I guess I like it a tad greasy

So, what was I have I been doing on this tiny island in the middle of nowhere for the past year?  I’ve been working at a local consulting firm trying to do what I did back in the States.  When I first arrived here I was terrified that I would not find a job.  I don’t speak Creole nor do I speak French with any level of fluency that could be used to navigate the cubicle rows in an office.   My skills in the world of ERP systems, one Cadillac-baby in particular, were rather good (toot-toot my tiny horn) and in demand back in the Motherland; but was anyone on the island even using such a system? 

Answer:  no.  Or I should say, only one company at this point in time and they are only using a small portion of said system which was set up many, many cyclone seasons ago.  But, it turns out that if you have serious skills in serious matters, they want to speak to you and yes, maybe even hire you.  I think it’s simply because work skills like the ones I had gathered over the  many years back in the States are of great interest here.  But, I don’t know if it’s the actual techie skills or the soft skills that businesses here are more interested in tapping into.

‘The American way’ of doing business was something that I had heard plenty of times while I lived in the States, but never really paid too much attention to and  I must admit many times it usually brought about visions of an evil, corporate America dressed in a suit and a tie, destroying the lives of poets, priests and babies simply because it existed and had one goal:  to obtain piles of money at any cost.  With the recent financial crises, I guess, the ‘at any cost’ part did eventually have to be paid up and settled.  But, after living and working in Mauritius, I must say, there is something to the well-oiled machine, isn’t there?

I have had many conversations here with co-workers about how ‘the American way’ was a good way, but it wasn’t THE way.  This, I too, believe to be true.  But now, in my very personal experiences here, it does seem as if developed countries business models are good models.  And after working in some of the manufacturing plants here in Mauritius, I also now realize that many of the organizations that were created years ago to protect consumers and workers like the FDA or OSHA are really necessary and relevant. 

These organizations may not be perfect, but I’d rather have a system in place that has a set of rules and regulators than no system without rules or maybe, possibly, potentially under-the-table rules.  The kind of unspoken rules that no one ever sees at first glance, but after walking in the hallways and drinking tea in the break rooms day after day, begin to appear in a fuzzy, soft haze.  And then one day it becomes painfully apparent that you really are the stupid stranger sitting at a desk in your office trying to schedule a meeting using Outlook when no one uses Outlook to schedule meetings. You realize that you haven’t a clue about how it all goes down.

Giving recognition to and commenting on an observation that certain ways to do business were good models that should be followed vs. actually applying the rules to run a business in this way and on a consistent basis are two very different things.  What I found here in my day-to-day office comings and goings, was a kind of a slicked over use of words and methodologies which never really became a full, breathing body that could stand on its own two feet and get quickly moving down the road.  There were lots of negotiations and re-negotiations and just plain discussions of all sorts.  Many times there were discussions about having a discussion. 

We would spend many hours in a room simply asking questions, but providing no certain answers.  How should things be done?  What was the correct format?  Should we meet to discuss when we should schedule a meeting to discuss?  I guess progress does walk at all paces and time lines were meant to be extended, but after attending so many meetings which seemed to be repeats of meetings I had attended before, I grew weary and eventually would just sit there and listen as the giant circle of talk would completely envelop everyone and keep us all firmly at square one.

It was partially this sense of what I perceived to be as absolute non-motion that ultimately forced me to take the decision to stop working for the consulting firm.  The helpless, sinking, frustrating feeling of wanting to have progress made and thinking many times that advances towards the goal were happening, but then realizing that no matter how many Outlook meeting notices were sent, no one was going to click on accept nor pay them any mind.

The Italian Wife

This week there has been one item in the world news that I find too interesting to ignore.  Pulling up my daily news sites and scanning quickly through the international section, I skim the posts about war and politics until I come to what has now become a daily treat of ‘he said, she said’.

The failure of a marriage gone wrong is indeed a sad occurrence, but when the people involved are wealthy, powerful and just happen to be a Prime Minster and his glamorous wife – well – that’s just good, dirty stories writing themselves.  Veronica and Silvio Berlusconi’s opinions of each other and their marital dramas have been well documented over the course of the years, but it’s what being said recently that’s brought a bit of the fire back into the daily news reading.

The most fascinating thing for me is that it just keeps coming out.  I’m certain that there are people within the Italian public that find what the two of them say about the other as shocking and consider it to be insensitive to the image of the nation.  There are also those that probably could give two nuts.  But if this kind of stuff were to go down in good ol’ Minnesota or in any good ol’ state it would be THE topic du jour, non-stop water-cooler, ‘can you believe that guy?!’ dinner conversation.

The Public Relation staffs’ roles and responsibilities of the Italian Prime Minister and the Frist Lady must be very different than those of the U.S. President.  I can’t even begin to ponder what kind of back-lash, crack-out would happen if any U.S. First Lady publicly stated what Ms. Veronica recently penned to the public.

The latest is that Mr. Husband attended the 18th birthday party of a business friend’s very lovely daughter.  He also reportedly presented the girl, who may or may not refer to him as ‘daddy’, with a diamond and gold necklace as a gift.  Ms. Wife unleashed a furious statement to the press, “That’s enough, I cannot remain with a man who resorts with minors.”

She then added that his attendance at the party surprised her, “because he never attended the 18th birthday parties of his children, even if he was invited.”  Now, she wants a divorce.

There has also been recent comments about Mr. Husband’s selection process for  members of his office and other political bodies.  Apparently, he has an eye for beauty and likes to surround himself with it.  Ms. Wife doesn’t think that being physically attractive necessiarly qualifies one to be in the business of politics.

She said she finds the candidate-selection process to be ”shameless rubbish” and that it is put on ”for the entertainment of the emperor.”   I tend to believe that she should know since she’s quite the looker herself and if she weren’t so glamorous and certain, she never would have landed the man she landed. 

Yes, I’ve said it.   I think she’s far to into the know about what goes down in her man’s head.  Her 20-years older than her husband did, after all, dump his first wife to be with her after seeing her perform on the stage in Milan.  Wasn’t she once one of the gorgeous young things that turn men’s heads?

Mr. Husband’s response to her recent comments was that she was being influenced and manipulated by the left-wing press.  He has now also publicly demanded that she issue him an apology much like the one he made to her back in 2007 when his eye for beauty apparently caught sight of a passing showgirl.  He later made this  showgirl the Equal Opportunities Minister.

The Italian Bishops have done their duty as members appointed to the moral police and have issued a public statement critizing the back-and-forth parade made visible to the public.  But, is it really so shocking?  Is Mr. Husband simply not playing out who he is and who Ms. Wife knows him to be? 

In her biography, Ms. Wife stated that she is “the perfect kind of wife for the kind of man Silvio is.”   If she’s had her fill, then by all means, she should leave him.  If she and he want to duke it out in the Press, that’s fine, too.  Heck, it’s creepily enjoyable. 

He’s the powerful man.  She was the adoring wife until she became the woman scorned.  She positions herself as an adoring mother and wife whose husband has made her life unbearable because of his adoration for the much younger woman.  He’s the creepy old guy that can’t keep it in his pants.  Nothing new here.

There have been mentions in the Italian media that the Italian public really doesn’t give a hoot about it.  The editor of Il Foglio stated that Mr. Husband’s love and promotion of beautiful women ”is a huge part of Italian society.”  There’s even been the suggestion that Italians like this bit of spice to shake  up the day-to-day grind.

Maybe I’ve been hanging out with the Europeans for too long, but I am not too distracted nor upset with a man’s love for beautiful women.  It has always been and will always be.  It’s been the catalyst for great works of art, music and literature.  In the same way the unraveling of moral decisions, the crumbling of dreams and the distruction of the family unit has also contributed to the darker side of beauty.

Beauty is probably the last thing Mr. Husband and Ms. Wife think about these days, but amongst all the drama (which is just too deliciously nasty to ignore – dang!  that human side of me that loves dirt) maybe they could find some peace in the fact that what they are so publicly displaying is nothing really new.  It’s been there all along.

Epidermis To-tal-lis

The battle was lost, but is the war over?  And alas, promises can be so hard to keep somtimes!

Some people are fortunate enough to pop out of the womb with a thick skin.  I was not one of those fortunate souls.  I had to earn any extra layers of epidermis by venturing out into new and scary situations.  If you head into  enough “oh my god – there is no way I can possibly do this’ moments and come out the other side still breathing, you realize that your ancient layers  of extra skin were just waiting to be pulled  out and over your sweaty pits and other body bits.

The day that I started working full-time in Mauritius was a day that I started an exciting and frustrating journey towards thicker skin.  But after many months and many new layers, I made a decision.  Unfortunately, I just couldn’t keep the good energy going to continue my day-to-day work routine in a way that wasn’t damaging to my self-worth and happiness.  A few weeks ago I gave my notice indicating that I would be leaving the firm at month’s end. 

It wasn’t a quick and short-fused decision, but rather one that had been building up slowly over time.  Cultures are different.  Work environments are different and when at work, I was the neon, floppy fish out of water.  I don’t think it could have been more possible to call more attention to myself and my every wrong move.

Every instinct that I had and that I had learned while working for so many years in America was not working here.  And I could not put it all together to figure it out.  In the end, I couldn’t just be still and go along with a flow that seemed just not right to me especially since I was leading  a group of employees where I felt like I had to display leadership in an ethical and progressive sense.

How many people have come before me and found themselves in the exact same place?  In Mauritius there are not many Americans living and working here.  I have been told that the number of Americans residing here is somewhere between 200-400 people.  And in the many months that I have been working in downtown Port Louis, I have never once run into one single American working in an office here.  In fact, I don’t even know if the woman that helped me at the Embassy was American.

In my defense, it was difficult to tell since every time I have been to the Embassy all of my conversations have been through a bullet-proof glass window with a small hole cut out in the middle.  It’s interesting to be living in a country that is not your own and going into building space that is technically yours in terms of national identity.  I was so excited to go there the first time to register myself as a foreign national living abroad.

I remember thinking to myself as I was walking  into the building  and riding up the elevator, “Ah, I’m going to see my people!  All of us strangers bonded together because of our nationality.  We are living all the way over here representing our country and trying to give it a go.  Look!  There’s the flag – what a great flag!  And there’s a giant metal detector and x-ray machine and some guards and a red siren light mounted on the ceiling and a small hole cut out in the middle of some bullet-proof glass…is there where I go?”

I guess I was fantastically thinking that some American guy, who would be wearing a cowboy hat and a little flag pin on his lapel, would come bounding out from behind a closed door, ask me to come into his office and drink a Bud, that he had flown in special from the States, while we cracked jokes about Yankees living abroad.  Instead I stood at the glass window on a skid-resistant mat crouching down to speak into the hole while trying  to desperately listen to a woman, who may or may not have been American – again, hard to tell – as she explained how to fill in a form.

I passed my filled in form into the small tray at the bottom of the glass, stood there smiling stupidly and waiting for – oh, I don’t know what – a flag lapel pin with both the American and Mauritian flags intertwined?  But, it was finished and I was told “that’s it”.

Riding down the elevator, I was kind of feeling sad-American, lonely and out of place.  Where were my peeps?!  But, given our small numbers here, maybe it’s normal to have such a closed-off service.  I did, after all, decide to leave the Motherland and venture out into the great wide beyond.  Guess I’d have to make it on my own.  At least someone, somewhere now knows that I am living on this tiny island and I can be accurately counted as one of the statistics to be published. 

A few weeks after my Embassy experience, the Frenchman came home after his visit to register at the French Embassy.  After hearing his tale of a sit down meeting in an actual office in an arm chair across the desk from his assigned representative, I felt even more, ‘hey! wha?!’

“So, you actually sat down in a chair and had a conversational meeting?”,  I asked him.  “Oui”, he replied as if my question was THE stupidest one, yet.  Again, I asked, “Did they offer you coffee of anything to drink?”  “Non, but they would have if I had asked, I’m sure.  But, they did give me this expat package with useful bits of information and this little registration card,” he said showing me his card with his photo.

I left the room and went outside to sit on the veranda.  Huh.  I got a full body scan and a potential statistical marking.  He got a place to sit, face-to-face talk time and a laminated card.  Wonderment.

A Tiny Hop

And a jump for joy.  Two Fridays ago I had to give my teams their performance appraisals and guess what?  Progress is being made! Or at least it felt like a moment of progress – a step forward in the right direction, at any rate. 

After I completed each employee’s review, I asked them to give me some feedback, as well.  One young woman actually said that she felt like there was a big difference between the way the women on the team were treated vs. the way the men were treated.  And she told me that she was happy I was there.  I almost started chanting for joy because up until now it has felt like they could take me or leave me. 

She continued to tell me that she thought that I was acting as the voice for the women on the team and that if I wouldn’t have been assigned on the project, things would have been much more difficult for the gals on the team.  I’ll be gosh darned.

So, my merry band of bandeetas, I shall continue to tell the lads to shut it and to wait a second when we are in the middle of a conversation and they barge in without noticing that – yes, you are, in fact, speaking to me.  I will continue to have them sit and work with you to accomplish tasks in true partnership and I will keep my evil, laser eye stare in their direction when they say things that are a tad off-color.  

Promise me that you’ll continue to find your own voice and I promise never to shut mine. 

I can happily say that I’ve left a small, smudge print on a glass.  Now, let’s see how dirty we can get it.

Cyclone, cyclone. Here comes the cyclone.

We just finished the first cyclone of the season. It was named ‘Gael’ and was a class 2 here in Mauritius. I had no clue that it was coming or when it ended, for that matter. Everything about it was kind of ‘ack! ack! ohm….’

The day it was going to hit, a colleague from our ’sister’ company here on the island sent out an email from the giant corporate communications group back in mainland Europe. The email indicated that, yes, a cyclone was approaching and reminded us of the appropriate actions to take for the different classes of cyclone.

• Class 1 – Still go to work
• Class 2 – Schools will be closed, but still go to work.
• Class 3 – Work closed. Everyone at home on lock-down.
• Class 4 and above – Serious prayers and chanting should begin.

During the day, the project work room was a mission control center with everyone becoming a card-carrying meterologist. And big wishes were being secretly and not so secretly communicated – please, let it be class 3 so we don’t have to come to work.

I was not hoping for a class 3. The thought that everything would be shut down and there wouldn’t be electricity or water for days and days, just did not sound like something I would need to actually experience in order to make the call about it being not fun. But, the gang at work was really looking forward to this thing turning into a class 3. They told me about how they would have to go home immediately and not come out until after it was over. While at home with their families, they would sit with lit candles on one side and the battery powered radio on the other and wait for it to pass.

I enjoy lit candles, but I have no battery powered radio. I called the Frenchman and we made plans to hit the local market after work to stock up on provisions just in case. Later in the day, the class 2 bulletin was issued and the office emptied faster than I thought possible. This made me panic just a tad and looking at the satellite images of the massive, circular cloud structure which completely dwarfed our tiny island, didn’t help bring about any internal peace.

Driving home it didn’t seem like a big deal. There were lots of clouds in the sky and it was breezy with patches of heavy rain, but nothing to indicate ‘watch out!’. At the market the Frenchman asked a few times if we had lots of rice. I understood where he was coming from, but it was also a bit funny to me because yes, we had rice at home; but just because the power goes out and you can’t go outside doesn’t mean that you must eat only rice, right? How about getting a little wild and crazy and stocking up on some crackers and canned goods. Then, we could really have a trapped in the house party.

At home, we pulled all the veranda furniture close to the house and closed all the windows. That night, the big gusts and giant dumps of rain hit and the frequency of the bulletin updates increased. At the last update for the evening at 10 p.m., it was still a class 2. Morning came. Class 2 held steady. People scrambled to figure out what to do with their kids. The day went by and more bulletins were issued. Things remained the same into the night.

And then it was over. A few days of wind and rain and it was gone. But then, it started to head South and the days of clouds, rain and wind continued for a bit longer. Today, is the first day we have had blue skies and sun. It’s been seven days since the first bulletin. All of the billboards by the sides of the roads, which were removed so quickly when the class 1 was moving into class 2, still have not been put back up.  I wonder when they will be?

Hey! I live on a tropical island!

And I work on one, as well.   It’s this working bit that is proving to be, by far, the most interesting and challenging experience here.  Since I arrived on this island in the Indian Ocean, I’ve acquired a great tan; but I fear that I may have also picked up the ‘I haven’t a clue’ attitude about work. 

It’s not that the job I am doing here is different than what I was doing back in the States.  Granted, there are some very key differences, but these only add to the intrique of living and working here.  It’s just that I have learned over time that I am, quite simply, unable to function in the same ways that I did back in the States while at work.  This has become my reality and every so often I feel a knee-jerk, kick-up about the whole, gosh darn thing.

I used to think,  ’Ahh.  Tropical island.  Beach breezes.  Fruity drinks.  Easy living.’  Now, I blurt out loud to whomever will listen, ‘Why?  Seriously?!  Why?!’  It was while ranting before the Christmas holidays that I was forced to make a decision.  The Frenchman, who I was forcing to keep up with my break-neck, rapid English, informed me during an after work blab-fest that, “Your job is sort of  wrecking your life here.”  And the cold water hit me in the face.

I could either let the stress of not fitting in here while continuing to try to find success at work keep me in a tizzy or I could adapt and let go of whatever ideas I had about trying to change the world one project team at a time.  It seems silly, now, when I look back at my ‘yes I can’ attitude.   No disrespect to the new man-in-charge, but I think sometimes there needs to be a sequence of  steps leading into the full ‘can-can’ dance.  Have I become world weary or world wise?  And how am I to know the difference?

I was full of such hopeful energy when I first arrived and started working.  Yessir!  I had my project methodologies and my tips and tricks for writing meaningful business emails (draft in such a way as to read across the horizontal, don’t you know) and my project plans and plans for plans and org structures and other such items of structure and documentation that I, and countless others over the years, have used to achieve rocket-level moments of success. 

But, after the first few months of the project starting here, it became painfully evident that I could have had a stick of dynamite strapped to the top of my head with a box of matches at the ready, and it still wouldn’t have been enough to render a slight glance – not even sideways.  And so, now, the goals that I am declaring ‘yes WE can!’ to my teams are as follows:

• Try to attend meetings no more than 15 minutes late.
• Try to take at least one page of notes per meeting.
• If you don’t know, do not make something up as an answer. 
• Asking questions is a plus.
• Your team mates are not your enemies.

There’s that bit about Rome and that other thing about running following a good long walk.   And that Bill Murray movie about a guy named Bob. 

I’m going to turn the volume down for a bit and sip on a fruity drink.

2 outta 3 ain’t bad

First, there was the idea of Casual Day Fridays.  The office implemented this idea a few months ago and it was met with excitement and deemed a great success or so I thought.

Second, there was a re-work to the cherished and globally loved ‘Women on the Move’.  Men are also now shown to be ‘On the Move’.  It’s good to be moving together or so I thought.

Third, there was an email addressed to the women in the office from the [officially recognized group that handles such matters].  The email was as follows:

Survey about wearing of uniforms at [office]

[The officially recognized group that handles such matters] is making a survey about how many female employees are interested to wear uniforms.

Please reply with a yes or no.”

I initially typed something along the lines of , ”Are you f***ing serious?!  Can you please tell me why I would or should want to wear a uniform…a uniform?!…in my professional place of work?!  What’s the purpose of having all the women wear a uniform in the office?  To group us all together into some mindless, uniform-wearing gang?  While you’re asking such fascinating survey questions, why not bring back smoking at our desks, lunchtime Tupperware parties in the break room (gals only!) and Lee Press-On-Nails!?  Why aren’t you asking the men if they would be interested in wearing a uniform?  I’d love to know what their responses would be.  Sincerely, the chick from America”

 

I then deleted everything and simply responded back with a ‘no’.

I’m back from outerspace or am I still in it?

A brief pause was needed while I took a break and screamed. 

Since my last post, I have been busily working away at my new job.  As is the case with many new jobs, the first days, I find, are the peaceful ones.  I would arrive at the office each day fresh and sprinkled with ‘newness’ dew.  I knew no one and no one knew me.  The veil of ‘who’s the new person?’ protected and isolated me.  I was filled with the energy and the confidence to do anything.  There were tea breaks.

Now, there is no break for tea because there simply is no time.  I am lost about how I need to behave in my new role for my position.  Everything I used to do in my job and every instinct I have developed over the past many years is not applicable here.  It’s a whole new Monday to Friday daily grind, and it’s more difficult than I thought it would be. 

Because this is the first time that I have ever worked outside of America, I really didn’t know how the day-to-day would unfold.  I knew things were going to be different, but little did I know what my work experiences would be like.  I work in an African country with very heavy Asian and Indian influences.  Minnesota it is not.

In the beginning, I went into my new job filled with a sense of obligation and opportunistic hope.  My little freedom flag was flapping in the wind of change.  I used to think, “I’m an American and I have worked in ‘Corporate America’ - a money making model for the world, a machine of precision, a place for endless opportunity, inspiration and guidance!”  Here I come!  Watch my trail of smoke as I burn through my daily responsibilities with ease and efficiency.

I am an American and I am really stupid. 

The current economic crisis has turned all that I say and do in the office into a complete test of confidence which usually ends in some heated debate.  My co-workers wonder aloud, “Should we really do it that way?  Look what’s just happened to your country?!  We don’t want to make the same mistakes.”  ‘Corporate America’ – the thank you card is in the mail.

I have come to realize that visiting a country for holiday making pleasure is one level of experiencing a new culture.  Living in a new country adds yet another level, but working in another country and in the same field that you worked back in your home country, really fills the edges up.  Add to the mix that I am working in a developing country as someone holding a power position and sprinkle in the fact that I am a woman…well…now, you’ve got a chocolate cake with sprinkles, baby!

And what to do with the chocolate cake?

I struggle with my gender every day – my gender, my extra ‘x’ vs. the powerful ‘y’.  I find this topic completely boring and unnecessary in my day-to-day living.   There are too many other items that should hold my attention.  And yet, every day I think, “I am a woman.”

My Frenchman is experiencing the challenges of working in a different culture, as well.  But, because he is a man, he experiences it without having to engage in conversations at work like the following:

Sr. Project Manager:  “Hi.  Can I speak to you outside the project room for a minute?”

Me:  “Sure.  What’s up?”

Sr. Project Manager:  “Listen, I wanted to have a serious discussion with you about [the only female member on one of the teams I am managing].”

Me:  “O.K. What’s the issue?”

Sr. Project Manager:  “Do you think [the only female member on one of the teams I am managing] can handle this project?”

Me:  “Yes, it’s challenging; but I think she can handle it.  Why do you ask?”

Sr. Project Manager:  “Well, it’s just that this project has a lot of stress and she’s young and…”

Me:   “Why aren’t you asking about [a male member of one of the teams I am managing]?  They are exactly the same age and have the same work experience?”

Sr. Project Manager:  “No.  But, she’s a girl and there’s lots of stress…”

Me:  “Do you have an issue with working with women?  You do realize that I’m a woman, right?  I’m a bit offended that you pulled me out here to discuss this.  It’s completely inappropriate and irrelevant.”

Sr. Project Manager:  “You misunderstand!  I’m not sexist!  It’s just that…”

Me:  “Whatever you are, you cannot take away my opinion of this situation.  There is not an issue with [only female member of one of the teams I am managing].  You know that and I know that.  I’m going back to work.”

The bad thing is that I actually had this conversation in my professional workplace with the university educated, tie-wearing,  Sr. Project Manager.  The good thing is that ever since this conversation took place, he has been bright as a daffodil on a sunny, Sunday morning with me. 

I have heard that there are only between 200-400 Americans on the island.  I don’t know if there are any other American women working in the same professional field as me.  Most of the French women I meet do not work outside the home.  If they do work outside the home, they work in fields that were once considered traditional for women such as, teaching, or they work in offices where everyone is a French national. 

I’m slowly figuring it out, but I have a long way to go.  I can’t go in with my guns blazing nor can I run to the finish line.  I’m learning where the ‘in-between’ is located.

I scream.  I kick the wall.  I sometimes cry.  I am a woman working in Mauritius.

I have no choice, Monsieur Camus

Having grown up in the Mid-West, I learned to drive on wide, asphalt-covered, grand swaths of road and highway; and because my tiny hometown was also situated in the countryside, there were plenty of gravel roads to whiz down, as well.   I have never (knock, knock, knock) been in a car-related accident and I have always considered myself to be a fairly decent driver.  At least, that’s what I thought until I started driving in Mauritius.

Minnesotans should take extreme pride in their roadways.  The roads in Minnesota, in my opinion, are perfect bliss and I seriously miss driving on them.  The highways there are wide, clean, straight, well-marked, well-lit and lacking serious L.S.D.-sized potholes (Chicago citizens you know to what I refer). 

When I lived in Minnesota, some people I knew would complain that the Department of Transportation received too much of the overall state budget for its operations.  But, I must say that money does indeed buy some glorious asphalt.  And not only asphalt, but stop signs, stop lights and those bright orange cones used during road construction.  In Mauritius, these everyday items of the roadway are premium pieces and there are not too many to be found, not even in the largest city here, Port Louis.

They drive on the left side of the road in Mauritius; therefore, drivers sit on the right-hand side of the car.  Before I started to drive here, I had only driven on the left once when I was traveling in Scotland, but it was many years ago and the skills to drive on the left did not sink in.  Because this is not North America, most cars are manual gear.  I have driven manual gear cars a few times in the past, but again, no ‘kick-in’ skill set has taken root in any part of my brain.  Needless to say, the first time out of the gate I didn’t get very far.

I only went as far as to the end of our tiny lane.   It was then decided that for my sanity and the sanity of my Frenchman, we would seek out an automatic car for me to drive while we lived on the island.  We found one and my driving in Mauritius adventures soon became a daily experience.

My office is located within the center bustle of Port Louis near to the major horse racing track.  In fact, I park my car in the middle of the race track each day.  And each day as I’m walking from my car to the office, I trek through the daily dust and hay of the ashen race track.  Many of the city buses also park here so I try not to have my laptop bag swing too far out into the road while I’m plodding into the office.  I’d be clipped for sure.

When I lived in Chicago, it used to take me thirty to forty minutes to go from my North side apartment into the downtown core.  I used a mix of transportation including the bus, the L-Train and my feet to walk the distance from the nearest stop.   Here in Mauritius it takes me forty five minutes to an hour to make my way into the office via car. 

Chicago is one of the largest cities in the U.S. and there are tons of people that make the morning and evening commute not only from within the city proper, but from the surrounding suburbs, as well.  Yet, there are only 1.5 million people in total living on the entire island and it still takes me longer to get to work.  There are no trains here and the bus system is a tad loose with its schedules.  The majority of people that work in Port Louis commute in via car and because the city developed rather quickly without a strong traffic grid nor any structured pattern to help control traffic flow, the traffic here is somewhat lopsided and a bit chaotic.

To drive from the far North of the island where we live into Port Louis, there is one main highway.  It’s two lanes for the majority of the way and there are no street lights.  Passing slow moving cars can be done at any time and drivers on both sides need to pay attention.  If a car in the opposite lane is passing and is still in your on-coming lane, it is expected that you will slow down your car and move off to the side of the road so that he or she may pass.  There are no traffic lights nor stop lights, but there are a few ‘round-abouts’ which after getting used to, I find, are rather a genius way to control traffic at four-point intersections. 

I also dig driving my car and going 100!  Too bad it’s really only about 62 miles per hour.  Why is the US not metric?  It really is quite baffling and living here makes me wish I would have paid closer attention to that one chapter we covered in the fourth grade.   Live and learn.  Live and learn.

As you get closer to the city, the two lane highway becomes four lane and you start to hit the suburbs of Port Louis.  Sidewalks are not common here and people will cross the highway anywhere and at anytime.  The other night while I was driving home from work, I noticed a group of women in Saris in the median of the highway not too far off from where I was fast approaching and what’s the other thing I see?  They also had two baby strollers. 

They all made a mad dash for it, pushing the babies as they ran.  I said a silent prayer for the group hoping that a colorful sari wouldn’t be pulled under by one of the stroller wheels and hit the brake.  These types of median crossings happen all the time and the crossers can be walkers, scooters or people on bicycles. 

There are lots of scooters and bicycles here and they are old school if not beginning school style.  Driving home in the dark, you really have to watch for the scooters because many of them do not have any lights.  Or if they do, the bulb lets off such a faint flicker that you really can’t see it unless you are almost on top of it. 

And the dogs are there, as well, and none of them are wearing reflective tape or lights of any kind.  They can pop out of a sugar field at any point and just stand and stare in the middle of the highway.  My hand position on the wheel is always 10 and 2 or 9 and 3.  There is no chillin’, one-hand driving going on.  It is serious business with eyes forward, a straight back and thank goodness I had that cup of instant joe before I left the office. 

But, I really get my driving sweats when I hit downtown during rush hour.  Driving from the main highway to my dirt track parking lot is never the same.  Some days there may be a man pushing a cart down the middle of the main road that leads to city hall and taffic will get a bit backed up.  On other days the streets in Chinatown may be overflowing with fresh vegetables because the harvest was especially large over the weekend.  The buses drive directly through it, cars slowly creep around it and the scooters just scoot about everywhere.

There are a handful of traffic lights downtown and many intersections are simply unmarked.  I now know which intersections I need to watch out for and which ones have an unmarked right of privilege.  I have also mastered the Mauritian hand out the window, finger pointing gesture which allows me to make the difficult right-hand turn.

I have driven on sidewalks, had scooters and bicyclists hold onto the back of my car and forced traffic in the opposite lane to stop and wait while I drove around buses, carts and parked cars.  My tires have cabbage in the treads.  Attention!  I am driving in Mauritius.  Think left.  Look right.

Dogs of War

The island has an interesting problem that it is quickly trying to remedy.   There are wild dogs here and they are everywhere.  Apparently, there was a large-scale campaign a few years back to eliminate quite a few of these dogs by means of mass euthanasia and I guess it made quite an impact at the time.  But, from what I experience every day, it’s still an on-going challenge to bring balance to the situation.

Today, there is another campaign underway with advertisements on billboards asking people to sterilize their dogs.  These wild dogs keep coming into existence by people who have dogs as pets.  The pet dog is let outside to roam about, do his or her doggy duty and ends up mixing with the locals on the outside.

Later, when a litter of puppies is born, people are unable to support all of them and release the puppies at the seaside or in the farmlands.  These wild dogs survive on garbage and other tasty morsels that they can easily access in the larger towns and villages.  They then breed with each other which keeps the population growing.

At first, you really don’t notice them or at least I didn’t have any recognition about packs of wild dogs roaming about the island when I first arrived.  It’s not as if it’s commonly advertised in any information about the island, “Hey, come to the beautiful island of Mauritius for your next exotic tropical vacation, but watch out for our wild dogs and be certain to keep your picnic baskets close at hand.” 

Shortly after settling into our house and during the stillness of one night, I was awoken by the howls of dogs.   Off in the distance it sounded as if a sacrificial ceremony was taking place with dogs acting as cruel executioners.  What the heck was going on and who knew that dogs could make such scary sounds?

I don’t know what happened that night, but I am pretty certain that the dogs decided to take down one of their own.   After a few on-and-off nights of this and then hearing the barking and howling occasionally during the day, I began to think that the dogs come together to form local packs.  They elect leaders and become sort of a Lord of the Flies meets Dogs of War, African-island style, gangs.

You see them roaming in packs of usually three to four dogs and one is always clearly leading.  Our neighbors across the street have many dogs as pets and you can always tell when one of the local dogs of war gangs passes by the gate.  There is crazy growling and snarling and the sound of dogs jumping up on the locked gates trying to get in and attack.    

In the beginning and before I knew any better,  I would come home from work and have to get out of my car to unlock the front gate.  I would very cautiously listen for rustling brush or for any type of hoofs on dirt movement.  I would then make a mad dash from the car and quickly open the gate. 

But after living and working here for a few months, I don’t even hear the far-off distance howls any more.  Just like riding the bus, there are simply a few rules that I learned need to be followed.

If you see a dog of war or a pack of them out and about doing whatever it is they will most certainly do, do not make eye contact.  Go about your business.   This seems to work and they will not pay you any attention. 

If you hear the sounds of dogs fighting, whether it be against another dog or human or cat or any other creature, do not approach.  The dogs of war are easily agitated when they’ve got serious business to attend to…don’t disturb the ‘icemen’ when they are working.

Do not feed them.  If you think that feeding wild dogs will result in a marvelously sunny moment of goodwill, you need to re-think your ideals.  And finally, when you are driving your car, you will notice that they will not move out of the road for you.  They are dogs of war, after all, and they have seen scarier things than your little Asian car.  Use your horn and swerve as necessary. 

I have been following these tips for the past few months, and have not been attacked nor have I hit any dogs on the road.  And so, to all the dogs of war out there (because I know some of you have evolved and are most certainly staying hip at the internet café down the road), you respect me and I will respect you.  You can keep the garbage, but stay out of my picnic basket.