by Ning Cai
“How about Mauritius?” The beautiful Nazreen from Club Med Singapore suggested over email. “La Plantation d’Albion is our first 5-Trident resort.”
Mauritius!
Gosh. To me, Mauritius has always been the tropical playground of the French-speaking world. An exclusive, expensive island where the rich frolic on white sandy beaches, sip wine while watching the sunset, and sail on yachts out into the clear blue sea.
A quick check on our world map revealed that – lo and behold – Mauritius was situated just 870km east of Madagascar, our last stop before our birthday week!
Who would have thought that Madagascar was just off the coast of South Africa (where we were then) and that Mauritius was right next to it? Back in Singapore, these places seemed so far-flung, exotic and ridiculously expensive to travel to. Now they were like Thailand in relation to Singapore. Funny how our round-the-world trip was turning out to be quite a hands-on Geography lesson!
You can’t imagine how happy we were to be landing at Mauritius’ Sir Seewoosagur Ramgoolam International Airport three weeks later. This was after 14 days of surviving in the wild with no electricity, running water, proper sanitation, phone reception or Wi-Fi. We were finally at Club Med’s first 5-Trident resort in the world! Yup, we’re talking endless buffets, free-flow cocktails, a gazillion indoor and outdoor activities to choose from, spa treatments, sun, sea and sand...
Hello, Paradise!!
NING
When leaving Madagascar for our decadent birthday week in Mauritius, Pam and I checked in our luggage at the airport, with our laptops hidden snugly between our clothes in our backpacks.
This was something we always did, because some savvy travellers had warned us about scam tag teams that steal laptops as they are being scanned as carry-on luggage at immigration. We didn’t want to risk losing all our photos and the notes we’d written.
What we didn’t quite foresee was that we had to be wary of internal airport staff too.
When our bags finally appeared on the conveyor belt at the Mauritius airport, I noticed that my bag was open. With a sinking feeling, I just knew... my laptop had been stolen.
“What is it?” Pam asked when she saw my eyes darken. “What’s wrong?”
I heaved my bag off the belt and realised that my nightmare had turned into reality when it felt lighter than usual. A quick search revealed that my laptop was no longer there. All the written drafts I’d saved, pictures and videos taken, audio recordings of people I’d personally interviewed... all gone.
I sighed in resignation and turned to Pam dejectedly. “My laptop’s gone.”
Pam’s MacBook Air was, thankfully, not taken. But the BFF was still upset, speculating that it was most likely stolen in Madagascar and not Mauritius, and how unbelievable it was that internal airport personnel could resort to stealing, how unlikely it would be to ever see the laptop again... but I wasn’t paying any attention to her. Her voice had turned into a drone, muffled by the angry screams in my head berating myself for my careless stupidity.
Immediately, I dragged my bag to the airline desk to make an official report. Instead of the professional patience and understanding that I was hoping for, an unfriendly manager in a jacket treated me like a time-wasting liar who was there to interrupt his flirty chat with his female subordinate.
I almost lost my cool when this cocky supervisor at the Air Mauritius desk unkindly questioned if I’d placed the missing laptop inside Pam’s bag instead. With undisguised disgust, I shot him a seething look. “Obviously not, I’m not an idiot.”
Cocky Jacket didn’t believe me and sighed as he stiffly picked up my open bag and weighed it, checking the weight on the scales against the printed sticker that was slapped on the side of my backpack, all the while with a look of disdain.
My backpack registered 2kg lighter. Cocky Jacket was finally convinced, and said he’d fill out a form so that I could make a police report for my insurance claim. It didn’t make me feel any better because I was already so put off by his unpleasant and unnecessary attitude. But that aside, I think the root of my anger was really losing all my data.
“Damn, I should have backed it up!” I whined to Pam, after Cocky Jacket’s pet passed me a printed sheet that she’d typed out, along with a reminder to call them for an update about the lost laptop after three days. “Everything, gone!”
Pam tried to comfort me as we made a police report before finally arriving at Club Med. Although I still felt horrible, I made up my mind that we were going to have a helluva good time, since it was after all our birthday week. You can’t turn back time and some losses are meant to be; things happen for a reason.
Since I couldn’t change events, I decided to change my perspective. So as I stepped out of the car into the gorgeous Club Med compound, I decided to enjoy the present moment because it was a gift.
PAM
Breakfast in bed, luxurious pampering at the Cinq Mondes spa, and a decadent dinner by the sea... that was the plan. Instead of celebrating our birthdays on two separate occasions, we decided to pick a day and celebrate it together with a bang!
I have to say one thing at this juncture because it’s important that the world knows this about my best friend: NO ONE orders room service like Ning, absolutely no one! It’s the most endearing and entertaining thing in the world!
Instead of just ticking option boxes on the form like everyone else, Ning writes an instructional manual! From including details on the proportion of various cereals in a bowl, to the type of milk to use (“low-fat please because Pam is lactose-intolerant”); to requesting for her favourite nut bread (???) to explaining why the resort staff need to include more Nutella spread...
I had always suspected Ning was a strange girl – this sealed it for me!
Ning’s quirky room service order form!
On 16 October, we enjoyed breakfast in the comfort of our luxurious room and watched The Rainbow Show episode on adult twangers on YouTube. We were blown away that the producers of this 1970s British children’s programme could come up with an entire episode crammed with sexual innuendos from start to finish – and get away with it! Parents probably watched a completely different show from their kids. No wonder they loved it! Ning was so tickled that she must have clicked “Replay” a hundred times.
The highlight of our birthday was dinner at the La Phare restaurant, which was perched on a cliff overlooking crashing waves, with an unadulterated view of the Mauritian sunset. Tucked away in a far corner of the village, in a specially designated Zen area, it was a sanctuary of quiet bliss. We escaped here very often for quiet lunches, afternoon mojitos and endless games of Checkers and Scrabble.
One of the Club Med guest officers, Amy, made the reservation for us as La Phare was only open for dinner twice a week. We were lucky to get a table on the last night before we left. The BFF even bought a new outfit from the Club Med boutique for the occasion. I guess after months of running around in worn t-shirts and faded jeans, it was as good a day as any to doll up – and Ning did indeed look stunning! I had almost forgotten that underneath the dorky best friend I’d been goofing around with was sexy ‘Magic Babe’.
La Phare was bathed in flickering candlelight. We had a corner table with a view of the entire restaurant. Our three-course dinner was superb, to say the least, comparable to the best French restaurants in Paris.
“Hello ladies, can I take your picture?” A male voice interrupted our dinner; a charming Mauritian man with some pretty impressive camera equipment on him. “The photos will be up on the Club Med activities wall tomorrow. You can order them, if you like.”
“Sure!” The celebrity magician, used to photographers coming up to her to ask for photos, shrugged nonchalantly. We preened ourselves a little and flashed him our prettiest smiles. After all, we were celebrating our birthdays in beautiful Mauritius and having a decadent feast, courtesy of Club Med Singapore. What was there not to smile about?
As we were polishing off our desserts, we he
ard a chorus of voices from across the room. From the corner of my eye, I saw the Club Med staff walking toward our table with a huge chocolate cake.
“Oh my God, I think that’s for us!” The BFF’s eyes twinkled in the candlelight.
True enough, the cake arrived at our table as the guest officers belted out a birthday song in English and French, with Amy standing a distance behind, beaming like a proud parent. The rest of the guests at the restaurant also clapped and sang along. It suddenly felt like we were in a room surrounded by friends, all celebrating along with us.
NING
“Go on, cut it!” Everyone urged us on. The entire restaurant had turned their attention to us, and bright flashes blinded us from the photographer’s intimidatingly huge DSLR camera.
The BFF beamed and worked the knife, earning a round of applause from the happy Club Med F&B team before they tottered off. Pam cut a generous slice of cake for me and then paused. A puzzled frown creased her forehead.
I raised an eyebrow. “What?”
“Uh,” Pam stared at the fancy cream decoration, speechless.
As I leaned in to read the writing on the cake, my eyebrows shot up to space.
Oh. My. God.
PAM
No wonder I had noticed a change in Amy’s facial expression – from a broad smile to puzzlement, to perplexity and then to actual panic – before she hastily excused herself and retreated in a huff with an apologetic, “Enjoy your cake!”
Staring back at us in thick white cream were the words “Happy Anniversary!”
What would people think if they saw our photos on the wall tomorrow? Two women all dressed up, having a candlelight dinner and holding up an anniversary cake?
“Oh dear...” the words escaped my lips as tears of laughter sprung to my eyes.
“It’s probably an honest mistake,” The practical BFF reasoned. “I’m sure Amy meant well.”
“Yah, did you see her expression change?” I chuckled, still tickled.
“Happy anniversary, baby...” Ning tilted her head slightly, fluttering her eyelashes at me and flashing me a seductive look.
“Happy anniversary, love...” I played along and activated my radio DJ voice, the one the BFF calls my bedroom voice.
We pretended to feed each other cake. Damn, it was devilishly good! Who cares? We were far away from home, where no one knew us, and we were adamant about having fun on our birthday.
NING
From the corner of my eye, I noticed Amy in a hushed but animated conversation with the restaurant manager. She had a small cake in her hand and rolled her eyes as she walked away from him.
Our eyes followed her across the room until she crept up softly to a couple having dinner about three tables from us. We saw her smile sheepishly and lean in towards the Chinese couple in their mid-20s.
“Oh man,” I whispered, eyes still wide. “Someone screwed up.”
PAM
Amy had a silly grin on her face as she placed the cake on the table. The couple looked at her with puzzled frowns.
“That can’t be a birthday cake...” The shrewd BFF observed. “If it is, why aren’t there any candles on the cake? And why aren’t the guest officers singing them a birthday song?”
“Then? What do you reckon?”
The BFF broke into a wicked grin. Her eyes danced with merriment as a giggle escaped her lips. Almost a split second later, I caught on. No way. No darned way.
“It’s THEIR anniversary!” We exclaimed in a chorus.
“Oh my God!” My jaw dropped as the truth sank in. “Amy gave us their anniversary cake!”
“And they got our birthday cake!” Ning chimed in, laughing uncontrollably.
Amy had slunk away from the table, tail between her legs, as the couple sat silently staring at their little cake. I had to whip out my camera. Swiftly, I zoomed in on them, capturing the priceless look on their faces.
NING
“You do realise Club Med now has highly incriminating photos of us... with this?” Pam giggled as she snapped close-ups of the huge anniversary cake on our table.
“This has got to be the most memorable birthday ever, BFF!” I laughed until tears squeezed out of the corners of my eyes, smudging my eyeliner. “Oh, please be sure to email this picture to my family. I’ll tell my folks we secretly got married in Vegas!”
TOP: Our “birthday” cake arrives as we celebrate our joint birthdays over a candlelight dinner.
BOTTOM: Happy Anniversary, baby!
22
no visa, no go
Mauritius/India . October 2011
PAM
Weaving through the crowds at New Delhi’s international airport, I scanned the sea of people for the familiar silhouette of my dad in his long kurta pyjamas and jutas. He always looked a tad out of place in traditional Indian garb back in Singapore, but here, he blended right in.
I half suspect my dad’s soul is Indian. Perhaps he lived here in his past life. You can sometimes sense these things about people. Since he first went to India for a teaching conference over a decade ago, he has been returning annually, often multiple times in a year. His love for India is evident in the way he dresses, the way he subscribes to the culture, and the fact that he never tires of the place. It’s like putting a song on repeat loop.
“There he is!” Ning exclaimed, grabbing my arm as I pushed the luggage trolley past the throng of people waiting outside the airport building.
In India, only travellers with valid airline tickets or booking confirmations are allowed into the terminal building. The rest have to wait outside or pay a fee to enter. So while the airport is clean and quiet inside, the waiting area outside is like a boisterous movie gala red carpet event. Well, at least it makes you feel like a Bollywood star for a day!
My dad and his Kashmiri business partner, Adil Ahmad, were waiting behind the metal railing. Dad had his camera ready and snapped a welcome picture of Ning and I as we pushed the luggage trolley over with a skip and a hop.
“Hi, daddy!” I grinned, giving him a big hug. He is usually quite shy but he returned the hug. It had been seven months since I’d seen him, and it was surreal – a circle of familiarity in an unfamiliar land, like someone had drawn a protective circle around us in chalk.
Getting to travel with my dad again is another tick on my bucket list. I felt like a little girl again, wide-eyed and bushy-tailed as I held on tightly to his finger in a foreign land. Dad always loved to travel and he would take my sister Desirene and I along for his adventures. Those were the highlights of my childhood. If I could attribute my wanderlust to anyone, it would be him.
But since I’ve grown up and started my own family, the opportunities to travel with dad have been rare. The last time I remember doing so was for my sister’s wedding in Hong Kong in 2001. Has it really been that long?
“How was your flight?” Dad asked as he gave Ning a hug, and Adil took over the pushing of our trolley.
Finally, a strong man to help us with our heavy backpacks! This was the first time we were travelling with men for a stretch... well, in Morocco we did, but seriously, Moroccan men do NOT lift a finger to help. I half suspect they wanted us to carry their bags instead... Hmph.
“Our flight was OK, but getting from Mauritius to Delhi was a total nightmare!” I groaned, recalling the mad hassle of the past 15 hours.
I had booked our flights online via Expedia a while back, for travel from Mauritius to Bangalore, and then from Bangalore to New Delhi. The plan was to apply for our travel visas on arrival at Delhi airport. Sure, it would cost us an arm and a leg, but we had no choice. We were just thankful that on-arrival visas were available at certain ports of entry such as New Delhi, Mumbai and Chennai, because there was no way we were going all the way back to Singapore just to get one!
But at the international airport in Mauritius, on the night we were supposed to leave, an unexpected crisis awaited us.
“Where’s your visa for India?” The lady at the Air Mauritius
check-in counter asked, as she flipped through the pages of my passport.
“Oh, we’re going to apply for on-arrival visas at Delhi,” I explained. I had done my research and I was pretty confident that this was possible.
“I’m sorry, but you can’t go to India without a visa,” she said, glancing up at me with furrowed brows. “You need a visa for Bangalore.”
“No, no... we are only transiting in Bangalore! We are not coming out of the airport,” I explained, a little annoyed. Couldn’t she tell from our flight confirmation booking?
“I’m sorry, ma’am, you’ll need to clear customs at Bangalore. There is no arrangement between Air Mauritius and Jet Airways for connecting flights,” the lady stated curtly. “You need to claim your luggage and transfer from the international terminal to the domestic terminal to catch your connecting flight.”
My heart sank. Fuck.
“Can we get our visa in Bangalore then?”
“No, it’s not available there...” She replied, her eyes meeting mine for a moment. Her expression softened as she sensed my despair. She looked genuinely empathetic of our misfortune.
This couldn’t be happening. We were not allowed to board the plane now because we didn’t have the necessary entry documents. My dad was picking us up at the Delhi airport in a couple of hours, and we were stuck in Mauritius! We didn’t even have a place to stay for the night!
“So what do we do now?” The BFF asked, frowning.
