Swimming with the gods in Mauritius

At 6.30 on a late February morning the sun is already as hot as a rare warm June afternoon at Royal Ascot.

I sit in a raised pavilion in the new, eccentric Oberoi hotel on the northwest corner of Mauritius, one of my five favourite islands in the world.

It is humid. In January and February most rain falls here: eight inches or more. But, as in Barbados on the other side of the world, the showers are sudden, warm and brief.

The land is verdant. Miles of sugar cane fields roll far away. It's still the main crop but now contributes less than ten per cent of the little republic's buoyant national income.

In other respects, thank God, Mauritius is nothing like Barbados. This busy, prosperous island is not dependent on charter flight tourists and none of the rich, vulgar folk who are such honking horrors on the Bajan scene.

The buildings of this new Oberoi resemble at first astonished blink a thatched African village. My windows stretch up from flowerbeds to the overhang of the brown sugar cane thatch. My window and my little private pool are surrounded, for modesty's sake, by golden ochre walls. Four frangipani trees hang over the pool supporting darting sparrows.

What remains so endearing about Mauritius (which I first discovered 20 years ago) are its rambling, flowery lanes along which in close amity you pass a Hindu temple, Christian churches from High Roman to Low Pentecostal and a Muslim mosque. Villages and shops have French names. Though English remains the official language, French and a Creole patois are still universally, melodiously spoken.

The island is no small Caribbean tourist pad but 40 miles by nearly 30 miles. The airport, now modernised, is still growing. By one gate waits a gleaming host of white-cowled nuns. The main exit, however, jostles with Muslims making their pilgrimage to Mecca. And the car park is bright with the saris of prosperous Indians.

The general manager of the Oberoi, a German, neatly generalises, praising the peaceful unity and cheerfulness of the island. He explains: 'The Indians lead in politics, the Muslims in the professions, law and accountancy and the French - they still live on their country estates where the English left them in 1810, when your country took over the island!'

These days there's a rush hour in the capital, Port Louis. It always had a faded charm and still has a splendid market. But new factories, primarily making textiles, have sprung up producing 25 per cent of the nation's wealth. Self dependence - Mauritius has been independent since 1968 and a republic since 1992 - produces a confident nation. Too often countries which depend on mass tourism (often in offensive hordes) lose pride, develop chips and become surly.

The rough-hewn exterior of the Oberoi buildings embrace modern marbled delights plus air conditioning, TV, the lot. But I can't see why the Thai architect so concentrated on the African influence. Mauritius lies 550 miles off the African coast and 1,200 miles from dire Mombassa. The island has been far more influenced by the Dutch, French and British occupations.

Mass Indian immigration (as indentured labourers when slavery ended) and the subsequent arrivals of Chinese and Malays made the island the lively, friendly melting pot it is.

Around the Oberoi there were certainly many Indian and Balinese artefacts: my garden is guarded by grey stone beasts, a tiger's head watches over my private pool and a strange, horn-topped god stares into the marble bath.

The gardens are improving by leaps and borders. They and the sapphire-blue pool are enlivened by bizarre statues, figures often in grey volcanic stone, some reclining, some as if fallen. It feels like swimming in the ruins of a Balinese temple.

Dark pitchers deliver water into pools. Cascades fall from tall, engraved columns. Swimming among them is delicious and, at the moment, far easier than the ocean. Strong seas in January swept much sand off the gently sloping stones. The sea inside the close reef is very shallow and the stones are hard on the feet.

I write in a high, thatched platform in my garden, like an Indian maharajah's throne. From it, I can see the white beach parasols and the blue-green banded sea. To the south east are Mauritius's fantastical purple mountains, some topping 2,000 ft, spiky and often cloud-capped like fairy fortresses.

The 18th Century botanical gardens at Pamplemousses (yes, grapefruits do grow there) are beautiful, serene and free. On an earlier visit we came upon the Hindu prime minister's funeral pyre. Next time his memorial was finished. Around and about stand young trees given by presidents and royalty from the world over.

There are wonderful old trees, water gardens of immense lily leaves, some from India, some from the Amazon, and in the centre is a beautiful but empty French-built Governor's house.

There are 80 different palm trees among 600 different trees altogether. One, the talipot, blooms only once in 60 years, then dies.

Down in the south west I've been deep-sea fishing and, close by, explored the Black River Gorges National Park and seen the once almost extinct Mauritius kestrel and pink pigeon. I've been up to the green extinct volcano, the Trou aux Cerfs, and swum off the eastern shore from the Ile aux Cerfs. There were plenty of these cerfs around because the Dutch imported them. Sadly, these deer also routed out the ebony trees and finally killed off the dodo.

The greatest improvement for tourism on the island is the development of the magnificent waterfronts at Port Louis. Where tatty old wharfs once stood there is now a magnificent array of chic shops, busy pubs, arts 'n' crafts, good restaurants . . . here sleek businessmen in silk shirts and ties and dark suits, prattling French, lunch well, while at the next table jolly, fat Essex girls and lusty lads gorge and giggle.

Dinners at the Oberoi are in a tall, open-sided hall, wonderfully lit - the designer works in theatres - and offer the essence of Creole cooking with whiffs of Indian, based on excellent French.

I stroll back to my little cottage past a rushing artificial waterfall and a new lake honking with a deep orchestra of frogs. Suitably, they sound fat and happy.

For information on Oberoi Hotels call 0207 222 0606.