A tray of coconut-infused rum shots floats under my nose. It’s 3.30 in the afternoon; I’ve just disembarked from my taxi, laden with luggage, squinting under a blinding tropical sun in Mauritius. Local rum is the welcome drink at the hotel. I waste no time in getting into the ‘spirit’ of the island, which is beguilingly smooth and sweet.

Rum is one of the mainstays of the Mauritian economy. Not surprising, given nearly 80 per cent of its farmable land is covered with sugarcane plantations. But there is something fundamentally different. Ninety-nine per cent of the rum the world drinks today is rhum industriel, made from molasses — a tradition that goes back to the 17th century, when traders put the waste product of sugar manufacturing to good use. The other one per cent is rhum agricole — made from fresh sugarcane juice — and Mauritius contributes significantly to that stock.

The swathes of sugarcane fields, like much of the island’s landscape, take me by surprise. Of course, there’s the stunning coastline of the tourism brochures, but the interior is largely volcanic and mountainous, with jagged, bare, rock faces rising out of the soil.

At Port Louis, the busy capital, the Le Caudan Waterfront is abuzz. A promenade filled with local families stretches along the harbour, lined with cafes, bars, and charming little shops spilling over with cane baskets, trinkets, souvenirs and bottles of rum, in all shapes and sizes. But there is more to the waterfront than the alluring tipple.

Thanks to its storied past, Mauritius has always had a healthy mix of cultures: Dutch, French, Indian... Colourful umbrellas are suspended over a broad avenue, bordered with boutiques, curio shops and outdoor restaurants. It’s all very European. I wonder if I should spend a few hours at the Blue Penny Museum, home to a collection of rare stamps (including the rare 19th-century Red and Blue penny stamps). However, I’m more interested in what’s outside. Quirky raw wood totems stretching up to 12ft cluster around a small space. In the middle, a rasta-cap-adorned aged islander is quietly sculpting a polished tree bark. He is PEM, or Philippe Edwin Marie, a Mauritian artist and local legend of sorts. He carves faces into wood: impish grins, giggling children and so on.

A few steps away, the Du Soleil Aux Sucres stall is dispensing, by the roadside, beer and rum mixed with fresh sugarcane juice. I join the locals as they line up for the heat buster. The sweetness is cloying.

The story of rum in Mauritius is a cocktail of its political and cultural past, which, unfortunately, is not all happy. It starts at the Aapravasi (or Coolie) Ghat, a Unesco World Heritage Site. This is where, in the early 19th century, indentured labour from British colonies (including a sizeable population of Indians from Bihar, Tamil Nadu and many other states) landed before they were packed off to sugarcane plantations. Sadly, most never made it back home. Between 1834 and 1920, nearly five lakh Indians were brought to this side of the Indian Ocean.

Today, Mauritius has six rum distillers. Saint Aubin is the oldest, using sugarcane and vanilla from its own plantations, which date back to 1819. Rhumerie de Chamarel is the best known, largely because of its proximity to the seven-coloured sands. Chamarel perhaps is the best example of the island’s unique landscapes — 7,500 sq m of undulating red, green, brown and blue dunes. You can tour the distilleries and taste the finished product.

There is some interesting food to go with your glass of rum. Mauritius’s mixed-up heritage is most apparent in its cuisine. French and Indian influences blend seamlessly, creating the seafood-heavy Creole cuisine that the island’s known for. At the harbour-facing La Rose des Vents restaurant, I eat a very French, pepper-encrusted fillet of bourgeois fish for lunch — mostly because I’m in awe of the name. Dinner at Zilwa Attitude Resort is closer to a meal from home. There’s a spread of Indian food, differing only mildly from the versions we’re used to. Curry de paneer with faratas and dhol , eggplant fritters on the side; which essentially translates into paneer, parathas and dal with the very Bengali begun bhaja on the side. I’m stuffed to the gills, but just as we’re leaving, there’s that tray of rum shots again. Except this time, they’re flavoured with lychee and vanilla. Dinner may have been a homely affair, but I’m not used to knocking back post-dinner shots. But one for the road, they say.

(Malavika Bhattacharya is a Delhi-based freelance writer)

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