Our first impression of Port Louis, even before going ashore, was of a harbor more bustling and colorful than any we had yet visited. Work began early in the morning and lasted, with much attendant shouting and seeming confusion, until late at night. A procession of Indians in brief loincloths, coifed like Egyptians of ancient tomb paintings, marched back and forth like industrious ants between the docks and a never-ending succession of barges. The coif arrangement was formed by heavy material wound turbanwise around the head and hanging down the back in a thick pad, making it possible to distribute the immense weight of their loads evenly between head and shoulders.
The island itself is a beautiful sight from the harbor. A range of deep-green mountains, dominated by the distinctive peak of La Pousse (The Thumb), forms a dramatic backdrop to the low red roofs of the warehouses along the shore. We anchored well out hoping to ensure a bit of privacy, but it did us very little good. Local water taxis, flitting about like bugs, were all too available and many curiosity seekers came out for the ride and boarded us with no advance warning other than a hail as they clambered over the gunwales.
One of our first callers was M. Appavou, the Indian ship chandler who has earned for himself a well-deserved reputation among yachtsmen. He gave us a bottle of the local rum with his compliments, and urged us to make use of him in any way. His representative would call daily to pick up our shopping list and our orders would be delivered on board in the afternoon. “No extra charge.”
I warned M. Appavou that he could expect little profit from us, but that didn’t seem to worry him. Anything we might need, he would be happy to get. Barbara decided to test him out and ordered a fez. (My birthday was coming up.) That afternoon the fez was delivered, a handsome one in maroon felt. Its cost, we discovered, was less than we would have paid in the market.
Thereafter, we made full use of M. Appavou’s advice and services. In addition to keeping us supplied with meat and vegetables, he guided us to the best barbershop, arranged to have a suit made for Ted, gave us tips on the races (we broke even), located beautiful saris for the girls, and contracted for the building of a new small boat. Moreover, we became very good friends. At New Year’s, in South Africa, we were both pleased and touched to receive a warm personal response to the mimeographed letter we had sent out to announce our arrival.
No doubt you must be proud of accomplishing such a cruise, and you must be thankful to God for your luck of what I call a trouble-free track, but for a few odds. You have seen oceans, seas, countries, and peoples of all sorts. Makes my mouth water, so to say. You have made friends everywhere, because sympathy is not merchantable: it is born in Earle, Barbara, Ted, and Jessica; you are such a charming group, you are.
Well, Capt., God give you en famille, His gifts in galore—which spell: HEALTH, BLISS, HAPPINESS, and most happy conclusion of the marvellous cruise of the gallant “PHOENIX.”...
During our stay in Mauritius we met a number of yachtsmen, both cruising and local. One of them, planning a cruise shortly, came aboard “for advice.” It seemed strange to have another asking advice of us and making eager notes of such bits and pieces of hard-won experience as we were able to pass along!
Another small-boat sailor was Jacques Rousset, an eager young chap who appointed himself our guide and mentor. Piling us into his car amid cases of soft drinks and hampers of lunch, he set off at top speed along the narrow, winding roads of his island. Cows, goats, chickens, children, and ox-drawn cane carts kept appearing unexpectedly around curves and kept all of us, who had just come in from weeks on the uncrowded ocean, in a constant state of nerves. In vain we hinted that we would much prefer a more sedate pace. As Jessica put it, “We want to see everything—but we want to be able to remember it, too!”
Perhaps Jacques thought we were old fuddy-duddies, but I managed to take the sting out of my eventual ultimatum by rhapsodizing over the charm of Mauritius, not only its beauty, but the novelty of the sari-clad women we passed along the road; the rows of sugar cane that alternated in the fields with rows of rock; and the two-wheeled carts pulled by broad-horned oxen.