SEYCHELLES - MAHE
Seychelles was the sun city, the ultimate destination where beauty queens went to sport bikinis and flaunt their booty while ostensibly soaking in the sun. That was my adolescent acquaintance of this place. Later, in Kenya, Seychelles beckoned through the pages of flight magazines and through local Seychelles magazines (with excellent production value, I must say) which my better half brought back when he first went on work there. What caught my eye in these magazines, apart from the beauty of the land, was an advertisement announcing the sale of - hold your breath - an island! After these two disparate introductions through television and print media, here I was now, heading to Seychelles - an archipelago of nearly 120 islands - to see it through my own eyes and the eyes of its people.
Even before I reach Seychelles, I can feel the adrenalin rush, as I see little emerald islets floating in sparkling turquoise waters flecked by simmering sailboats, from my airplane. As we drop height, I see villas nestled in hills amidst lush greenery, a montage of über luxury. This is my first view of the Elysium. As the aircraft descends further to land, euphoria turns to consternation as there is only the inviting ocean below. The wheels touch down on
unyielding ground on an airstrip that is a thin lace bordering the ocean’s edge. The weather is balmy, especially after
Nairobi’s cool mornings that we left behind just few hours back. A large granite wall, its crannies fertile enough to sustain vegetation, looms behind the airport. We have arrived at
Victoria airport, capital of Mahe, the ‘capital’
island of Seychelles, which is a granite island as the wall testifies. A word about granite islands: these are isles whose topography is shaped by granite rocks, hence you see fair bit of granite boulders on beaches, in water, as escarpment and as hills. As against these, other remote islands of
Seychelles are coral islands.
Whenever I go to a new place, I look for roadside flora and fauna for clues or signs of distinctive ecology. The route to the hotel is lined by coconut and almond trees that one may find in any coastal town, whether in
India or
Zanzibar, leaving me trifle disoriented. I am pleasantly surprised, though, to see a scarlet weaver-like bird perched on the verandah of the hotel room. The
Madagascar fody, much to my surprise, is not an indigenous species. This bird endemic to
Madagascar (of course) was introduced to
Seychelles islands and got naturalized over the years. Another novelty, the barred ground dove, was bold enough to come right up to the table to eat biscuit crumbs out of my hands. But this species also happened to be alien. And then, there was the Indian mynah, which I so missed in
Kenya!
Our hotel was on Beau Vallon beach, one of the most spectacular beaches in Mahe, I am told. An afternoon stroll on the beach revealed its colourful character. City-line fronted its flanks and the beach, itself, was buzzing with activity. I saw a man sculpting sand oblivious to beach bummers, and the latter, likewise, oblivious to him, lost as they were in their swimming, snoozing or sunbathing. I found the beach artist with his dreadlocks, shell ear-plug and arm-band, exotic, and I stood transfixed watching him work.
We had hired a taxi to go around Victoria town. At 10 in the morning, a young, strapping, dark, goggled and pony-tailed entity, the first of the local people I was to meet, presented himself. Steve’s opening line was: “Twelve o’ clock is my lunch time”! Before I could gather my wits, I had gathered that Steve was not very voluble, nor eager. All I learnt from him was that he called it a day at four as he needed to rest after a “hard day’s work of driving round the city”. The city of Victoria can be done on foot, if you please. And the drive out of town to other beaches or places of interest in Mahe entails spectacular, deserted roads. I soon realized he meant no offence or disrespect; he simply represented the laid-back, languid nature of the place and its people. Seychelles is the land of R&R. Here, weekends start, not on Friday evenings, but on Wednesday when the “Happy Hour” sets the pace and lingers on as hangover over the next few days.
This is a nation where the Government provides the not-so-well-heeled low-cost housing with priceless view by the ocean. In a matriarchal society, where marriage is dispensable, or at best a mere formality and children are mother’s responsibility, the Government provides women with social security even as the men swoon over their (lager) Seybrew.
While Seychelles is surely about sun and sands, it is predominantly about Seychellois (pronounced Seselwa) – the people, and their Creole culture. Local people, like Steve - their features - defy racial profiling. The generations-moulded putty they are made from may have traces of African (freed slaves were brought here by the British on abolition of slavery), Asian – Indian and Chinese (who migrated here), and even, European (French and British colonists) blood. This makes them truly international or global citizens and the only identity that binds them together is their geographical boundary and the bounty within that they mutually share.
The Seychelles Government, again to its credit, has long recognized the USP of its land, both as tourism potential and as a showcase, to the world, of living natural history, and put nearly half of it under special environmental protection. It is one of the rare nations that have tried to balance high-end tourism with eco-preservation and sustainable development. And that culture is innate in every Seychellois who cherishes the natural wealth and co-exists with fellow Seychellois, irrespective of his or her religion or appearance.
After the customary tour of the botanical garden, of acquainting myself with the endemic palms and lilies, I let Steve go for his lunch while I decide to take a walk in the heart of the town. The roads, shops and buildings seem scaled down as in a film studio township. In testimony to the British dominance, a small clock-tower, replica of
London’s Big Ben, stands at the crossroads. I nearly mistake the Supreme Court building for a large colonial bungalow, but for the signage. Within driving distance of the city centre lies the mountainous forest of Morne Seychellois National Park and it is here that I see my first indigenous bird, the
Seychelles bulbul. From the top, the view of misty hills yonder is simply astounding. From the hilly roads, the view of the township by the harbour, with corrugated iron, red-roofed houses akin to Mangalorean abodes poses an endearing contrast. It was on my trip to the town that I finally saw a truly native tree, the bread fruit tree. This tree bears fruit that attracts fruit bats, both of which are consumed as great delicacy by the locals!
After Beau Vallon, we went to
Takamaka Bay. Aren’t all beaches the same, why another one? Beaches have their individual personalities and functions. Beau Vallon may be great for sunset viewing, but some, like Takamaka are particularly safe for swimming, a family beach; some are good for snorkeling or surfing; and yet others are too dangerous for any activity.
Takamaka Bay, named after the laurel tree, turned out to be truly a tranquil piece of ocean, welcome and inviting, and largely, private. Takamaka neighbourhood held another tourist attraction in the form of Seychellois artist of international repute, Michael Adams. Like our own Mario Miranda, his renditions of oceans, houses, vegetation, flora and fauna, are an artistic documentation of life in
Seychelles and are much sought after. The vibrant blues (any surprises here?) and greens he dispatches to his drawings brought to mind another tropical island painter, Senaka Senanayake from
Sri Lanka. Here was yet another slice of
Seychelles, this time from the brush of Seychellois of British descendancy.
My diplomat husband had mentioned to a Minister about my interest in birds and being a nature-worshipping nation, the minister requested his friend, Lindsay Chong Seng, a naturalist, to oblige “our guest”. Thus, I found, ‘the’ Lindsay Chong Seng, a third generation Chinese-Seychellois, founder of Seychelles Islands Foundation, at my doorstep. In the next two hours of monologue, he held forth on his pet theme of nature conservation, his work in Aldabra – a
UNESCO World Heritage Site – island, of the eponymous giant tortoise fame, and on the archipelago’s birdlife. From him, I learnt that the
Madagascar fody was alien and also how introduction of rats, cats and dogs on the islands from the dhows and ships had played havoc with endemic birds such as the Seychelles Magpie robin. He held me in thrall with information on fairy terns, white-tailed tropic birds and frigate birds that fled Mahe ages ago, to be found only on remote islands, now. As we parted ways, he extended an invitation to visit Aldabra, his work-station!
A travel experience is incomplete until one has tasted local food. Instead of eating out at a restaurant, we went to the weekly Street Festival by Beau Vallon to feast on local music, local brew and Creole cuisine. And this is the fare I tasted: Red snapper, the local favourite, marinated in spices and grilled over charcoal; boiled cassava for carbohydrates; breadfruit crisps; boiled breadfruit cubes sautéed in butter and drizzled with herbs; raw mango salad garnished with chilies and sugar; and sweet potato cake flavoured with coconut milk. At the end of it all I was Seychelles-satiated, indeed. And no, I did not taste the Millionaire's Salad!
As we headed to the beach away from the artificiality of the jetty, we hit upon deserted roads, the La Digue I was eager to see. I was intrigued by the sight of a bikini-clad young mother on a rickety scooter zipping by with her daughter as a pillion. Their appearance defied racial profiling - not African, nor Asian, nor European, perhaps an amalgamation of the three! I, subsequently, learnt that the early settlers on this virgin island were French - political rebels from Réunion - and today’s population is their direct descendants. Just as I could not put my finger on their ethnicity, I was also unable to slot them in any socio-economic class, an exercise we so idly indulge in everywhere but which seemed so futile here. Are they “rich” or do they belong to the “middle-class”? Do they live in a big mansion with a swimming pool like the filthy rich Europeans settled in 
