The car could only play one song. Someone with more technical skill than judgment had hacked the stereo so that Britney Spears' My Prerogative played on an endless loop. Perhaps it was fitting. After all, for reasons I still cannot explain, all it took for me to be legally allowed to drive in Mauritius was handing twenty dollars to the American Automobile Association. I'd always considered myself competent behind the wheel, but navigating an island where everything is reversed seemed like a privilege that should cost more than a dinner.
Despite many previous visits, I had never lived alone here - never driven myself every morning into the chaos of Port-Louis. In the States, I had my own playlists, years of practice, and a car with blindspot sensors. Here, it was just me, my International Driver's License, and Britney insisting that "Everybody's talkin' all this stuff about me..."
Before my first commute, I reminded myself that I had trained as a new driver in Boston's Longwood Medical Area - a place Bostonians avoid despite living in one of the U.S.'s most chaotic driving cities. With ambulances appearing from nowhere and pedestrians who consider crosswalks optional, I had seen (and occasionally performed) driving feats unknown to humankind.
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Mauritians warned me that Port-Louis would defeat me, but between Longwood bravado and Britney's pep talks, I felt prepared. That confidence dissolved the moment I met the true philosophers of Mauritian roads: motorcyclists. Unlike Boston drivers, who generally behave as if they value their lives, Mauritian motocyclettes seem propelled by cheerful, fullthrottle nihilism - or perhaps an unusually literal reading of Epicurus' views on death.
Still, I survived--right up until I missed my turn into the office parking lot. I attempted a loop, which required multiple right turns. In the U.S., right turns are Driving 101. In Mauritius, a right turn means crossing two lanes of oncoming traffic with judgment, patience, and divine intervention. I had, at best, one.
I rushed. I thought I had checked for cars. I turned. The impact wasn't dramatic - more a firm BONK - but loud enough to announce that the foreigner had messed up. I was suddenly surrounded by honking cars and strangers shouting in Creole.
We pulled into a side street. My bumper was scraped, his had a respectable gash, and I had no idea what to do. The other driver spoke little English. I spoke no Creole. Britney, unhelpfully, continued claiming her prerogative somewhere in my mind.
So, I called my aunt. Usually I'm the quiet one and she's the talkative one, but our roles reversed instantly. I rambled; she simply said: "Send me your location".
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Moments later, a man appeared, kissed me on both cheeks, and declared himself my uncle. A Mauritian uncle - meaning not exactly related, yet absolutely family. Then his brother arrived. Before I understood what was happening, they were handling everything: paperwork, explanations, negotiations. I had an entire community - literally. Uncles materializing out of thin air, relatives-by-association stepping in, friends of friends calling before I even reached home. Shaken and embarrassed, I suddenly felt held by a network I had never fully appreciated.
I still don't love driving in Mauritius. For the rest of my stay, I added five minutes to every commute just to gather the courage to start the car. I drove only outside rush hour and ignored honks from impatient drivers. I never became good at Mauritian driving - but I gained something else: a deep appreciation for the kind of family support that defines Mauritian life.
In the States, I can drive an entire street without another car in sight. The roads are wide, gentle, and forgiving. Sometimes, driving home late at night, I even drift - once, onto the other side of the road.
