The Monkeys' Piss Pot

I got lost on my way to Glasgow Airport Parking, again. It’s tough getting old. Eventually I made it through passport / security. I’m always reminded, on these occasions, of Wilfred Owen – Anthem for Doomed Youth – “What passing bells for those that die as cattle?” Herded through to the departure “Lounge” I was able to grab 10 complimentary copies of the Daily Mail and deposit them directly into the recycling bin – lovely! I would have gone back for more but unfortunately my flight was called. I recommend this as a way of relieving stress, as good as yoga or Pilates. It works equally well with the Sun or the Daily Express – try it.

As I sat in the departure lounge, I learned Ensign Bone-Spur Trump has decided to ban the sale of Irn Bru in his Scottish Golf heavens. Nuclear Armageddon is one thing but banning our national drink is quite another. I immediately imposed trade sanctions against the USA. I narrowly avoided buying a cup of coffee in Starbucks, a lucky escape. Irritatingly, I realized that I hadn’t had a Coke for forty years. I once had a Big Mac but that was purely for research purposes. The idea of the appropriately named Mum’s Midweek Bucket from Kentucky Fried Chicken, is, frankly, anathema! I felt a little bit guilty giving up Californian pistachios, but hey, we must all make some sacrifices.

Horror! I was constrained to fly on a “Boeing” aircraft. American - multinational / US naked capitalism. I would have gone back but they’d already loaded my luggage. I’d been allocated a seat in the middle between two other “stoutish” commuters. Enough! I played the “Prostate” card. I indicated quietly to Ryan – a very nice flight attendant from Australia – Gold Coast – that, not only did I have claustrophobia, but I also suffer from a complaint, common amongst men of my age, which requires regular comfort breaks particularly after consuming 7 or 8 of those little bottles of Sauvignon Blanc. Success! I was escorted to perhaps the best seat in “Economy” loads of legroom and no irritating screens. Girls don’t try this one – it just won’t wash, however the cabin crew might be persuaded by the “Cystitis” Ploy – let me know how you get on.

My appreciation, via headphones, of Bach’s Easter Oratorio, was rudely interrupted by a Captain’s announcement. Apparently, there was a passenger on board whose gluten intolerance was so severe that the mere whiff of the pastry surrounding a sausage roll or the crunchy bit of a Chocolate Hob Nob might prove fatal. All dining plans were placed on hold while the cabin crew calculated which, if any, of the flights’ original menu could be delivered. Obviously, as a committed pie person, I was distraught. Fortunately, I’d brought along my emotional support animal, smuggled through Customs in an empty Petit Filous pot, for compassion in these trying situations. Horst - my friend and companion – is a Scottish slug. It is a little known, although intensely interesting, fact that slugs south of a line between the Mersey and the Wash are heterosexual, while slugs above this are essentially hermaphrodite. I’m very proud of Horst’s LGBT credentials – I’m honoured to be Scottish. Our in-flight meal arrived – a Thai Green curry – I, rather inadvisedly, as it turned out, ingested the chilli garnish, it’s a man thing. My misery was complete, my mouth aflame.

I arrived at Mauritius far from refreshed, indeed wasted. First through customs, I waited by the baggage carousel, for 25 minutes, as usual.  My frustration rose to fever pitch. Eventually this rather nice French person pointed out that I was waiting at Paris CDG arrivals. My luggage had been whirling around aimlessly on a now empty carousel for half an hour. Horst was, of course, apprehended and, I’m assuming, but I’m anthropomorphising here, humanely, disposed of. I hope and sincerely believe that Horst loved salt.

Horst, my dear friend and colleague, RIP.

Taxi transfer to the Hilton Resort and Spa - informative driver – tap-water drinkable and good – I was met with unaccustomed luxury. I was, of course, the only single male guest at the hotel, sandwiched between starry eyed honeymoon couples and the aged, idle, rich. These latter, desperately seeking some deeper meaning to their lives, meaning they will never find in a multinational, opulent beach resort hotel on a tropical island. Why do we never look behind the luxury of our experience, at the individuals and poverty that support it? I went down to dinner – a buffet – only to be told I needed to wear long trousers. Why? I trekked back to my room jet-lagged and despondent. They wouldn’t serve me a glass of tap water. After dinner, for lack of any other appropriate entertainment I devised a rather ingenious game. This consisted of calculating how much would be added to the bill of a couple enjoying a ten-day, all-inclusive break, who drank two of those little plastic bottles of water each per day. The answer is quite surprising - ￡160 extra! The empties are then sent to South Africa for recycling. Are Hilton selling holidays or water?

In contrast to the hotel, my visits to the conservation sites around the island were unforgettable. Interesting people, real lives, culture, nature, environmental challenges and successes. I learned holistically from each new encounter. I met a pink pigeon, one of only 500 remaining in the world, if you were on the sinking Titanic with her, you one of 8 billion human beings, who would get the lifeboat? Next, I encountered a pair of giant tortoises and their 30 youngsters. I was licked and cuddled by a Mauritian fruit bat perhaps for the one and only time in my life. In the Ebony Forest Reserve – a world class centre for the re-establishment of endemic flora and fauna – I saw the last remnants of the native ebony species being re-planted. I’m never very good at remembering information after a single hearing – I immediately forget the names of people I am introduced to – this is also true of plants and animals. We came across an extraordinary tree – the flowers and fruits were shaped like big fleshy bowls. The Creole people have a name for it, “the Monkey’s Piss-pot”, I’ll never forget this. Perhaps a name must have a story associated with it in order to be memorable. These experiences are what I would have chosen to do supposing I’d been on holiday, not lounging on a sun-soaked beach. I spent my final half day swimming with the fishes of the reef – they seemed curious about this alien bloated pink invader, despite being visited by humans every day. I had one for lunch – Ruby Snapper – prettier on the reef than on my plate. Four days can seem like half a lifetime. Mauritius is truly a Rainbow Nation, but, increasingly, a rich man’s playground.

Now back in Scotland – my bonsais have been pining for me. I write my report – I find this one of the most pleasurable aspects of the job. Back in the real world, I have visits to Coatbridge, Langside, Motherwell, strange sounding places with faraway names, all part of life’s rich pageant. Yes, far too many clichés!

Jock Salter                                         22/05/2018