like all great chapters in life’s great stories it had to end, but it was a beginning, not an epitaph.
Before we said goodbye we had to sail after our swim on the final day.
It was a daunting prospect considering the last time I had been at the helm was in Mauritius, when I had capsized the craft and had to be rescued in embarrassing circumstances by the boat crew.
So we enlisted the onboard services and tuition of Jean Claude, a handsome Mauritian lad who had worked all over the world.
For the first five minutes he gave me a refresher course in Hobie sailing, before handing over the tiller. I thus became the skipper while he chatted to my mermaid.
It was an hour of exhilaration in warm trades as we reached, then ran and beat, beyond the reef into the deep blue, a harmonious symmetry of wind, sea and sky.
It was the perfect last stanza of a love story shaped, sculptured and formed in the unexpected, shifting sands of fate. Then we kissed and said goodbye, a salty tear of happiness running down my cheek as I marvelled at all the wonderful people I loved and had known in a fairytale story that is neither myth nor fabrications.
They can be reality in tropical island wonderlands.
Then I almost missed the plane home on late arrival at the airport, but would not have minded.
I fell in love with Mauritius a long time ago but La Plantation d’Albion was like a dream. And thus we flew away, knowing that we would return to the soft seas of sensuality one day.
Dale Granger was a guest of Club Med.
If you go…
Visa: Visas are not required by South African visitors to Mauritius, however, your passport must be valid for six months from the date of departure from Mauritius and have two blank pages available for stamps etc.
Club Med: There is a traditional Club Med on the island, however, the new Club Med - La Plantation d’Albion - offers luxurious accommodation plus all the 24-hour, full-service Club Med attractions.
More info: Several attractive packages are available, call Club Med on 011-840-2600 or visit
www.clubmed.co.za for more information.
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