It’s now a worldwide tradition, well at least here in Mauritius. Mother’s Day is celebrated on the last Sunday of May every year. Right form the early morning people flock to their mothers’ to wish Happy Mother’s Day. For those whose mothers are resting in peace it’s an occasion to pay a special tribute at the cemetery.

Flowers, fancy presents or anything that would please moms are enough to say “Thank you Mom for having given birth to me. There’s no better mom than you. I’ll ever be grateful to you, my dear mom.” These words full of significance echo in the ears of every mother this day, sincerely, honestly or just in words.

On this auspicious day it’s good if we thought a little about those who don’t have a mom or those who’ve never seen their mom, those who’ve lost their dear mummy, those who are longing to say “Mama” to the one who brought them in this world. They are numerous. Still there are quite a lot of them who despite having a mother are motherless. These are the ones with little heart, those who, rightly or wrongly, have ignored the ones who’ve sacrificed their lives for them. If only this day could bring them back to their dear mummy it would give a whole new meaning to mother’s day.

Then there are those who don’t have anybody to cheer them up, nobody to call them “Ma”,“Mamma”, “Mummy” or “Mom”. They may never have conceived, or they may have lost their kins or they may even have abandoned their children for various reasons, poverty, war, crimes, famine…. For them mother’s day would mean nothing more than a mourning day. May the Almighty be merciful upon them.

But the sad thing about this celebration is that it’s more a day for business people. Since two weeks we are being flooded with commercial adverts on radio, TV, the press and even on bill boards. Fairs have been organized at various places. Shops are offering discounted deals. The official pay day (which is usually two clear days before the end of the month) was advanced from Tuesday 29 to Thursday 24 May. All this to get people into the frenzy of buying for “mother”, or mother-in-law for that purpose, and to show that they (the businesses) care for mothers whoever and wherever they are.

As symbolic as this could be, years ago people greeted their mom with a flower. Not necessarily the case today. People are better off. They resort to material and expensive things. Does your mother require a flower or whatever gift from you to show her that you love her, that you owe her everything that you have? I’m no economist, but it would seem that it’s all a question of supply and demand, with the result that traders and businesses make the best out of this celebration.

Yet there are others for whom every day is a mother’s day. The much deserved love, respect and consideration they bestow on the one without whom they would be naught is all that they do to show how significant is every day they owe to their mom. For them there’s no better day than every day’s a mother’s day; no gift however expensive can ever compensate for a mother’s love and sacrifice.

Some time back I wrote about Journalism as a dangerous occupation I think it’d be proper to come back to it on this World Press Freedom Day celebrated since 1993.

The press is often viewed as the negative force against those in power. Maybe that’s why many of them suffer the fate of being kidnapped, ill-treated, tortured and even killed. The case of Alan Johnston, BBC correspondent in Gaza, who is missing since 12 March is a case among many of serious outrage to the media people.

But it cannot be denied; journalists and the media do play a major role in the consolidation of democracies and in the socio-economic development of nations around the world. Without them many stories (real-life) would have remained untold, for ever. I have in mind those who risk their lives bringing us the live events in times of war and conflict; Iraq, Palestine, Ethiopia, Afghanistan, are but a few of the lands where anybody would fear to tread, not journalists.

They indeed deserve our praise on this day. Hats off!

May 1 is celebrated throughout the world as Labour Day, often called May Day (not to be confused with “Mayday” which is an international distress signal code in radio communication derived from the French “m’aider” meaning “help me”). Its origin is found in the Industrial Revolution that took place in Britain at the end of the 18th century and the beginning of the 19th. There was a fundamental transformation from manual to mechanized labour, which transgressed the socio-cultural barriers. Workers became exposed to poor conditions and irregular hours of work, putting in between 10 to 16 hours in some cases. The concept of the 8-hour work emerged in the struggle for workers’ emancipation; and it spread gradually throughout the other parts of the world.

In Mauritius Labour Day was celebrated for the first time in 1938 under the initiative of Dr. Maurice Curé, an eminent leader of the labour movement at that time. But over the years this “day”, which is a pubic holiday, has been taken over by politicians. It is an occasion for political parties (government and opposition alike) to demonstrate their popularity and force by organizing mass meetings in the main townships of the island. Unions can hardly mobilize their rank and file to the bare 100, while tens of thousands of people flock to the political gatherings. Most of the public buses have been booked to carry people free to the meeting places. Some roads have even been closed to allow for necessary arrangements.

However, in remembrance to those who struggled for workers’ emancipation, wreaths are laid by union leaders as well as political men at the respective tombs. Dr. Maurice Curé, Emanuel Anquetil, Guy Rozemont, Anjalay are but a few of the martyrs of the labour movement in Mauritius. Unions have been organizing talks around a particular theme each year in order to keep their members alert to the happenings of the day.

But there are others for whom Labour Day will mean nothing; it’ll be a day just like any other day. They’ll prefer a round at the seaside or at the hypermarkets or still at the various commercial exhibitions being held at the moment. Oh! Right at this time as I’m writing I overheard, and it’s confirmed by my wife, the TV news announcing government has just decided to prohibit all commercial sales on the 1st May. Are they anticipating low participation at their meeting? Will they be able to pull the shock-giving crowd? Anyway, one cannot underestimate people’s frustration these days with the ever-drastically-increasing prices of all commodities. As low participation means unpopularity, the government doesn’t want to take risks; so it seems.

As for me there’s no special arrangement. I’ll take a good rest in the morning before I get ready for a service and dinner at my niece’s place on the occasion of her birthday. The whole family will be there. You might call it a family day for me, if you wish; well deserved anyway, after long work commitments. It’s long since I’ve distanced myself form political meetings. When I was a trade union leader from 1984 to 1999, I had to show myself in prominent position; no longer now. I better devote my time for more constructive activities. And what’s better than writing?

Just one thing before I pen off, don’t miss the interview I announced yesterday. It’ll be up tomorrow, May 1. I just hope it won’t be a Mayday for me!

When I woke up this morning I didn’t really have any plans for the day. I thought I’d reorganize my schedule so that I can have a smooth blogging the coming week. But then I decided to go to Port Louis. It wasn’t to watch the races. No, although it was the second day of horse racing here. I don’t feel like having an interest for the races any more. All seems to be high-betting business and you have to be armed with a good dose of patience if you want to see the sports side of it. So it was rather to visit a book fair that was organized by the National Library in the context of World Book Day. It’s become an annual feature now at the Caudan Waterfront.

I was curious to see what’s selling, how it’s being done and who the local publishers are. I was pleasantly surprised that people do indeed show the interest deserved in books and other literatures in this era of information technology. Although a wide range of resources is available on the internet; hard copies are still in high demand. We have to reckon that books will continue to exist, as long as writers and readers will exist.

It was a family event. Some years back there was no much rush. People now make it a point to attend such event, and with their wards. They want to “show” their children rather than “tell” them what’s going on and how, what’s there in the market, and how they can benefit. It’s sort of making them get the feel of the book world. Education and upbringing have become highly competitive. Excellence is the word. You could see everybody leafing through every single piece of literature. Much more, everybody had something in their hands, a book, a magazine, a periodical or other reading stuff as they were leaving the stands. Prices were considerably reduced on some materials.

The nearly two-meter-corridor in between the 20 or so book stands was crammed; and the air was roasting. In another stand some meters away, children were invited to story telling, quiz, reading and reciting poems. A well-known artist entertained them.

But my attention was drawn by an old lady, well, older than me, sitting in front of a desk with some books under a large umbrella. She was outside the stands. As I passed by she invited me to have a look. She was promoting inspirational items. She immediately discovered by my body language that I wasn’t interested. Even then she insisted. I didn’t want to displease her. So I had a quick glance. She knew I was doing it for her sake. In a move to conceal her embarrassment she asked me with a smile:

“You’re champion, Sir?”

On the spot, I didn’t get her. I just murmured: “Well… but I’m fond of reading…. and a bit of writing, for the pleasure of it… Just that.”

She regained her ease now; and we started exchanging some vibes about my interest in writing when I realized that I was wearing a T-shirt on which was written “Champion”. Before I’d blush I decided to withdraw as somebody else popped at the desk. I was just slipping away when she looked at me in my eyes: “I hope to see you in print, Sir. Good luck; and May God bless.”

The words she uttered during the brief conversation seem still to be rolling in my mind. I cannot imagine how meaningful they can be. I hope I can make it one day. If not for me, at least for my well-wisher. Although by now I cannot figure out who I talked to.

After the heavy dholl-poori-chicken-curry dinner of yesterday I could hardly get up this morning. And the idea of a jammed road on the first school day after the Easter vacations made me even lazier. Is it also hectic for you on Monday morning? I lied until the thought of a farewell party at the office turned me on. How could I miss my good friend’s send off?

It was Nizjad’s last day at the service of the state. He’ll be on leave until he attains retirement age in September. He’s got to exhaust all his leave. We met in the club room as from 2.30 pm. All the staff was there to bid him farewell. It’s always sad to have to part with those you’ve worked with for more than a quarter of a century.

I remember, in 1979, I was posted in Rodrigues islands, some 600 km to the east of Mauritius for a brief tour of service. Nizjad was there as officer-in-charge. He was my senior. But we did our work without the least discrimination of rank. He was very humble, he still is. We spent a cyclone episode together. I still can’t forget the hard time we had lighting a hurricane lamp; we had never used one before. I was worried being away from my parents in such a bad weather. He patted my shoulder in encouragement and said: “Don’t let yourself down my dear, whatever’s going to happen will happen; we can’t go against God’s will; just keep your head on your shoulders.” I nodded in assent; and he added: “We shall overcome, together we shall overcome.”

Nizjad’s very philosophic and highly religious; he never misses his prayers, five times a day. He’s also an avid reader. I bought a book recently “La face cachée du 11 Septembre” by Eric Laurent. Quite interesting; it delves into the so-called untold stories about the US twin tower tragedy. I hadn’t finished reading it than Nizjad borrowed it. I couldn’t let him wait. He devoured it in no time and returned it back. I’ve yet to take it up again.

So today it was time for farewell. The Chief of staff welcomed Nizjad and his family, after which the Deputy Director praised Nizjad’s journey within the department since the time he joined the service. Then Nizjad was invited to speak. Words could harldy come out, jerky at the beginning, and they flowed smoothly as he continued his short discourse. He’s had an enriching career, he said; and he’s had good moments as well as bad ones. He’d deleted all the bad memories and archived the good ones, the only bit that he’ll bring along with him on his retirement, he reassured. Tears nearly rolled off his eyes as he uttered his last words in a gesture of advice to all his fellow colleagues: “Always do the best, God will do the rest.” A standing ovation followed, and two new recruits (lady staff, to keep up with tradition) were invited to hand him a souvenir gift, and a bouquet to his madam.

It was now time for tea (not peppermint tea, Beccy – we have vanilla flavored tea and we take it with some milk – I had two cups) and snacks, Indian snacks: “samoossas” (cakes made of flour strips rolled with spicy stuff, potatoes or chicken or beef or whatever, even cheese and deep fried) and local “gateaux piments” (cakes made of crushed dholl mixed with chilies, onions, shallot and fried). Ummmh…delicious crispy snacks!

I’d have missed these moments had I let my laziness take over this morning.

Had a pretty cool day. Spent most of the time in the kitchen, giving a helping hand to my other half. Woke up at 9.00 am. After the usual market chores, a quick glance at the weekly news and a copious breakfast (which sustained me until a delayed lunch time at 2.45 pm), settled with the preparation of a special meal.

We often make special preparations on Sundays when everybody is at home. I’m not a good cook though. It’s not my stuff. Sierra does most of it. But I do try my hand on occasions. So what did we cook? Are you used to Indian cuisine? We prepared what we call “dholl puri”. What’s that? Shrugging? OK, let me tell you.

It’s a common quick snack sold everywhere, in the street corners, here in Mauritius. Of Indian origin, it’s a sort of flat bread stuffed with dholl and eaten with “chutney” (oh! Another new stuff, but not as awkward as it may appear – it’s simply a kind of paste made of tomatoes crushed with onions, garlic, coriander leaves and chilies, which are all oriental aromatic stuffs). You may accompany it with any curry or plate (fish, chicken, beef, veggies or whatever) if you wish. We made chicken curry today, right?

Now, for the “dholl puri” you need some flour, dholl, salt and aniseed. Bring the dholl to boil and then crush it to a uniform mash, adding salt and ground cumin to taste. In a separate bowl or plate knead the flour into dough and make small balls. Reshape the ball hollow like a bowl and fill it with the dholl mash you made earlier. Close the flour ball by sticking the open ends together; then roll it in a flat circular shape (using a roller on a flat surface). Depending on the amount of the dough used it should be no more than 6 inches in diameter approximately. Place the flat and circular dholl-stuffed dough on hot plate and cook for a few minutes, turning it upside down to ensure it’s cooked on both sides. Your “dholl puri” is ready.

With chutney or curry, enjoy.

The racing season is starting on 21 April in Mauritius. It’s a period when race-goers are plunged into the search for every hint on the performance of horses, stables and jockeys. As from Wednesday when the provisional entries for the races appear everybody’s attention is focused on the tipsters. On Saturday evening all this business comes to a standstill when the race is over. Yes, more than a sports racing has become a lucrative gambling business. But it’s also an opportunity for a get together in a festive ambiance. People of all walks of life, men, women and youngsters in their diverse colored apparels invade the stands from where they can have a clearer and safer view of the race events.

Racing is organized in Mauritius by the Mauritius Turf Club since 1812. It was the British Army Colonel, Edward Alured Draper, who initiated this event. He was backed by Sir Robert Farquhar, the then Governor of the island. The first race meeting was held on 25 June 1812 when the Champ de Mars racecourse situated at Port Louis was inaugurated.

31 weekly meetings are scheduled this year with the four traditional classics (the Duchess of York Cup, the Barbé cup, the Maiden Cup and the Duke of York Cup) and the two meetings of the International Jockeys’ Day. The season will end on 2 December, with the majority of meetings fixed on Saturdays.

The races contribute largely to the socio-economic development of the country. Lots of small businesses involved in the sale of foodstuff, fancy articles and in gambling operations make their living on the race occasions. Special magazines are issued, both free and paying, to provide tips and turf news to punters. A significant number of police officers are mobilized to regulate traffic and maintain law and order in the race precincts. But this doesn’t prevent pickpockets to proliferate around the race course. They operate in gangs mainly at the gambling terminals and in agglomerations where people will hardly identify them. And when the cheat is done it’ll be too late. I’ve been one of their victims some ten years ago. I had bought two winning tickets from different bookmakers. I had already cashed in one of them. I had to forge my way through the mass to encash the second ticket when my first winnings were pickpocketed. I couldn’t believe it.

The Attorney-General here had decided to bring a Sexual Offences Bill in Parliament last week. It would provide for harsher terms of imprisonment, up to 60 years for those found guilty of sexual violence and rape. At the same time it was proposed to introduce penalties for false cases of rape or sexual assault, which implies, victims should be careful when reporting such cases. What would happen if they lost their case?

But that doesn’t seem to be so much the bone of contention. The bill went further in proposing to legalize sodomy with consent. This is what triggered voices around the country. Socio-cultural organizations and pressure groups rose up against what they call an attempt at religious and cultural traditions. They say it is a subtle way of recognizing “new” sexual orientation and lifestyle for which we are not prepared yet. Sex is still something like sacred and open lifestyles exist, if at all, only behind the curtains.

Rapes have been on the increase during the past years, and represent a major cause of crimes involving children, desperate women and even old persons. If people are ready to accept more severe penalties for rape crimes, they wouldn’t caution anything that would go against religious faiths. The government seems to have understood this and has withdrawn the bill.

I just came back from a wedding ceremony. It was a neighbor’s daughter. That delayed my writing schedule. Anyway, it reminded me of my own wedding. Uuhh! Time’s so quick. I remember just getting married, with all the ecstasy that it brings. A new life starts with a new person as your life mate, if you happen to make it together until death lays its icy hands upon you. Yeah, things are going smooth so far, so long as you can manage your relationships. Life is as it is, ups and downs, but faring anyway.

I’d hardly taken up employment in the government service. That was in the mid-70’s. Still a novice youngster, experiencing the heat of love in the early 20’s against all odds. At that time working in the government made of you a highly respected fellow. He works in the government, they’d say. And for a woman it was a great pride getting married to a government servant. Ummm… No longer now, believe me. The perception has changed.

People no more envy you, except for your job security. The benefits in the civil service have constantly eroded from the colonial days. The whole of your time is at the disposal of the government. You aren’t allowed to do private work, nor indulge in active politics. You may have your own political conviction, but you should be faithful and loyal to the government of the day. The next salary review heralds curtailing of significant acquired rights.

The pride and satisfaction is elsewhere. In the private sector the grass seems to be greener; you enjoy benefits not accruing in the public, higher pay packets, more attractive fringe benefits, and if you’re a lucky good performer perhaps a company car, mobile phone, housing benefits, and the like… And if you happen to be your own boss, that’s even better. I never forget the boastfulness of one of my ants. She’s far better off than us. “My son owns a taxi; not only that, he’s also a landlord; how much do you earn a month?” She knows very well a public officer’s worth in terms of remuneration. They’ve been pretty good entrepreneurs in successive generations.

A civil servant’s pride is in his dedication to the job he is entrusted with. If he’s done it with dignity, honesty, loyalty and with a high sense of commitment, he’s done his duty, towards his country. That’s how I feel doing my job.

Sir Alex Ferguson’s Red devils were simply irresistible yesterday. After an away 2-1 defeat last week, they did a superb show home at Old Trafford against A S Roma in the current UEFA Champions League. Manchester United literally crushed A S Roma by a final 7-1 score. Never before, especially at a quarter-fiinal.

I am not a football fan. I prefer a documentary. But I do often keep my sons’ company whenever their favorite team is playing. And I have to keep quiet; no advance comments on the players’ performance. It happens often that when a scorer is heading with an attack I shout goooaaal before the shot; and the ball goes away, much to the disappointment of my sons.

Yesterday we were watching not Manchester United; it wasn’t being broadcast live on our channel; but instead Chelsea against Valencia in the same league. It wasn’t long after our attention was focused on what was not being shown. The MBC (Mauritius Broadcasting Corporation) interrupted the show hardly ten minutes later, and then every two minutes or so, to announce three successive goals of the Red devils in about eight minutes. And the match ended with an overwhelming score. My sons regretted not having been able to watch the brilliant performance of their team. But their joy was at its peak at the end of the match.

Mauritians have great interest in external football, especially English soccer. Local football has long lost its shine. We got lots of fans, mainly for Liverpool and Manchester United. And it is this confrontation that people are eager to see if these two teams happen to make it to the finals. Manchester United is already qualified for the semi-finals and we’ll see what happens with Liverpool in the days to come.

So folks that’s it from me although my hobby is not sports. I made it just to please my sons so they don’t feel the loneliness of a mid-night show. And when I was wondering what to write about today, my elder told me: “Dad, you can talk about my team’s crushing victory. Can’t you?”

We live in an island where religion plays an important part in the life of the citizens. Islam, Christianity and Hinduism are the three major components of the society; that coexist in peace. The French and the British brought in Christianity, while Islam and Hinduism were inherited from Indian migrants during the early days of colonization.

The freedom of each religion is guaranteed by the Constitution and forms the basis of balance in the practice of the various faiths. The fervor at each religious festival is unique and that’s what makes the beauty of this little island in the middle of the Indian Ocean.

A week after Muslims celebrated Yaum-un-Nabi, Christians are celebrating Easter today. For those who might not be familiar, Yaum-un-Nabi marks the birth anniversary of Prophet Muhammad. It’s the essence of faith in Islam. Easter marks the resurrection of Christ after his crucifixion. That’s the basis of Christian faith. After the usual mass, marking the end of the 40-day fasting, most Christians flocked to the sea side on this fine-weather-Sunday.

Yesterday I was writing about British hostages being at last released by the Iran authorities, much to the joy of the Britons.

Today, it’s about journalists being ill treated in foreign land. You won’t probably imagine how journalism can be dangerous. Journalists and reporters are often held hostage, roughed up, detained or even killed in the performance of their duty. It’s not an easy job to cover events like war, conflicts and even political issues. We’ve seen them oft times, live and direct, in conditions which call for courage and gut.

The two Dutch foreign correspondents, Remco Reiding and Jelle Brandt Corstius are surely not privy to this. They’ve been subjected to violent treatment and detention while covering an anti-government demonstration in Russia. They are not the first, and certainly not the last.

Remco Reiding is a journalist for De Journalist and Dutch Press Association GPD, and Jelle Brandt Corstius, a journalist for Trouw. They were covering an unauthorized demonstration against the Russian government on March 24. They had their credentials and they were only doing their duty as journalists, reporting and photographing the event. One of them received a serious punch in the face by police, reports say.

Such treatment is considered unacceptable by the Dutch government.. The Russian authorities will have to answer. The International Federation of Journalists (IFJ) is backing the Dutch Association of Journalists in its demand for a public apology.

Attacking, capturing and detaining press people are becoming commonplace. Several professional reporters have suffered such fate, sometimes even worse. Only a handful of lucky ones come out safe and sound.

But journalists are what they are, daring. Nothing’s going to bar them from unveiling injustice wherever it is, even if it spells danger… to themselves, their families or their dear ones.

A pupil of standard six, hardly 11, brandishes a cutter at his teacher in the school compound in front of the school personnel and other pupils. A teacher is intoxicated nearly to death by a couple of pupils who introduced chalk powder in his bread when he was out. College students decide to stage unlimited protests against management for insufficient facilities. Yet another group of students walk out as the Minister of Education moves to deliver his speech on the occasion of the Independence and republic day celebrations. Do these sound normal?

Every action has an opposite and equal reaction, says a simple law of physics.

Our schools have lost the aura of my times in the 60’s when discipline and order were, not only enforced, but seen to be enforced and maintained. You couldn’t go to school in loosely worn clothes, long ruffled hair or with any ornaments. You had to be smart, even in shabby clothing, hair neatly combed, and observe the rules otherwise the Head Teacher would summon you in his office, and in serious cases your parents, and reprimand you or even expel you for repeated misdemeanor. Teachers too had to behave well. Male teachers had to wear a tie at least, no jeans, stamped clothing or T-shirt. Once in the school compound no body had the right to move around or leave without permission. No outsiders were allowed, except on strict business and with the consent of the Head.

It’s quite different nowadays. Not much restriction on clothing or appearance, the child has a mobile, and he’s the son of Mr. Influence. Just hit a child, and you’ll see; the whole world will fall on you. Child bashing; attempt at angels’ rights, they’d say. Does anyone dare talk about their responsibilities? We used to have classes of morals and religious knowledge; no more or not enough now. The teacher has to be wary of his belongings or at the turn of his back he’d meet with a surprise, an unpleasant one of course.

Aggressiveness and violence have become commonplace. We’ve also heard of school children waiting for their teachers on the streets to settle scores. The schools have high fencing and guarded rust-proof gates, yet any Tom, Dick and Harry can access, no questions asked. We live in a democracy. Education, or let’s say schooling is free. Bus fares are free. Do we really care about the quality?

When angels rise up, it means there’s something. If we don’t act in time we’ll go in history for complacency. A lot has been said about the rights of children. Have they been initiated on their duties and responsibilities as good citizens? Parents, government, socio-cultural organizations, the Ombudsman for children, all have their share… of responsibility. Now or it may be too late.

I was traveling to Port Louis today to attend a workshop on Leadership and Supervision in the context of the civil service reforms initiated by the Government. I left the car for public transport as it’s not a pleasure to drive to the main town at a time when you can hardly advance a meter in a minute. They call it peak time. God! It was a real nightmare.

Half way from town the police took nearly 10 minutes to book the bus driver for having picked up a passenger outside a bus stop. Meanwhile other travelers pressed the bell and shouted in protest for the long delay. One man stood up. “What’s going on? Are we moving or what?” His lips trembled as he queried the driver. The latter, somewhat embarrassed, stared at him and retorted in a rude voice: “Get down and talk to the police officer, if you can.”

It’s not unusual for buses to stop anywhere even if they have to wait for the passenger to cross the road amidst heavy traffic. That’s why I hate, and I guess many people do, traveling by bus.

The highway was relatively fluid. However there was a bottleneck at the entrance of Port Louis. As we were about to emerge from a side road, the traffic regulator stopped us. This was a manual control point, not an automatic one as at several points. Alongside us in parallel a fuel tanker was also waiting to emerge. The major road traffic had obvious priority, we understood. Everybody settled for that for a while. But it was more than that, because we waited for a little more than 15 minutes. It’s unusual, every one grumbled.

By that time my mobile rang. It was a friend who was also at the workshop. He asked me where I was, they were waiting for me to start. The vehicles behind us horned in commotion and the traffic officer simply smiled. He kept cool. A driver from another vehicle got down; and we saw him discussing with the traffic regulator. Poor fellow! The traffic officer just shrugged. We could guess he was simply executing orders from his boss. He knew it was unfair to keep us waiting that long. He kept ushering traffic on the major road. We just observed, our blood boiling in our veins. But why aren’t we allowed to go?

At last we saw a motorcycle policeman pass in a flash, followed by a big black BMW with tinted glasses. It was a VIP. It’s the type of vehicle VIP’s use here. Just then we were allowed to emerge. You can imagine how many vehicles passed during the 15 minutes’ stop; no less than 50, sometimes even 100 vehicles pass every minute at the strategic points during the peak hour. And by simple mathematics you can easily rank the position of the BMW.

It reminds me of the story of the hare and the tortoise, except that here the hare had imperatively to wait for the tortoise to pass the post first.

The trip took me 80 minutes, when we usually make it barely in 45 to 50 minutes. Obviously I was late; I reached the training centre at 09.40 am, not really because of the flow of some10 000 vehicles to the town at that particular time of the day

Here am I, after the weekend break. A little bit more refreshed? Not so sure. No real rest though. Been catching up with the news, and thought I’d share some with you.

I’ve been particularly appalled by the torturous treatment inflicted upon Opposition leader Morgan Tsvangirai and his partisans by Robert Mugabe’s Government in Zimbabwe. Can we speak about human rights? Reminds us of the tyrannical reigns of Hitler, Mobuto, Saddam Hussein, to name a few. But he can’t stop the world from denouncing his undemocratic attitude

Anyway, here in Mauritius there’s still no news about the 16 fishermen since 24 February when cyclone Gamede hit the region. King Fish II, one of the two fishing boats, was found lifeless near Ile aux cocos of the St Brandon group. The other boat King Fish V hasn’t been located yet. A couple of life jackets and other related items still to be identified were found several hundred kilometers away. These vessels belong to Hassen Taher Seafoods, a well-known fishing company in the country. Search and rescue haven’t yielded any clue yet.

What else? Yep…A pupil of about 11 has spelt panic in a primary school. Parents and teachers are staging protests for his expulsion or transfer elsewhere. He’d threatened school children and hurt one of his classmates with a pair of scissors. The boy is known for his aggressive behaviour even against adults. Enough is enough, they say.