Wish you were here

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The local newspaper, Le Mauricien, and some free magazines like Kozé are a good source of what is happening on the island. As I am not on Facebook, I was not aware of the local advert for a Pink Floyd tribute band playing at Le Morne Fishing Club until the night before the concert.  I had high hopes of getting a ticket. The venue is only a mile from my home and not surprisingly next to the beach. I never knew it was there and thought the best way to get a ticket is to go down and buy one; “Allons-y!”

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Security was tight!

It was surprisingly well hidden behind the Black River Police Station and I had to work hard at persuading the “Jobsworth” gatekeeper to let me in without a members’ car park pass. “Hey you, over here!” he barked at me with paranoid eyes. Having been guided to park, surely moor, in between two large boats, I walked into the spacious clubhouse bar and enquired about a ticket.

“Sold out completely two days ago, 450 tickets,” I was told firmly by Seamus the barman, “No chance of a ticket for love nor money; the guitarist is as good as Gilmour.”

Seeing my obvious disappointment, a member came over and said I could stop, stay for a drink and watch the rehearsal. I said thanks and I did. If only I had been on Facebook!

The band’s crew were erecting an impressive stage, video and lighting set and the band were getting ready to rehearse. I was really surprised at how professional the whole setup was and felt more than a little sorrow that I was not going to see the show.

I chatted to the member about the fishing club, it’s history and stayed for about half an hour by which time I had not heard a single note of music, only a few dogs barking on the beach. I had watched enviously as the set was built for the next evening’s concert by the sea under a clear night sky not obscured by clouds, a fat old sun or an eclipse.

“Well, you have stayed for half an hour so, well, I know Frederick has a spare ticket, would you like it?”

Agreeing with this obvious logic, I replied “Yes!” Frederick came over and said, “Do you want to speak to me?” “Yes” I replied, “what’s, uh the deal?” I bought the ticket grinning broadly for the princely sum of 450 rupees (£8.33 at a pre-Brexit exchange rate).

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I arrived at the club, parking outside the wall, not quite sure to expect; I was in for a real treat. You had to buy tickets for drinks and food. A few hundred people were already outside in front of the stage having a good time chatting and catching up. Some familiar faces said hello, the ones who could remember me, and introduced me to their friends, even someone’s Mother, but I felt a bit of a lost sheep, one of the few expats there. The bar area was pretty full too resonating to the sound of laughter and the clink of wine glasses.

Clouds of smoke were coming from the food area, I don’t know how the chef could breathe. Chicken, burgers and Boerwors (but no pigs) were being expertly cooked on a flaming BBQ a.k.a. braai. I must do a braai one of these days.

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Fed and watered, there were no empty spaces in the arena in front of the stage.

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Stage lights on, cheers from the crowd, the band walk on, here we go!

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The show was superb, it was just like seeing them in the flesh.

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I was lost for words but not for the songs I knew.

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He is over there on the left, in front of the two backing singers

The lead guitarist was brilliant, fearless, modest and note perfect.

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The sound quality was clear and loud but not so loud to get brain damage and no echoes. The audience loved it, some comfortably numb probably due to the Johnny Walker Red Label on special offer!

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Watching groups of friends, arms around each other, having a great time singing along with the band to songs I know inside out, 7,000 miles from home and where most of Pink Floyd’s music was composed.

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‘Hey Teacher….!’

It was strange I was loving the music but I could not remember a day when I felt more homesick than this. The stage in front of me, the ebb and flow of the sea lapping at the shore to my right, the gentle breeze a pillow of winds, marooned in a sea of happy people to my left and I felt strangely alone in the surreal atmosphere, almost poles apart from the locals.

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The stage was lit with paint box colours, any one you like, competing with the night light, some of the original Pink Floyd videos playing at the back of the stage and the audience rocking along with the band.

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I walked back to my car wishing that one of these days I will get a bike, drove the short distance home, nobody home or signs of life except the odd mosquito but Pink Floyd joined me instantly as I put the ipod on and blasted those so familiar songs again looking out over my balcony at the dark sea. Black River is no Saint Tropez, it is so much better than that and has a saucerful of secrets just like the fishing club.

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Question. How many Pink Floyd song titles did you recognise in the blog?

Answer. 46.

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