Lalang: A Photo Essay
Khatleen Minerve (photographs) & Ariel Saramandi (text)
Lalang Bef
“We’re not European. We’re English. We like to think of ourselves as separate.” She told me this three years ago: knife slicing roast beef, university canteen.
Beef, boeuf. Boef. Little inheritances, invasions, forgotten.
I think she voted remain.
Koze bomli
Maybe a negosyasyon is in progress, resulting in enn deal.
Bomli. Bombay Duck. Meaning fish, dried fish.
Pena Rol Manz Pistass
To have a rol. Role. To have something to do.
4 p.m and the customers are waning: women have already bought their riz for tonight’s dinner, tomorrow’s lunch.
He doesn’t reply when we ask for his photo. Too tough for this. Looks at his friend for validation, confirmation that his swagger won’t be ruined by art.
He turns his head away to smile as the shutter clicks. Pops peanuts into his mouth: un, deux, trois. I think he liked the result.
Marsan Lagazet
Newspaper seller.
The press is in decline but the radio won’t die—you can’t see it but it’s there, next to him, blaring out politics, the lottery, horse racing, music from America to India, Sega. Frédéric François, Mike Brant play on weekends, which were made for nostalgia anyway.
Ki Pe Dir
How are you?
Vowels deepen, lengthen, with colonization. Ki pe diiir. Qu’est-ce que tu dis? What are you saying about yourself, today? Describe in a few simple words, or return the saying and keep walking.
Many Mauritians think Kreol is a bastard tongue, and ought to be kept that way. Never elevated into language, into the business terrain of French and English.
Maybe they’re afraid. The arrogance of the language, like a mistress. You love her, but won’t leave your wife, because what will people say. What will the world say.
~
Iqbal
Our shops and stalls, our italicised invitations. Iqbal has produced a medley of fonts, languages, colours. A microcosm of this country, in a soda fountain.
Koze dan kwin zardin
Behind the men, you can see the banyan trees that fill Les Jardins de la Compagnie.
The French wanted it to be a park, a fine little exposé of their savoir-faire in urban planning. Ideally, it’s what you would do: eat at the market stalls, then walk around the gardens, contemplating life. And at night, like in the Bois de Boulogne, you would pick up prostitutes. The latter, at least, is what the gardens are now known for.
Koze Twa
Suits in a bazaar. Speak in Urdu, reply in Kreol.
Maybe you’ll have bought a raffia bag, a wooden dodo. Authenticity is prized commodity, but nothing genuine is ever sold. You’ll find it instead in our speech, our smiles, our spit.
~
Khatleen Minerve was born and lives in Mauritius. She’s a passionate portrait photographer who started taking shots six years ago and has been working as a freelancer for the past two. On the way, she earned a Law and Management degree. She loves to enjoy a cup of tea every hour or so.
