Mauritius is like a massage

When I arrive in Mauritius, I am still unhappy. Don’t get me wrong but the last few days have been really tough on me. I have had a string of bad luck experiences and although I generally have a mind-over-matter attitude, the wind had been taken out of my sails completely.

Blue Bay is pretty windy though and my travel companions decide to head out for some sailing. I choose to just sit on the beach and let the tropical atmosphere work its charms.

Being here is a bit like having a massage. I cannot help but relax.

Mauritius is all the clichés: ‘powdery palm fringed beaches’, ‘crystal clear seas’ and drinks with fresh coconut inside and pineapple slices on the rim. There are no surprises here. It is exactly like the dream and the only thing that makes it different from the pictures is that I can smell the sea and the frangipani, feel the sand sift through my toes and hear the sea.

Before I know it I am smiling and breathing sighs of contentment. Ah, island therapy beats a shrink any day!

I fall asleep under a palm tree until my companions wake me with giggly tales of a sailor that couldn’t sail and something about the rescue boat.

There is truly something to do for everyone here – yes, yes, another cliché. It is the ideal holiday spot for lovers, adventure seekers, families and of course those who just want to be rejuvenated. Although most of the holiday makers that I see here are indeed honeymooners, I am surprised at how many kids are around.

We haggle a bit with a seller on the beach. He is not nearly as manipulative as the ones in South East Asia; instead he is pretty clever in being so pleasant that I want to look at his offerings and buy something from him. Plus, I really like the French accent. He also gives me a good price on a sarong – that’s what I think.

Soon the sky turns to strawberries and cream and the sea is shined silver. Sure, a beautiful sunset may be expected in such a setting – but then, the full moon rises. That’s it, there is no way that I can leave here and not feel happy again.

Dubai's devils

“You look like a nice person, Lize,” says Martin, a friend of an acquaintance, “people from South Africa are usually nice. But I just have to warn you that in Dubai it is different. People are not nice here.”

This comes out of the blue and I wonder why he suddenly decides to give me this warning. We are at Boudoir, a restaurant/night club decorated like an antique French room (somehow it seems a bit out of place here in Dubai but for a Francophile like me it will do). The music is loud and we are having fun. Why all this seriousness now…

“Just thought I’d tell you. Don’t trust anyone here. People will be friendly until they find a chance to take advantage of you.”

I feel offended and walk away to join the girls on the dance floor. It’s not like I am twelve. What's more, I come from South Africa - the ultimate gangsters’ paradise – and have had to deal with a fair share of deceit and betrayal. I can fend for myself!

A few days later I get paid - my first Dubai salary, in cash, as I don't have a bank account yet. At last I can go shopping for all the things I need to make settling in just a little more comfortable. I go to Carrefour in Deira City Centre, get a huge trolley and head straight for the travel magazine rack.

My favourite is the Australian Vogue Entertainment and Travel but they don’t have it here so I reach for the Conde Nast Traveller and look through a couple of other magazines that I haven’t seen before. As I turn to put my choices into the trolley, I notice that it’s gone. My handbag was hooked on it.

“My trolley,” I scream shamelessly, “did someone see my trolley! It has my red handbag on it. Please help me! Someone took my trolley.”

There are a couple of women in abayas next to me. Many have trolleys with them. Their black, veiled robes hide most of the contents. No one looks up.

I call security. I cry. I run around like an angry bull. This would never happen to me in South Africa. There I always clutch my handbag under my arm while still looking over my shoulder too.

Why do I feel so safe in Dubai? The security guards tell me these sort of things happen often and that Dubai is not as safe as it seems. However, there are security cameras everywhere and they captured a “black lady” stealing my wallet. 'She' took the trolley, lifted the wallet and left the bag, which security returns to me.

In South Africa it would be racist to say that a “black lady” stole my wallet. Here it simply means someone completely veiled from head to toe in a black abaya. It is the perfect disguise for a criminal, as the cameras cannot get a face ID, the robes leave plenty of hiding space for stolen goods and there are so many veiled women in a shopping centre at any given time that it is near impossible to find a suspect.

My hysteria turns to fear. I am in a foreign country without any money. My South African bank card was in my wallet too so I cannot even access my money back home.

I also don’t have any friends here in Dubai yet. Only acquaintances. Some may be devils, Martin suggested. In a crisis situation these identities are usually revealed.

This is what happens:

Out of all the many people I have met, two offer to help me out with money. One says I don’t have to give it back. Dubai has angels too.

The people that I thought were becoming my friends start avoiding me because I cannot afford to go out dancing, drinking or shopping. Better now, rather than later, before I get too emotionally involved. Martin was right. The nicest people can turn out to be the ones who hurt you in the end.

On my birthday these girls don’t phone me. When I phone them to find out what time we are meeting for dinner, I find out that they had made other plans. I realize just how far away I am from all the people who love me.

An unassuming colleague phones out of the blue to invite me for dinner. I arrive to a whole group of her friends singing ‘happy birthday’ to me. I blow out the candles on a cake with my name on it. And I sit down to enjoy an elaborate homemade Indian meal. I would have to say, given the circumstances, that this is the nicest thing that anyone has ever done for me.

In a city of devils, the angels are ever present. If you ever meet one, don’t do as I did. Heed the warning.

Does Ramadan mean crazy?

“Are you Ramadash?” asks the taxi driver. He says ‘Ramadash’ as though it’s a swear word, pronouncing it really fast, with a mad look in his eye, as he jerks his head in a pseudo epileptic motion.

By this time I am really scared. It took about 20 minutes for the driver to understand where it is that I want him to take me. All this time he has been driving aimlessly around Dubai while clocking up the metre and phoning his friends to translate what I say. I have no idea where I am going to end up and consider jumping out of the car in a Hollywood stunt kind of way.

I feel frazzled and skittish: “Yes I am Ramadash,” I say without thinking, assuming that ‘Ramadash’ means ‘crazy’ and using my index finger to draw two small air circles around my ear.

“Really? You are Muslim? Ramadan?” he says, suddenly able to speak and understand English fully. His eyes light up. Oh dear, what am doing? I’d better set this straight before I end up in his harem.

“No I am not Muslim,” I say and promptly pretend to phone someone on my cell, just to end this conversation. I have been warned about talking to taxi drivers before. Too much conversation can easily be interpreted as showing some kind of personal interest.

So what he really meant to do was find out if I am participating in Ramadan; if I am fasting, i.e. Muslim - and available. Ramadan is the Holy Month of fasting for Muslims. It started about a week ago. Judging by the taxi drivers, not eating or drinking anything in this heat can make one utterly loony and reckless.

As though my long and frightening journey from Al Qusais to Shekh Zayed Road was not enough, the journey back almost got me killed. I met up with a friend from my apartment block in Sheikh Zayed Road and thought having some company in the taxi back would make it better. But no. We ended up holding our necks tightly so that they don’t break during the driver’s speeding and breaking routine.

It was almost sunset and time for the Muslims to break their fast. So he was keen to get this last job over and done with so that he can go home and get something to eat, but mostly, I think, to drink. The temperature here can vary from between 40 and 50 degrees at the moment. With humidity. With the kind of dehydration you can expect under these circumstances, it’s no wonder these drivers are not really coping.

Perhaps I was not too far off then in misunderstanding the first taxi driver’s question this morning. ‘Ramadan’ can indeed mean ‘crazy’.