A Journey of Pride: From Mauritius to Melbourne

By Jacques Coosh

When his older brother asks him if he is gay, Jacques is first stunned by the question.

Soon after he’s come out, Jacques leaves behind the idyllic island of Mauritius, and embarks on a journey of self-discovery.
First stop Paris, where he lives grandly for a time, before his life takes a twist and he finds himself squatting in a less salubrious part of the French capital.

Next stop Cyprus, where Jacques reinvents himself as a teacher. He then survives war-torn Lebanon, and heeds the counsel of a generous Australian benefactor who encourages him to make Sydney his next destination.

There, things don’t go according to script. And before long Jacques is confronted by numerous setbacks. But he is resolute, and manages to overcome adversity, eventually finds true love, and ends up in the most liveable city in the world.

This is a poignant story of resilience and hope. Jacques’ narrative in this autobiographical novel is simple and powerful. Despite the challenges, he finds fulfilment, happiness and success, living the life he wanted.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Tellwell Talent
• Release date: May 18, 2015
• ISBN: 9781925219920

Jacques Coosh

Jacques Coosh comes from the beautiful tropical island of Mauritius. Jacques lived in several countries, including England, France and Cyprus, before settling in Australia. He now resides in Melbourne with his husband.After his popular autobiographical novel and no-less successful murder mystery, Jacques Coosh now brings us an anthology of diverse short stories. His new book reflects his rich heritage and worldly experiences.

Book preview

Prologue

It was very late that night, early morning in fact, and I had had a few drinks at the party, but wasn’t drunk. Just feeling merry.

I was lying on a couch. My older brother, John, and sister-in-law, Marie, came into their living room, and laid down on the other couch facing me. We were all tired after cleaning up the mess that partygoers had left behind.

It was a balmy night, as it often is in the tropics, and the alcohol I had consumed compounded the humidity and intensity of the moment.

My brother looked directly at me, and asked me straight out. Are you gay?

The question came out of the blue. I wasn’t prepared for it. It rattled me for a second.

I just blurted out: Yes, yes, and got very emotional. I choked, and broke down in tears.

Soon after, I remember feeling relief. Liberated. No more lies, no more secrets, no more double life.

John said: Nothing will change in our relationship. Our love and support will always be there for you.

Marie nodded in agreement.

I can’t remember much else from that night. However what I do know is that this moment marked a turning point in my life.

I was living in Mauritius then – a tiny island in the Indian Ocean.

I’d been back living in Mauritius, where I grew up, after completing four years of study in England. I had found it somewhat challenging readjusting to life on an island roughly the size of Greater London, after my student days.

The answer to that question would not only bring me respite. It would also in many respects determine my life from then on.

This autobiographical novel is primarily my journey since that auspicious evening. The story unfolds via the decisions I made, and the travels I experienced, once the burden I’d been carrying was lifted.

Chapter One:

A British Citizen

My parents were on a six-month overseas trip – their first ever. They’d decided to go ahead with it, despite my mum, Mamie, being heavily pregnant. When asked whether she was worried about undertaking such a long journey, Mamie told her close relatives: I’ll probably get better hospital care in England, brushing off their reservations.

They sailed on m.v Pierre Loti from Port Louis, the Mauritian capital and port city, first to Madagascar, and up the then pirate-less East African Coast, through the Suez Canal and onto Marseille. After about a month, they reached their destination – London. Where my uncle lived.

I was already on the move.

I was born at Saint Thomas Hospital, Westminster in 1955. Just across from Big Ben.

Mamie refused to see me for the first few days when the hospital staff told her it was a boy. She’d been longing for a little sister for my brother. She’d refused to contemplate this nascent possibility, and hadn’t given much time and thought to choosing a boy’s name.

Much later, I found out that during the passenger liner’s two-day stopover in the Madagascar port of Tamatave (now renamed Toamasina), my parents had been hosted by Mamie’s cousin. Jeanne was expecting her second child, whom she’d decided to name Jacques.

I was baptised in London, and soon after, we made our long journey back to the homeland. Little did the bundle that I was, nor my parents, know how determining and precious that faraway birth would turn out to be, and how much it would shape my future.

By virtue of my birth in London, I was granted British citizenship, and obtained a British passport that my dad, Papi, was very keen for me to get when I was still a minor.

When asked by the British consular authorities, he said authoritatively: My son will be travelling on his own, and he needs a separate passport.

When I reached the majority age of twenty-one in Mauritius, that by now had gained its independence from Great Britain, by law I had to choose between my British nationality and a Mauritian one.

I opted for the former.

I was always conscious that my birth certificate looked different from that of my fellow classmates; it was a much longer and larger document when compared to its Mauritian equivalent, and it had big red markings. It stood me aside when we had to present the document at school, the sort of attention I didn’t particularly enjoy at the time.

Sometimes, when my friends saw me coming, they’d say dismissively: "Here comes the anglais potiche". The term means a pseudo Englishman, someone not having the physical features of what was then regarded to be those of a ‘real’ English person. The term, not a really pejorative one, is sourced in the French language. It reflected in an ironic sort of way that, though I was British on paper, my schoolmates didn’t consider me to be of that ilk. Neither did I for that matter.

Chapter Two:

The Cousins Are Gone

I grew up in the town of Beau Bassin à la Rue Téléphone. Speculation was that the street owed its name to being the first street with a telephone line.

Papi worked for the Education Department, and his position made him eligible to undertake paid overseas travel every few years. But It was Mamie who held the purse strings.

My childhood was a happy one. We did not own a car, but enjoyed a comfortable lifestyle. I’ve happy memories of the simple pleasures of child play with my numerous neighbours and cousins. We seemed to be part of a big, happy, extended family, as is very much the case in small island communities.

A great uncle, who I never knew, had the vision to buy a big plot of land, that he parcelled off and offered to all his nephews, including Papi. At first there were no fences or other boundaries between our respective houses, and as kids we could roam and play freely over a large territory that we made our own. I can still smell the ripening mangoes, guavas, lychees and other tropical fruits, as we climbed in the numerous fruit trees in our playground.

My childhood was highlighted by two six-month travel episodes. The first, back to my place of birth, and Europe. I’ve better recollection of the second one, not only because I was older, but because it was more eventful. And the places we visited impressed me as being more exotic then. We squeezed our way through the Suez Canal shortly before the Six- Day War, and visited the Holy Places in Israel and Jordan. People were dressed in clothes I’d never seen before. I’d never heard the sounds of the languages they spoke. We needed two passports each when crossing the border between the two countries. They were so different from each other.

As the trip also included South Africa, we needed a third passport each. I remember toilets and queues in banks and post offices for whites-only and for blacks-only. In some places, there were also queues for Indians and Coloureds. We queued in the Coloureds queues when they were available, but I was never quite sure where I really belonged. I never felt comfortable with this segregation. In fact, I hated the place. Apartheid was in full force, and we weren’t welcomed in a whites-only hotel, or in one run for blacks only. We stayed in an Indian-run establishment.

We flew home on one of the first flights to land in the newly-opened Plaisance Airport.

In between the visits to the Middle East and South Africa, we spent two months in London. Whilst I spent most of my days seeing the sights of London, Papi convinced John, who was five years my senior, that he was better off getting a job and earning some pocket money. Which he did.

Back in Mauritius, I attended the local Catholic primary school. I wasn’t a nerd, but pretty studious.

You need this piece of paper to succeed, Papi continually impressed upon us. From a very young age, I knew what he meant.

But I was lousy at sports; I rarely tried any. I broke my right arm trying long jump. And I can only recall ever playing one football game during my school years, although soccer was by far the most popular sport, and most boys played and breathed it. And some were very gifted like my brother.

If there was no drama from a domestic or academic viewpoint, there were other tribulations. Cyclones are an integral part of the climate cycle, and I have vivid memories of a particular one, that caused significant damage. And that is still present in the psyche of many Mauritians. Cyclone Carol hit the island in 1960 with tremendous force at a time when houses were still largely made of timber and corrugated iron, or had large bay windows, colonial style. And the warning system and information flows were not as good as they are today. The worst damage occurred after the calm and lull of the eye, and the fierce winds resumed battering the island from the opposite direction.

Our house lost part of its roof, and water kept pouring from the skies into my parents’ bedroom. We struggled to take refuge in our neighbours’ house, leaving through a small kitchen window at the back. Carol left a trail of destruction behind her. There were some deaths. We were without electricity and water for weeks, as the infrastructure suffered heavily. Schools were closed as well, as they provided shelter to the homeless. The fields of sugar cane, the main lifeline of the economy, were devastated.

I’m not going through this terrifying experience again, I heard Mamie say to Papi a few days later. We need to strengthen the house, and as soon as possible.

Soon after, the old living room, kitchen, bathroom and toilet were rebuilt with concrete. And the damaged roof was repaired.

Another traumatic experience for me as a child, and one that would have greater resonance later, was what was happening to many close friends and relatives around me. They were literally disappearing overnight. I would wake up one morning, and the cousins next door would be gone, and their house emptied of its contents.

I questioned my parents: Where have Giliane and Vincent gone? When will they be back?

They’ve gone on a long journey, was their answer. I couldn’t make sense of their answer.

Where, why? I quizzed further.

They’ve gone to Australia. By now they’re in the middle of the ocean on a big ship, Papi said.

Australia, Australia? And I quickly went to look up the map hanging on our wall in the living room. I’ve always had a fascination with maps of the world. I tried to imagine what life may be like in such a vast country.

Papi quickly brought me back to earth. In a firm voice, he said: Don’t you worry. We’re not going anywhere. We’ll be on the last ship sailing to Australia, and that’s only if we absolutely have to go.

As things turned out, Papi was right, in an ironic kind of way. We all ended up flying to Australia.

But that happened much later, and in different circumstances. And we all eventually made our way there at different times and for different reasons.

At the time Giliane and Vincent emigrated, Mauritius was in the midst of critical decision-making about its future. The burning question was whether or not to become independent from Great Britain, having been a British colony for over one hundred and fifty years, longer than it’d been French. There was no consensus among the political parties. In Mauritius, the parties were all ethnic-based then – sadly, I don’t think much has changed.

There were broadly two camps: those in favour of independence, made up of those parties dominated by Mauritians of Indian origin and of Hindu faith, the majority ‘communaute’. The other camp was made up of the parties that represented all the minorities – primarily Creoles (people of mixed parentage and Christian), Whites, Muslims, Chinese-Mauritians. The latter coalition, going against the tide of history, advocated some form of special arrangements with France.

The pro-independence parties won the crucial democratically-held elections, and the country was heading towards independence. The sizeable Creole minority felt threatened at the turn of events, and uncertain about its future and the viability of the economy. Many started applying to emigrate to Australia, just as the country began to relax its white-only immigration policy.

Many thousands were successful, including Giliane, Vincent and their parents. And it was all happening very quickly. The abandoned neighbouring houses were being sold at bargain prices. New people moved in, and fences went up all around. My small and immediate world was changing fast. I wouldn’t see my cousins again for a long time.

Papi was one of the very few people in the area who supported the main pro-independence party. For that support, I can recall stones being thrown in anger at our house verandah during the election campaign. But he was steadfast in his views. And I’m proud of him. And I was pleased that we were different.

Before Mauritius formally became independent, more tragic events took place that impacted on me, although not to the extent it was impacting those caught in the firing line. There were race riots in the capital, Port Louis, opposing Creoles and Muslims. There were a number of deaths. My sister-in-law’s family were among those displaced families that sought refuge in my home town. Schools were closed for several months across the country.

I’d won a scholarship at the end of my primary schooling, and found myself, or rather my parents found themselves, in the envious position of being able to choose the secondary college I’d attend.

However, because of the riots, I started my secondary schooling some three months late. And by then, the school had decided to no longer offer Ancient Greek as a subject. I had to settle for Latin instead.

After the nuns in junior school, I now had Irish priests as English teacher and rector. I also happened to be taught religious knowledge by a fresh-faced Mauritian priest, who has now been elevated to the rank of Bishop of Port-Louis. Whilst there is still the Catholic boy in me, I’ve always liked to think of myself as an open-minded, independent-thinking Catholic. I was never cut out to be a scout, nor an altar boy.

The political environment in the country became more conservative after independence. A grand coalition government, including the former adversaries, was in place. It postponed general elections, and suspended many fundamental human rights under a state of emergency.

It was in this climate that I spent my early teenage years. I was becoming more politically conscious and progressive in my views. Not radical, just more non-conformist, more so in my thinking than in my actions. Or maybe I was just being rebellious or mischievous as teenagers can be. I recall endless arguments with my father on political matters, societal issues, on any topic really. I’ve always been a bit of a devil’s advocate. And I was an idealist too then.

At college, I had a number of close friends, some of whom regularly got high on marijuana during the lunch break, a habit I somehow never got into. But in my last years at college, my friends’ lunchtime indulgence helped add spice and colour to the afternoon sessions, when we dabbled in writing poetry in our literature classes. Or sought to fix all the world’s problems during intense political and philosophical discussions, aided in that by the benevolence of young teachers, just back from their overseas studies, having experienced the student uprisings in Europe.

A few of my friends at college also happened to live close by. They, together with several other teenage boys and girls living in the immediate vicinity, often also in Rue Telephone, became my core circle of friends. We would spend hours together almost every day doing things that teenagers do. That, on occasion, included a lot of drinking amongst the boys.

I remember being very carefree, and thoroughly enjoying my adolescence. And also being quite free in terms of my movements, unlike many of my friends, whose parents were strict, and sought to put them under virtual house curfew by nightfall on weekdays. Some, however, became very adept at finding ways around the restrictions.

Since John had left to go to work and study in London, I had grown more independent.

I remember at the last meal before he was due to depart, Papi held his wine glass, and farewelled my brother: You’ll be away five years. That’s a lifetime. His eyes became teary. An infrequent sight.

After John’d gone, I felt I could get away with almost anything, maybe because it was like I was an only child. Or maybe because, despite having a good time, I was getting pretty good results at school.

I enjoyed playing dominoes and card games, particularly a French card game named Belote. I played competitively, in pairs with my cousins, in tournaments organised by the school and community clubs, and won a few prizes along the way.

I also developed a passion for horse-racing, and a taste for betting on horses. The punting habit risked getting out-of-control during the six months I worked in a bank in Port Louis, whilst awaiting my Higher School Certificate results. My office was literally only a few metres away from a row of bookies in the nearby street.

My results turned out to be good enough to give me entry to a decent university in England to undertake undergraduate studies.

I may also have been in line for a scholarship to study in France after coming second in the Classe de Terminale Concours (the French HSC equivalent), run by the Alliance Francaise.

But Papi quickly ruled out the option of my studying in France.

The British are more disciplined, he said.

I wanted to go to the London School of Economics, but Papi thought it was too left-wing. Instead, I enrolled at University College London. UCL was the first university in England to admit students of any race, class or religion, and the first to welcome women on equal terms with men. So a rather progressive history too.

I was sad to leave Mauritius, especially as I’d just been reunited with John, who had returned after 5 years away, and was now a Chartered Accountant. At the same time, I was excited at the prospect of living away from my parents for the first time. And experiencing life in a country so much bigger than Mauritius, the country where I was born, and that I’d visited on several occasions, but that still felt foreign to me.

I was twenty. Another chapter of my life was about to start. Not only academic-wise.

Chapter Three:

Sexual Awakening

I arrived in London on a grey afternoon. I felt quite nostalgic. Fortunately I was staying with relatives: Papi’s cousin, her husband, and their two gorgeous girls, and they provided emotional support in those early days. And we’ve remained close to this day.

Initially, I could also rely on the camaraderie of a small group of former college friends, who had just arrived to study in England. We tended to hang out together. At least in the weeks before the start of the first term. It’s not uncommon for Mauritians from very different backgrounds to bond more strongly when abroad than they had back home.

We could read English, and write it grammatically correctly. Speaking it at first took on another dimension though. We could, at times, use odd expressions or literal translations. And create funny or embarrassing situations.

We were in a jeans shop once. The young shop attendant came up to us, and asked if she could help.

No, we are just casting a glance, my friend replied. The attendant took off, and never returned.

In another instance, a friend tried to start small talk with a fellow student by reflecting on the cold, rainy day. He said to her: What terrible time. The French word for ‘time’ is the same as the word for ‘weather’.

I studied economics at UCL. A pretty dry subject. But it was spiced up somewhat in the first year by Psychology and French units. It was a whole new experience learning to pace my attendance at lectures and tutorials, juggling the odd part-time and summer jobs, and enjoying what uni life had to offer. And I made some good friends, mainly from other Commonwealth countries, like Malaysia and Cyprus. And Winston, a soft-spoken, friendly, upper class English chap.

I remember the long, hot summer of 1976. The smell of freshly-mown lawns, the perfume from flower baskets hanging out from balconies and pubs. And people sunbathing in parks and gardens. Especially the handsome shirtless men.

I put in long hours of revision before the end of first-year exams. The only distraction I allowed myself was to listen occasionally to the Top Twenty charts. I still have the sounds of ‘Fernando’ and ‘Dancing Queen’ ringing in my ears. It was all worth the effort. I got reasonable marks. I rewarded myself by going to the tennis at Wimbledon, queuing for a ticket overnight.

The biggest reward was a trip back to Mauritius. Paid for by my parents. To attend John’s wedding. After some family turmoil in the lead-up, it turned out to be a joyous occasion.

I also spent some of my holiday getting more acquainted with Danielle, an attractive Mauritian girl I had met shortly before leaving for London, and who I’d been corresponding with while away.

The next two years of my undergraduate course rolled by, highlighted by a trip on the European continent with John and his new wife, Marie. John’d secured a very good job back in Mauritius. They paid for the Eurailpass, hotel accommodation and everything else. I couldn’t afford the expense as a student. My contribution was planning and organising the trip. I included many European cities I’m particularly fond of such as Paris, Amsterdam, Venice and Barcelona.

In Barcelona, on Las Ramblas, I had a tarot reader read the palm of my hand. I don’t usually have much time for or faith in such things, but what she told me has stayed with me.

You are seeking some other kind of love. She left me very confused.

Back in London, I successfully completed my undergraduate studies. As did my Chinese-Malaysian and Turkish-Cypriot friends.

To celebrate our success, and before heading in different directions, we decided to go on a European tour together. My friends were happy for me to organise it, given I spoke French, and they wanted to go to Paris and the French Riviera. And Amsterdam, as well as Rome.

In Amsterdam one evening, my friends went off exploring the red light district. I managed to lose them, and do some exploration of my own, discreetly sneaking into an adult movie cinema to watch some gay porn.

After two weeks in Amsterdam and France, we made our way to Rome.

There we were, on one sunny afternoon in August 1979, in a very crowded St Peter’s Square.

Look up, there’s some white smoke, screamed my friend, Dennis, suddenly.

The new pope had just been elected. It was an historic moment. But history would record that John-Paul’s papacy would be one of the shortest. He died just over a month after acceding to St Peter’s throne.

On completing my first degree, I wanted to further my studies. Fortunately, I obtained a British Council grant to do a Masters degree in Development Economics. That meant my tuition fees were all paid for by the British Council. But there was one condition. I had to agree to go back to my home country, Mauritius, on successful completion of the course, and work there for at least three years. Which I did. It was always my intention anyway to go back home after my studies. Maybe subconsciously though, by prolonging my studies and my stay in England, I was buying time to explore my sexuality further.

The postgraduate course by thesis was run out of the well-respected Institute of Development Studies, located in the grounds of the University of Sussex. I moved from London, but chose not to live on the university campus, preferring to stay as a lodger with a British family, in the nearby seaside resort of Brighton. With ocean views from my room, it was a great location.

The course was particularly designed for graduates interested in the development of third-world economies. We were a melting pot: 26 nationalities in all.

I thoroughly enjoyed the mixing of cultures. We took turns to organise special evenings highlighting our respective music, dances and literature. It was my idea. I also figured out that there’d always be plenty of alcohol available at such events, but rarely enough food. So, as I was the first cab off the rank, I asked my relative back in London, a great cook, if he’d prepare a typical Mauritian dish for 30 starving students. He made a biryani, a rice-based dish, made with spices, beef, egg, and rice of course. I brought it back to Brighton on the train, all the way from London. I held the huge and tightly-sealed pot on my lap in the carriage for the hour-long journey. But I couldn’t help the aromatic smell of cinnamon, coriander, garlic and other exotic spices wafting around the carriage. As we reached our destination, the English gentleman, who’d sat across from me impassively throughout, gently tapped on the pot, and said:

Good stuff you’ve got in there.

The night was a real success, and helped pave the way for more culinary delights from across the world over the next few months.

Sussex is a beautiful county. Brighton Pier is an obvious attraction, as is the British Royal Pavilion in the centre of town. And there are countless pubs. And inland, downs, moors and valleys were there to be explored on foot. With some fellow students, we often went for walks, when the weather permitted such excursions. And we went to see Bob Dylan at a music festival, and attended a Sex Pistols concert. My tastes, and interests, have always been eclectic. Brighton Football Club was also in the top English football league then. So I enjoyed living there during my studies.

The course, by thesis, was demanding, but stimulating. I made some very good friends. All seemed to be in place to make my time most enjoyable. Which it was.

But somehow it wasn’t all rosy. And I don’t necessarily mean the pungent smells coming from the rubbish piling up in the streets, as the garbage collectors went on strike. They joined countless others, as the winter of discontent spread across the country, and would eventually bring Margaret Thatcher to power.

No, it was something more personal, more intimate. Something inside me. About my identity, my sexual orientation. What was I to do about it? Embrace it? Deny it? Fight it? What?

Sometimes I would lie in bed, trying to work out exactly what I could or should do, whilst listening to the BBC World Service on my radio. I’ve long been a news junkie.

Since living in England, I’d come to realise that I was attracted to men. I never felt it was anything wrong. I never felt guilty. I always felt it was who I was. It all seemed natural to me. But could it be just a phase? Could it be that I was bisexual? Could I lead a ‘normal’ life?

Surely being attracted to the same sex was only one of my traits, and maybe not the most determining one.

I didn’t have any gay role models then. I didn’t like the stereotypes, and don’t think I fitted them. I certainly despised all forms of discrimination based on sexual preference. Being a pragmatist, I was most concerned about what the consequences would be of living as a gay person.

I had for a few months now been buying men’s magazines. Gay magazines.

I remember the first time I went to buy one from a newsagent. I walked in and made my way to the magazine section. Walking past the adult section, I glanced sideways, searching for anything gay. There it was, Gay Times. I knew I wanted to reach out, and take it. But was anybody watching? The store was full. I couldn’t bring myself to take it from the rack. A few minutes later, I left the store, disappointed with myself, and holding a copy of The Guardian newspaper and a packet of cigarettes instead.

The second time, mustering all the courage I could, I went in, grabbed the magazine I’d eyed for a while, timidly handing it over to the newsagent.

He looked at me and said: I won’t be a moment.

Can I help you, love? he asked the elderly lady standing next to me.

Whilst he served her, I turned the magazine over, trying to hide the title from other customers, not saying a word.

After he gave the lady her change, he turned to me and said: Just the Gay Times today, sir?

I answered quietly, and held out some money.

I left the store, not waiting for my ten pence change.

After almost four years living in England, I hadn’t met any person that I knew was gay. I hadn’t talked to anyone about my sexuality. I hadn’t set foot in a gay venue.

No one knew of my situation. I wasn’t sure I quite knew myself where I was. I never identified myself as gay. I’ve never been into labels.

I knew that there were gay men around on the campus. At university, there was a Gay Students’ Society. It met every Tuesday evening in the Students’ Union building, on the first floor. At 7pm. I walked past the building