If you ever want to test the strength of your friendship, don’t go to IKEA. Go to Mauritius, preferably during cyclone season. And, for extra spice, make sure a global pandemic starts right when you’re supposed to fly home.
I know, I know — Mauritius sounds like a dream: turquoise lagoons, white-sand beaches, fruity cocktails with mini umbrellas. And we had all that for about 72 hours. Then things escalated… both meteorologically and globally.
️ ️ Chapter 1: Welcome to Paradise (Please Fasten Your Seatbelt)
It all started innocently enough. Just two women, temporarily child-free, boarding a plane armed with sunscreen, sunglasses, and that particular kind of pre-holiday optimism that only a cheap flight and a bottle of duty-free wine can bring.
We landed in Mauritius with high hopes and low blood sugar. Our plan? Beach. Tan, Gossip. Repeat.
Reality? We managed three beach days and some frozen mojitos before the weather app started screaming in bold red fonts:
“CYCLONE ALERT LEVEL 2 – STAY INDOORS!”
Excuse me, what?
Our hotel, in the most casual Mauritian tone, texted: “Don’t worry, ladies. Just a baby cyclone.”
I beg your pardon, sir, but there is no such thing as a baby cyclone when your balcony chairs start flying around like unsupervised toddlers on espresso. And trust me, no Diane ever brought good news — not even the cyclone kind.
️ ️ Chapter 2: Snacks, Books, and Storm Survival
We passed the time arguing over whether “snorkelicious” was a real word (it’s not), binge-listening to Mauritian radio in hopes of storm updates, and practicing cyclone hairstyles that involved zero brushes and all of the humidity.
At one point, we tried meditating. It lasted four minutes and ended in laughter when the roof creaked ominously and she whispered, “If we die here, please delete my browser history.”
Chapter 3: The Car That Couldn’t
Once the winds died down — well, almost — and our tropical prison half-released us, we looked at each other, sighed in synchronized rebellion, and said: “Enough!” We were sick and tired of watching our vacation days get washed away while trapped indoors like two bored flamingos. So we grabbed our raincoats (okay, beach towels) and hit the road in our rented car, determined to tour the island come rain, wind, or questionable decision-making.
Mauritius, even in a stormy sulk, is breathtaking — emerald hills rolling into the sea, sugarcane fields that look like jungle confetti, and sleepy villages where even the dogs seem to walk in slow motion.
Our first stop was the Casela Nature Park, because apparently, “let’s go look at wet animals while we ourselves resemble drenched laundry” sounded like a good idea at the time. We sloshed through baby crocodiles, admired soggy albrada giant tortoises, and ended up soaked to the soul, briefly discussed adopting a tortoise.
That’s when the car decided to stage a dramatic protest.
After only a few hours of playing “island travel influencers” and ignoring the suspicious blinking on the dashboard, the car coughed, whimpered, and died. Right in the middle of absolutely nowhere. No shops. No signal. No humans — just misty fields, and two very damp, very annoyed women.
We briefly considered pushing it (laughed and gave up), or sacrificing one of our remaining snacks to the car gods (we did — a coconut, offered with reverence). Then, like a miracle summoned by our damp despair, a man in a tuktuk pulled up, smiling like he saves stranded tourists every Thursday.
He called a friend with a car battery so powerful it looked like it could restart a spaceship. Ten minutes later, the island pit crew showed up, jumpstarted our dying rental, and brought it back to life with cables and island optimism.
The car was saved. Our spirits, too. And the coconut? … It was delicious.
Chapter 4: Giant Water Lilies, Alouda, And Crystals
Next stop: the Pamplemousses Botanical Garden, home of the giant water lilies. These beauties looked like oversized salad bowls built for jungle fairies. Still soaked walking through the garden, but somehow, it added to the charm. Nature was wild, our hair wilder, and the photos? Wet, blurry, and fabulous.
We even made it to Chamarel, famous for its Seven Coloured Earths — a surreal landscape of naturally occurring rainbow-hued sands. We stood there, wind in our faces, rain in our shoes, looking at the earth’s very own tie-dye, and thought: this may not be the holiday we planned, but it’s definitely the one we’ll never forget.
Then came the local market, a riot of colors, smells, and sellers who had master’s degrees in charm. We tasted mangoes so ripe they melted, papayas, lychees, and pineapples carved so elegantly we felt underdressed. We sipped alouda — a magical pink drink made with milk, basil seeds, and agar jelly, served ice-cold. It was like bubble tea met rose syrup and got a tropical makeover.
In one corner of the market, we met a man who sold stones and crystals. He gave us a passionate (and possibly semi-invented) crash course in energy, chakras, and how to “never get divorced again if you sleep with a rose quartz under your pillow.” We bought three. Just in case.
And then — because our souls were slightly chaotic and our hair was already frizzing in all spiritual directions — we visited a Hindu temple. There, among the bright statues of gods and goddesses, incense smoke curling in the air, and the soft hum of prayer, we stood barefoot on cool stone and just… breathed. It was peaceful. Humbling. Sacred. And yes, we left with a red dot on our foreheads and a renewed sense that the island might actually be watching over us.
Of course, no Mauritian adventure is complete without eating like you’re training for a food documentary. The island’s cuisine is a love letter written by Creole, Indian, Chinese, and French grandmothers.
We devoured:
- Dholl puri (warm flatbread stuffed with yellow split peas, always two at a time, always dripping with sauce)
- Gateau piment (chili cakes, basically Mauritian falafel, addictive enough to start a side hustle)
- Octopus curry (sounds strange, tastes like magic)
- Fresh grilled fish, street noodles, and more mango pickles than our intestines appreciated
And wherever you go — eat like you mean it. Mauritian food tells its own story. Let your stomach be the guide.
Chapter 5: Plot Twist – A Pandemic
As if cyclones and cars weren’t enough… the day we were supposed to fly back, COVID officially entered the chat.
The airport looked like a dystopian sci-fi set: panicked tourists, frantic flight changes, and people literally fashioning masks out of socks, bras, and baby wipes.
My best friend turned to me and whispered, “I think we’re in a horror movie. But like, a stylish one.”
We found one pharmacy open. It had two masks left. We bought them, took a very dramatic selfie, and got on the plane home, where everyone suddenly discovered a deep respect for hand sanitizer and personal space.
Chapter 6: Paradise, In All Its Messy Glory
Yes, our holiday came with strong winds, weak engines, and the beginning of a global crisis.
But it also gave us:
- Coconut trees that danced like drunk uncles at a wedding
- Slow-dancing in the rain with giant turtles
- Laughter that filled our bungalow even when the Wi-Fi didn’t
- A reminder that adventure rarely follows the itinerary
Would I go back? In a cyclone heartbeat.
Would I do it again with her? Always.
Would I check the cyclone season and World Health Organization updates next time? …Let’s not ruin the spontaneity.
️ Chapter 7: If You Ever Go to Mauritius (Which You Should Absolutely Do)
Here are some gems you shouldn’t miss — cyclone or not:
- Port Louis Market – for spices, fresh fruit, textiles, and people-watching
- Black River Gorges National Park – lush forest hikes and waterfalls
- Le Morne Brabant – hike it early, and you’ll get the views (and bragging rights)
- Île aux Cerfs – white sand island day trip, best done on a catamaran with rum
- Grand Bassin (Ganga Talao) – a serene sacred lake with giant statues and calm vibes
- Rochester Falls – great if you like natural beauty and slightly terrifying road access
Travel isn’t always pretty. Sometimes it’s chaotic and damp and weirdly masked. But the best stories are born exactly there — between the broken cars and the improvised masks.