The fragrant whiff of herbs and spices, mingled with the smoky allure of food sizzling on charcoal burners, had my gastric juices murmuring in anticipation.

 

The fragrant whiff of herbs and spices, mingled with the smoky allure of food sizzling on charcoal burners, had my gastric juices murmuring in anticipation. And we’d only just stepped off the ship’s shuttle and wandered into town. This did not bode well. At this rate, I’d spend more time eating than sightseeing—especially since a mere twenty minutes earlier, I’d polished off a magnificent sausage, bacon, and fried egg bap on board.  

The place was vibrant, buzzing, alive with cheerful faces. Everywhere you looked there was grand old buildings, suddenly giving way to lush parks. One, in particular, appeared at first glance to be encircled by a moat, though closer inspection revealed it was merely criss-crossed by gentle streams flowing through neat brick channels. A haven of shade, an island of tranquillity amidst the roaring tide of traffic and humanity.  

Banyan trees loomed overhead, their aerial roots dangling like tentacles, draping over shrines and statues in a most theatrical fashion. The locals seemed genuinely delighted to see us, chattering away in French, their faces lighting up when Judith responded in their tongue. 

There was a palpable pride in their city, everything felt fresh, well-kept. Even the statues in the park stood unvandalised, and the public toilets near the exit were decorated with floral displays, overseen by formidable Big Mamas who took their Rs.10 fee and their custodial duties with equal seriousness.  

An elegant building, painted in colonial yellow and white, stood out against the verdant backdrop. Nearby, a sculpture of a dodo—the hapless bird hunted to extinction by the Dutch—occupied a prominent spot. This was, in fact, the National History Museum, but time was short, so we pressed on towards the fort.  

More green spaces popped up, each dotted with an eclectic assortment of sculptures, French, Oriental, possibly Chinese. The inscriptions were lost on me, so their significance remained a mystery. 

The local supermarket was a riot of exotic fruits and vegetables, none of which I could identify, and once again, we found ourselves embarrassingly short of local currency. Somewhere back in Scotland, there was a money bag stuffed with forgotten rupees from trips past—utterly useless to us now.  

With the exchange rate at roughly Rs.60 to the pound, most things seemed pricey—though a pint of Guinness for £1.50 felt like a bargain. (Priorities, you understand.)  

The architecture was a fascinating jumble: crumbling colonial relics, wooden buildings oozing character, old lava-stone walls, rusted corrugated roofs, and towering apartments bristling with air-conditioning units. Eventually, we found ourselves in Cathedral Square, where clusters of people in black legal gowns over crisp white shirts suggested the courts were nearby.  

The roads were pure chaos—clearly the heart of the city. At the bottom of one congested thoroughfare, the red funnel of the Queen Anne loomed cheerfully. The buildings were magnificent: grand columns, palm-shaded gardens, high walls hiding what I imagined were stately colonial mansions. And everywhere, volcanic rock—used in walls, pavements, even the road gutters, were oddly beautiful for something so utilitarian.  

We meandered up and down lanes, dodging traffic with the practised nonchalance of seasoned pedestrians, past churches and over ancient volcanic slabs, until we reached Fort Adelaide—or La Citadelle—built between 1834 and 1840 on the hill of Petite Montagne.  

The steps were monstrous, each one a knee-crunching foot high—utterly unsuited to Judith’s diminutive steps. After Vietnam, where the steps were built for the petite, this felt like scaling Everest without the aid of Sherpa Tenzing.  

But the view from the top was worth it: the racecourse sprawled below, the mountain ridge beyond, and a skyline peppered with temples, churches, and mosques. Then, at precisely 12:28, the muezzin’s mournful call echoed across the rooftops, soon joined by two others, creating a haunting chorus that reverberated through the city.  

The hilltop was alive with birds—tiny, tit-sized things a dazzling red colour, presumably a cardinal, and a slightly larger reddy/orange, a little like a Siskin which l think must be the famous Mauritius Fody. 

The descent was made via a gravelly path, infinitely more forgiving than the "stepping stones to heaven" we had clambered up earlier. From there, it was a leisurely amble back into town, past a collection of ramshackle buildings that clung to existence with what could only be described as structural optimism. They were, in their own precarious way, rather artistic, the sort of haphazard charm that makes you wonder whether they were held together by anything other than sheer willpower.  

We chanced upon a chemist who, with the brisk efficiency of a man who had seen it all before, prescribed something for my cough. I had expected a bottle of viscous, medicinal syrup. Instead, I was handed effervescent tablets. Dubious, but obedient, I took them. To my astonishment, within a day and three fizzy doses, I was markedly improved. Science, eh?  

Passing beneath a flamboyant Chinese arch, we wound through streets lined with archaic little shops, the kind that seem to exist solely to remind you how modern the modern world really is, before emerging in front of the Jummah Masjid, a mosque of such striking rustic beauty that it quite took our breath away. It was prayer time, so admittance was off the cards, but even from the outside, it was magnificent in that well-loved, slightly crumbling way that the best old buildings often are.  

By now, our senses were in a state of architectural saturation, but the market beckoned, and who were we to resist? It was a riot of life, a cacophony of commerce, with vendors hawking an extravagant array of foods, herbs, and spices—including fresh vanilla, priced, naturally, at the "tourist rate." Curiously, it was the locals who were snapping up the most exotic offerings, leaving us to ponder whether we were missing a trick.  

Eventually, we retreated, our thoughts turning decisively to sustenance. The plan was simple: secure a fresh chicken burger with chips and onion rings, a modest ambition, or so one might think. So once back on board, I nipped into the Wellness Café and emerged triumphantly with a luscious salad. Then, burger order placed, we settled in to wait for the buzzer that would herald our meal.  

And wait we did. And waited some more. At length, we approached the counter, where it became apparent that our chicken burgers had been mistakenly handed to another couple, a pair who had, in fact, ordered beef. They had taken several enthusiastic bites before realising the error. Now, call me old-fashioned, but a chicken burger does not, in any universe, resemble a beef patty in a bun.  

When the meal did finally  materialise in its intended form, it was, it must be said, delicious. A small victory, but in the grand scheme of things, a satisfying one.  

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