Das Ist Herr Kartoffel-Tete

In most of the 16 countries we've traveled this year, we've been completely out of our element when it comes to understanding and being understood. I am constantly amazed at the diversity of language in this world; at the same time, I am even more amazed at how many people actually make the effort to speak and understand a little bit of English.

We always made an effort to learn to say "Hello" and "Thank you" in the local dialect, be it Khmer, Hindi, or Chinese. That's just basic etiquette -- in someone else's country, why should you just assume they speak English? Worse, why be annoyed if they can't speak English? We met plenty of other travelers with this mindset: "Cripes, they can't even speak ENGLISH. What is this place?" How about, it's Thailand? I heard very few travelers nattering away in the local language along the way. Most of them, actually -- and this probably includes us -- conversed in a broken, pidgin English that was usually very slow and, inexplicably, very LOUD. "Where EAT? BAR? BEER? Me. very. Hungry!" (accompanied by a belly pat.) I even heard this in countries where English was well-understood and spoken, like Namibia and Botswana, and was simultaneously embarrassed and insulted on both parts.

So "Hello" became "Namaste" in Nepal and India, "Xie-Xie" in China. We said "Sabai-dee" in Laos, and "Sawasdee-Kah" (me) and "Sawasdee-Kap" (BG) in Thailand. We didn't shake hands in most of these places, but nodded our heads in greeting, and sometimes pressed our palms together, prayer style, in greeting. In South Africa we never could get the hang of any of the 11 official languages, nor could we begin to properly mimic the clicks and tongue snaps so often involved. Most of the time, we could get away with a simple "Hello", like we did in Australia and New Zealand, thank goodness... not that it was necessarily any easier to understand the Aussie or Kiwi accents -- which, they WILL argue, are completely different from each other. You know, like Canadians and Americans.

We got off easy in Mauritius and Switzerland. BG and I are in a funny situation in both of these places, because I understand 99.9% of everything said in Creole (the Mauritian dialect) and BG's German is pretty good. In Mauritius I could interpret most conversations and relay them as necessary, but actually speaking Creole was a problem. I understand Creole -- I do not speak it unless absolutely necessary. All of my family members have excellent English, so this wasn't usually a problem. Still, one night Catherine and I had a broken dish crisis in the kitchen, and no way of cleaning it up. So I bravely headed over to the caretaker's house to ask for help. Lucky me, he was out for the evening. Lucky me, I got to speak to his eight-year-old son. Lucky me, he spoke hardly any English. Imagine asking for something to clean the floor when you can't remember the words for "Dish", "Floor", "Bucket", "Broom", or "Broken", and you can imagine the situation -- a wide-eyed blank stare from him, some crazy charades from me. After I'd retreated in humiliation, his mother came home and asked what I'd wanted. All I could do was hold up the pieces of broken porcelain in chagrin. She got the point, and I got my broom and bucket and cleaned the broken dish from the floor. Other times, like when we were lost and I had to ask for directions, were more successful. On a couple of occasions I was surprised to hear people speaking Creole and find I had no idea what they were saying. A phone call to my mother cleared that up, hilariously; she maintains that she speaks a more "refined" Creole, and that these other Mauritians were speaking a rougher dialect. Refined Creole is a complete oxymoron -- it's a mostly language with no rules or grammar, and uses few adjectives or adverbs. So, apparently, my mother's "refined Creole" is comparable to the Queen's English, and these other guys were speaking... Eubonics?

I have been completely and utterly impressed by BG's talent with German. Ever since the day he failed when attempting to read a kindergarten-level book in German, I've been convinced he couldn't speak a word of it. We roomed with eight German girls in Cape Town (all young and blonde, and you wonder why BG loved it there so much) and they spent plenty of time trying to teach BG the art of the umlaut (that two-dot thing on top of the U in Yogen Fruz.) As a result they also spent a great deal of time lauging at his attempts. I also had never heard him say more than, "Ja, das ist gute!", and the first day in Switzerland he couldn't remember the German word for Shoe (it's Shuh, pronounced Shoo.) So you can see how I was stunned when, after a few days in Switzerland, BG was nattering off to his family in Deutsch. Umlauts or no umlauts, he's pretty good! All the years he went to German schol on Saturday mornings instead of hockey games have finally paid off. Truth be told, he can only speak and understand High German, and most people here speak mostly Swiss German, a dialect very parallel to my mother's Creole -- unwritten, no rules, no grammar. But people understand him when he speaks German, and they reply in High German, so all is good.

Even my German is improving. Check out my new vocabulary, and note any patterns:

Schmutzig = Dirty
Wasser = Water
Shokolade = Chocolate
Kartoffel = Potato
Tete = Head
Kase = Cheese
Fruhstuck = Breakfast
Schwartz = Black
Apfel = Apple
Kuchen = Cake
Gemuse = Vegetables
Brot = Bread
Apfelsaft = Apple juice
Milch = Milk
Kaffee = Coffee
Himbeer = Raspberry
Zucker = Sugar
Tee = Tea
Schmuck = Jewelry
Nusstorte = Nut Cake
Hund = Dog
Katze = Cat
Bahn = Train
Bahnhof = Train station
Bahnhofstrasse = Train Station Street

It's pretty clear now that if I'm ever stranded in Deepest, Darkest Switzerland, I'll be able to eat. It's all good!

This is the Kind of Thing I Hate

It's Friday morning. We're at an internet cafe in Port Louis, and my space bar doesn't work. The techno music is really loud. Also, this morning we drove Catherine to the airport and said good-bye; she's spending the next six months volunteering in northern Limpopo province, South Africa -- near the border of Zimbabwe. She's a spunky one!

Jeez, I thought saying good-bye once was hard enough. Saying it again was harder. We're somehow already at the end of our time in Mauritius -- I remember when we extended our time here and it seemed like it would never end. Suddenly, the end is upon us, and we've spent the last two days saying goodbye to people. Later today we'll board our flight and head for Switzerland, where we'll be greeted by mountains, snow, chocolate, cheese, and really nice practical underwear which lasts forever -- at least, that's what my husband would have me believe.

If only saying hello wasn't always eventually followed by saying good-bye, traveling would be perfect.

Feel the Excitement

For the past three weeks we've been chilling out here in Mauritius, fulfilling our goal of "being" more than "seeing" or "doing". We've spent lots of time on the beach, the patio, the spa, the couch, the chaise lounge. However, it recently occurred to us that we're leaving in less than a week, meaning that we realized that there was a whole bunch of STUFF that we hadn't done yet -- meaning that every single day for the next five days is scheduled to the max. (This means we're doing one thing a day, usually in the afternoon for a few hours, but for us, this is a seriously packed schedule. How will we ever return to a full-time work routine?)

Yesterday we had our first-time-ever water skiing lessons. One of my awesome cousins organized a lesson with his instructor, and we spent our afternoon on the beautiful beach at the Trou au Biches Hotel, here in the north. We took turns at the skis, and BG was delighted to discover that water skiing is, like, totally easy, man, and almost exactly like snow skiing except for the sun and water and the fact that you're wearing a swim suit and life jacket instead of 24 layers of polar fleece. This means that he aced the lesson, and didn't even have to use the beginner bar or short rope, but went straight to the advanced long rope and skimmed along the waves without even getting his hair wet.



On the other hand, Catherine and I had a bit more of a struggle. Kenny, our instructor, took one look at us and recommended that we start with the beginner bar instead of the rope, so that we could get used to the feel of skis and so he could shout instructions to us as we learned. Getting up was the hardest part. My feet kept getting crossed with the skis, just like in snow skiing. I ended up on my stomach with my feet behind me and also above me, just like in snow skiing. My knees felt all funny, just like snow skiing.

I guess it really is just like snow skiing after all. I forgot how bad I was at snow skiing.

Anyway, once up, the skiing was fine. Kenny made us do squats while moving at 1000 km/h, or whatever speed we were going at. I graduated to the long rope by my third pass, and finally got to feel the exhilaration (and terror!) of skimming on top of the waves while standing.

The skiing had to come to an end after about an hour because we were way too tired to do any more -- three weeks of sitting on your butt will do that to you! We opted to have Kenny take us out for a spin on a couple of inner tubes -- Catherine sat, firmly wedged and solo, in one tube, and BG and I lay on our stomachs on the second and held on for dear life. We ended up on our sides, on our backs, on our stomachs. We went airborne, we got soaked. We screamed a lot; I'm sure we ruined the tranquility of the day for the poor tourists relaxing on the beach.



***I interrupt this post to tell you a story. I went tubing with a friend once. Said friend and I held onto the inner tube, our legs and torsos in the water. At one point, the driver accelerated so hard that her bikini bottoms were whisked off of her body and down to the bottom of the lake, never to return. We went back to shore with a life jacket over her bare butt. I have a fear of tubing for this reason. I'm happy to report this didn't happen to us yesterday.***

We finally returned to shore, breathless and excited, but also slightly thankful to be alive.

Today we'll hike the tallest mountain in Mauritius, the Black River Peak. It's a staggering peak at 837 m, and I'm nervous, as I am every time I climb a mountain.

One more week. One more week. I wish it didn't have to ever end.

Oops.

It occurs to me that our itinerary says we're in Cairo, Egypt. Truth be told, we had that all booked -- ten days in Turkey, a week in Egypt. We were supposed to leave Mauritius on November 18th, and now it's the 24th.

The truth is that once we'd been here a few days, we found ourselves really getting into the groove of "Island life". The beaches, the food, the sunshine -- what's not to love? After some long-distance phone calls and rage-inducing visits to the Mauritius office of South African Airways, we changed our itinerary, cancelled those legs of the trip, and decided to stay. We'll now fly directly to Zurich (via Johannesburg) on December 5th, and then return to Toronto on the 22nd as originally planned.

Actually, the clincher for me was being here with my wonderful family after spending almost a year in the company of relative strangers. I have thrown myself gladly into their warm embraces, and am nestled here all cozy and comfortable amongst my people. I appreciate my family members more than I ever have, and am thankful every day that we get to spend more time with them. BG is also enjoying his time with them (and with Catherine, who also extended her time in Mauritius.) We've even scaled-down the time we intend to travel around Switzerland, and have decided to spend more time in one place with BG's family.

It's a wonderful way to end a wonderful trip.

Slow Blogs + Love and Chopsticks = TLA

I'm feeling all warm and fuzzy right now, and it's all thanks to Monna at Slow Blogs. Up until a few days ago, I was pretty sure that the only people reading Love and Chopsticks faithfully were the same people that would have come to one of my childhood piano recitals or synchronized swimming competitions (Oh, the shame!) -- family and close friends. I was obviously thrilled when Monna contacted me to let me know she was enjoying "our blog" -- and I was even more excited when she told me she was featuring us on Slow Blogs as a story worth reading.

I'm sending the love back to Monna and am leading you, our faithful readers, to her story at Teacher Meets World. That's right, she has two blogs. I know, crazy. How will you ever keep up? Anyway, she takes the whole travel lifestyle to another level, as she and her boyfriend DP left their home in Ottawa, Canada ten years ago and have been living abroad ever since! Traveling is one thing, but working and living in a different culture is something else entirely, and I bow down to their sense of adventure and bravery.



Thanks, Monna, for making my day.

The One and Only

Africa was good... but...

Mauritius is way better.

When we're not basking in our own private infinity pool or sunning ourselves on the beaches at Ile aux Cerfs, we've been out on excursions all over the island. We've seen Chamarel and the seven-coloured sands, Trou au Cerfs volcanic crater, and Le Caudan Waterfront in Port Louis. Yesterday's excursion, however, was THE day trip to top all day trips, as we were invited by my cousin's friend to spend a day with her at the Saint Geran Hotel, part of the One and Only chain of hotels and one of the top 100 resorts in the world.



See that photo? We sat in those chairs. Actually, that's where our One and Only experience began, as we were escorted to these comfortable seats to await the arrival of our hosts. They had been expecting us, and greeted us with wet chilled towels to refresh ourselves with. Then we were led to our ocean-view suite to freshen up... and also to peruse the price list, which nearly gave us a heart attack; rack rates for Le Saint Geran START at 1100 Euros per person, per night.

Don't worry if you're single. You get a 25% discount on the room.

Our morning was spent on the chaise-lounges on the white sand beach behind the hotel. We gazed at the crystal clear waters of the Indian Ocean, and were pestered by relentless salesmen hawking their wares: kaftans, pareos, beaded necklaces, and illegally obtained and illegal-to-export-to-your-home-country seashells the size of shoe boxes. All of our needs, whims, wishes, and random thoughts were attended to; luckily, there weren't many in our blissed out states.

Actually, our afternoon was spent in much the same fashion, after a gorgeous lunch of sushi, fresh salads, and gourmet pastries and desserts (of which BG had... wait for it... four.) I do have to admit feeling a bit of awkwardness during lunch while returning to the table from the buffet line (an activity which I repeated, embarrassingly, four times.) I wasn't allowed to carry my own plate of food. Rather, an attentive staff member was waiting, and insisted on carrying my lunch to the table for me. Clearly they thought it would be too heavy for me to lift.

All in all, another great day in Paradise.

A La Recherche Du Temps Perdu (pardon the lack of accents)

I'm walking down the streets of Port Louis, staring intently at the ground to avoid tripping on the uneven cobblestones. At the same time, pedestrians in front of me stop to examine the wares for sale on the sidewalk -- cotton shirts, plastic kitchenware, nail clippers. I turn to avoid them. To the left of me is the central market. I can hear the vendors inside advertising their wares: "Bananas! Lychees! Eggplants, peppers, lettuce! Madame, some mangoes for you?" The sweet scent of ripe fruit mixes with the muskiness of the Indian spices they're selling. It's a familiar, comforting fragrance.

I turn the corner and cross the street, dodging the cars and motorcycles that come careening through the intersection. I come to a certain storefront and go inside. A wiry middle-aged man of Chinese descent is wrapping a set of spanners for his customer. He nods to me in greeting, his head bent over the desk. I squeeze past, being careful not to upset the piles of industrial machinery that surround me. The pleasant-looking woman at the back, his wife, writes a receipt for the purchase, makes a copy with carbon paper. The wrenches are wrapped efficiently in wrinkly brown paper, the package sealed with ancient cellophane tape. The purchaser hands two folded notes over the desk to the lady, who puts the money in the top drawer of her sagging desk. Next to her, comfortably seated in an old wicker chair, I put my hands out, palms up, for her to give me the money. My beloved aunt looks at me, laughs, pats my arm. I could be six; I could be thirty (one.) It feels like nothing has changed here since I was a child.

Parts of Mauritius are glossy and fancy; the capital of Port Louis is being remade and revamped. No matter how bright and shiny it may become in the future, this is how Mauritius will always be for me -- and I wouldn't have it any other way.

You're Full of It

What, you ask, have we been keeping ourselves occupied with lately?

Let's just say we're making up for five weeks of bush cuisine. I'm not knocking my own skills, but there's only so much you can do with a can of beans and a package of noodles.



Our first day, we ate lunch on the beach -- the deliciously familiar taste of roti and yummy fried Indian treats were all the better as we watched the aquamarine waters of the Indian Ocean kiss the white sands.





We're in French pastry heaven here! One of the must-do stops on our list was a bakery we last visited in 2003, when BG ate SIX pastries pretty much straight out of the oven. I'm happy to report that he matched his record this time, with Catherine taking the silver medal with four. Tarts bursting with fresh sweet banana custard and pastry shells full of sweet almond paste were devoured next to my favourites, Napolitaine cookies -- melt-in-your-mouth shortbread dipped in pink icing.



Actually, some of the best and most memorable meals are those eaten with family. This weekend we were treated to two dinners with family, and both were incredible. Being away from home for almost 15 months now has been great, but coming to Mauritius and spending time with family members has been a bit of a homecoming for all of us. On a personal note, sharing some of the tastes of my childhood with everyone has been the most nostalgic, familiar experience of all -- it ranks right up there with some of the "Big Sights" of 2008.

Breathe and Stop

After 13 months of backpacking around and moving every night, dozing on buses and striding through markets, changing diapers or feeding penguins, scrubbing mats or cooking a bush dinner via LED light, and lately, setting up camp with scorpions and elephants raiding our camp (and one deciding to have a snack next to the open-air shower I was using), we landed in Mauritius for a well-deserved break.

Do you know what we did today?

Nothing.

Actually, we sat and watched Barack Obama win the US presidential election (yay!), watched Gore Vidal tear a strip out of a BBC anchorman, sat near the infinity pool, went to the beach, and ate roti, ice cream, and fresh pineapple with chili.

You have no idea how happy I am to be here.