It was the worst cyclone the island had seen for at least fifteen years. “Beryl” came on us like a curse on the eve of Christmas.

Violent winds had started to blow at around four o’oclock in the afternoon and it was already dark with a sticky mist spreading around the city of Port Louis and its suburbs.

Inside the village hall, which was the refugee centre nearest to the shanty dwellings where I lived, people were sheltering from the terrible assault of the gusts. There was quite a group of us already: three women with their children and four men. Rollo, who came from Sainte-Croix quite naturally took command of the party and was inspecting one by one and consolidating, where necessary, all the windows which were banging dangerously. He was sitting in front of the large ping pong table which lay in the verandah supervising everything. Apart from Rollo, there was Ali, a young hawker who lived in Pamplemousses and who could not get a bus when the traffic stopped after the class three warning. Also there was Kee Low whose shop had been partly destroyed in a recent fire. He was the opposite of what his name suggested in French ( kilos )… as slim as a blade of grass. Prem, a school caretaker in his forties was battling with the primus lamp. His job was to make tea, which he accepted willingly because, as he put it himself, he had the know-how.

The wind was raging, hitting hard against the windows that were almost hidden by packs of green leaves. From time to time came the cracking noise of branches torn down by the storm.

How, in such chaotic moments, did somebody hear the furious knocking on the door of the village hall? Prem did.

“I heard someone banging at the door. I knew that something was happening there. Mala, my wife, was the first to rush to where the noise was coming from but she saw nothing because of the heavy layer of condensation on the door. The next minute, the whole group was by her side, wiping the glass with their bare hands. It was then that we got the shock of our lives. A lady, well-dressed but soaked to the skin, was standing on the door-step. She looked terrified.”

Willow Close Thamesmead Surrey, England December 2004

Dear Editor

My name is Ann. I am English. A few years ago, I was employed as an aid worker for the United Nations in Mauritius. I had followed my husband who was on contract there. It was his last year in that particular job and as I was eight months pregnant, we were waiting for the birth of the baby before going home. We were living in Grand-Bay and the following incident happened when I was driving home from the southern part of the island. It was my first experience of a cyclone and I listened to the advice of the local people who were adamant that the storm was not a threat for Mauritius because for years the island had been spared any serious damage. A man even stated jokingly that no cyclone would dare visit Mauritius as long as their Prime Minister was in office. Unfortunately, I believed them and set off alone through the gradually worsening weather.

Near a place called Le Hochet, my Mini Austin stalled. I realized I had made a big mistake in starting off so late in the day. The wind was already blowing hard and there was no-one to be seen on the road. I thought that the best thing to do was to seek refuge in a house nearby. I saw a concrete building at the far end of the road and by the time I reached the place I was almost drowned. My legs were no longer supporting the rest of my body. I was feeling faint but managed to knock at the front door of the building.

When I opened my eyes again it was morning and my little girl was lying beside me in a basket made of coconut leaves.

She was born just after midnight, on Christmas day. Mala and the other women had done a good job while Rollo, Prem and Ali and KeeLow had braved the storm together to fetch a pair of scissors and a small bottle of antiseptic from the police station to cut the umbilical cord.

They came back with some filao branches and the women lighted candles. The transistor was playing Christmas carols. So, after all, I did have a Merry Christmas. And a wonderful gift was lying in a bed of branches.

Now that I am back in England, how can I forget what the people of Mauritius did for me and my child? I thank them from the bottom of my heart. Everybody says that Merry – that’s her name – is different from other children of her age. She is now eight years old and is a very lively creature, always very caring towards others. She obviously has some Mauritian characteristics, says Tommy, my husband. I am looking forward to coming to Mauritius soon. I think Merry should know more about her Mauritian god parents. I wish every one in Mauritius a very Happy Christmas… and no cyclone.

Ann