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Our Father - Ramgoolam be Thy Name
PM slumming it in Rodrigues
Preamble to the visit.
By Alain Leveque
Ever since my invisible pooch, Zoltan, learned of Ti-Ramgoolam’s (Mauritian PM) visit to Rodrigues (L’express Rod. 07/03), he hasn’t been able to contain his excitement, and has gone off his food.
Despite intensive medical intervention, recurring nightmares still torment my canine friend. The same poisoned dream still visits him in the dark – of every night. That is, vivid images, in living colour, of Ti-Ramgoolam landing at Plaine Corail airport astride a giant Pegasus (minus the Aston Villa).
Zoltan speaks of seeing the unholy trinity of Judas Iscariot, Brutus and Benedict Arnold face down on the tarmac, on all fours, yellow fangs dripping with fresh bone and flesh, waiting to greet their beloved Emperor.
Zoltan also recalls ticker-tape parades from La Fermes to Port Mathurin, and streets lined with counter-rotating-eyed uncle-Toms, madly waving their shackles like a badge of honour. Baby-whales too, he says, are selflessly beaching themselves off Baie Malgache to feed the people. Ahh, what a sight, poor Zoltan!
Invariably, the dream always becomes foggy when Pegasus turns into a Gorgon, and ends up chasing Zoltan from his country. No wonder, his tail wags … no more.
Don’t know what to make of my beleaguered little mutt’s dream; I guess it’s something to do with Emperor Augustus returning to Rome – after Caesar’s demise.
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Our Father – Ramgoolam be thy Name
An unembedded version of the visit.
Over the years, world leaders, heads of state, governors, a prince and a pope too, have visited our shores and, from time to time, we’ve been honoured to receive the odd poppadom oracle and wandering guru. All the same, rumour has it, that Prime Minister Ramgoolam’s recent return visit to Rodrigues was the daddy of them all – the piece de resistance, so to speak. Word on the jaundiced grapevine puts it somewhere between Macarthur’s return to the Philippines and the Second Coming.
Having journeyed all the way from the island of Mauritius, oops, from The Republic, after an eleven year absence, our globetrotting PM finally landed at Plaine Corail. First glimpse of the great leader was reportedly enough to send Rodriguan hearts aflutter; adoring women fainted and, awestruck old men cried openly that such a moment had come at last. A mawkish few even declared the visit – the best day of their lives.
Had we breathed in all the hype from the twilight zone and believed all the virtuosos of spin, we could have been forgiven for thinking that history, with camera on her shoulder, had indeed descended on Rodrigues, to record this epoch-making event.
Well, history didn’t quite make it, so for what it’s worth, here’s the un-embedded version.
The three leaders of MR (Rodriguan Movement cum Labour Party Faction) sent their diehard supporters, and a rent-a-crowd mob, to serenade Ti-Ramgoolam at the airport. There, roughly 200 of them (many of whom, the locals had never seen before) draped in party colours and fuelled with fire-water, along with a few others who would have eaten their own liver for a chance to hobnob with the PM, began chanting “Ramgoolam nou papa …nou papa … Ramgoolam nou papa (our father)” – ad nauseam.
It reminds me a bit of Duval’s 1967 visit. All froth – no bubble. Like Ti-Ramgoolam, he too, was publicly avuncular while privately – Rodrigues’ nemesis.
Back then, like now, trusting Rodriguans still pin their hopes on fleeting, forked-tongued politicians. Duval’s feet never touched the ground that day in ‘67; the illusion that he was one of us, was so powerful that our people carried him aloft on their shoulders and, chanted, on and on and on, for what seemed an eternity “Ki nou le Roi? Sir Gaetan Duval Ki nou le Roi (who’s our king)?” Needless to say, that was, before, he sold out and, threatened to deport all Rodriguans who refused to share his new-found political allegiances. Ok I digress … less said about that the better – let bygones be bygones.
Well-timed news of thousands attending an MR booze-up, given in Ti-Ramgoolam’s honour, filtered through. In perspective, perhaps, not too dissimilar to the thousands who turned up, stood ten deep around the old Port Mathurin tennis courts (in front of the abandoned police station) and, cheered like crazy, as the first German Shepherd police dog performed go-fetch tricks. Why do we do it? Curiosity, sheer boredom, or something in the water, who knows? Other than, I was there that day, among that crowd, in awe of that wonder dog, who could unbelievably understand all those English commands. The year was 1966.
There was also a report of an excited MR agent who managed to get the PM’s Autograph.
I guess it must hold some sentimental value for him, because unless Ti-Ramgoolam single-handedly captures Osama, poor fellow won’t get much for it, on the streets of anywhere.
I don’t know who the PM’s speechwriter is, but bravo, the part where he says “with information technology … working in Mont Lubin is like working in Manhattan” was a beauty. Monty Python would be proud.
The PM was quoted as saying that he was surprised when Rodrigues’ chief commissioner presented him, with an honorary title of Freeman of Rodrigues. No, I kid you not! That’s the name of the title – Freeman of Rodrigues. Maybe, it wasn’t getting the title so much that threw him, but rather, the wicked irony of its name. Something in the vein of a Pyramid-building slave, stepping out of a mud-brick pit, long enough, to dub Pharaoh
Freeman of Egypt. That – would surprise Tutankhamen.
Titles exchanged between peers, like Dorothy Dix parliamentary questions, are so common these days that reasonable people, no longer take them seriously. They are seen as a ploy used to circumvent the customary taboo of a self-administered pat on the back. As a rule, they are pre-arranged. So, the PM was surprised was he? Go on … really!
Figuratively speaking, MR’s leaders do not usually pass wind, without first checking with the PM in Mauritius. So, what suddenly prompted them to grow a backbone, and crown Ti-Ramgoolam off their own bat? Bingo! You’ve got it in one – Budget Estimates. Fair enough too. Let’s keep our fingers crossed; otherwise all this marvellous grovelling would have been in vain.
What was the title for again? It was for all the great things that Ti-Ramgoolam has done for Rodriguans over the years. Aaah right! I must have missed that bit.
By the way, remember Zoltan, the invisible pooch who went off his food on learning of the PM’s visit to Rodrigues (L’express 16/3). Now, that it’s over, Zoltan’s nightmares have stopped screaming; he’s on the mend, and is taking his nourishment through a straw.
As he marks his territory, a rictus of a grin plays on his craggy face and the old mutt can be heard muttering from the side of his mouth “Ramgoolam nou Papa …Ramgoolam nou Papa”.
About the Author
Alain Leveque is a writer living in Melbourne, Australia who promotes self-determination for the people of Rodrigues island.