brigade
Don’t make jocular remarks about the prime minister of Mauritius, warns Humphrey Harrison, who was jailed on the island
I GAZED around the tiny ant- and mosquito- infested cell and mused at how misleading those glossy brochures about Mauritius had been. Even so, I should try to look on the bright side: at least the excrement on the walls and the stench of urine from the blanket were genuine, unlike the flowers in the prime minister’s private waiting room.
I couldn’t help wondering whether his penchant for cheap plastic blooms was because the local market is always sold out of fresh flowers by the time he gets up in the morning.
I quickly purged such seditious thoughts from my mind. After all, in Mauritius they imprison you for so much as alluding to the prime minister’s fondness for a bit of a lie-in.
I should know: I had been warned several times in the past week that I would pay for my light-hearted reference to his non- arrival to open one of the biggest gatherings of foreign dignitaries Mauritius had ever seen, but I did not appreciate how deep my remarks must have cut.
My arrest had been ordered by no less than the commissioner of police and both the solicitor general and director of public prosecutions were directly involved in the case.
The irony of it all was that I almost felt sorry for the prime minister: it can’t be much fun getting up in the mornings knowing that the opinion polls put your support at only 12%.
The government’s unpopularity did not surprise me. Until a few months ago I had believed Mauritius to be a shining example to the rest of Africa, but I had since come to appreciate how corrupt and self-serving elements of Mauritian society are and how craven their acolytes can be. I had also learned that Beachcomber Hotels – to which we had brought hundreds of thousands of rands of business – is not the sort of company I would ever want my children to work for.
Two days previously a posse of 10 policemen marched into the hotel where we had just finished holding a conference and, ostensibly acting on a complaint from the hotel, forcibly dragged my wife and me from the lobby and then charged us with leaving without paying.
Jimmy Kruger himself would have been proud of such a spectacular abuse of the law. It was akin to charging a cripple seated at the side of the road with breaking the speed limit.
Nine months previously we had approached the prime minister about holding our annual Sub-Saharan Oil and Minerals conference in Mauritius and had been assured of government support, particularly with security and protocol arrangements for visiting ministers.
Naively, we had attributed the government’s enthusiasm to a genuine desire to promote this would-be offshore financial centre to the international business community. At the time we thought that all those outstretched hands from senior officials were offered in greeting; little did we appreciate the symbolism of the gesture.
Only after we had started marketing the conference did we receive the first intimation of true Mauritian government hospitality, when we were asked to meet the costs of providing “law and order, security and other services”. I began to wonder whether we were dealing with a legitimate government or a subsidiary of Executive Outcomes.
We were also advised that a government task force had been formed specifically for the conference and that “allowances will have to be paid” to its members. I protested and demanded some indication of the size, duties and cost of this task force.
Six weeks later I got an answer: allowances amounting to tens of thousands of rands would have to be paid to 21 officials. We would also have to pay for chauffeurs and cell phones for them, as well as numerous other expenses.
The chair of the task force and a principal assistant secretary in the government, Duva Pentiah, went to great lengths to explain that if we did not agree to pay these allowances (and various other “estimated costs”), there would be a “chaotic situation”, the government would not be able to guarantee “the smooth running of the conference” and “delegates would be subject to undue delays at the airport”.
The message was clear enough. Pentiah’s many letters and telephone calls over the ensuing weeks centred mainly on the amounts we were to pay, rather than on the task force’s work.
However, he was always considerate – even going so far as to propose that “as regards the mode of payment, we will have the opportunity to discuss that when you are in Mauritius”. Of course.
There seemed no end to the hospitality of the government. We were instructed to invite, as guests of the government, no less than 141 local politicians, officials and other notables (none of them having any connection with either oil or minerals) to eat and drink at the conference, all at our expense.
Throughout the conference at least one member of the task force could always be found sitting in the foyer, staring vacantly into space. This assistance was invaluable. Then, just as the conference was finishing, Pentiah himself appeared and handed me a letter outlining the various payments purportedly due to him and his collaborators for services rendered.
I glanced at the claim and immediately realised how churlish I had been in questioning these officials’ motivation in wanting to assist with the conference. All inflated charges had apparently been stripped out and the claim was now only for such essential costs as the washing of government cars, an orange juice served in the airport VIP lounge – and, of course, “allowances” for the task force. I noticed that for the first time he was providing us with the names of the members of the task force.
“Yes, but what exactly have they all done?”
“Well, I personally have put every hospital in Mauritius on alert for all three days of the conference”.
I wondered whether he knew something that I didn’t about the hygiene in Beachcomber’s kitchens.
I scanned the annexures: R2 000 for the official who issued 34 visas, plus fax charges of R10 a visa. I began to wonder whether I could get a job as a Mauritian civil servant.
On Friday afternoon the hotel presented its final invoice. At the bottom was a demand that it be paid “before checking out at the hotel”. This was the first intimation which we had received that payment would be required before departure.
I queried this unilateral alteration of the previously agreed arrangements and explained that, for obvious security reasons, our bank would not act on a telephone or fax instruction – and particularly not on a Friday afternoon.
Our offer to transfer the funds first thing on Monday morning was flatly refused and I was told that if we couldn’t pay either in cash or by credit card, this was our problem.
I reflected on how two days previously the hotel’s general manager had told us that “as our host” he was obliged to formally warn us that we “could expect problems” as a result of my remarks about the prime minister.
That Friday afternoon we also met Pentiah to discuss his claims, which in his letter the previous day he assured us were only approximate amounts “to be negotiated”. He too demanded immediate payment.
When I requested an itemised invoice, he announced the government did not issue invoices and if we did not pay there and then, the matter would be out of his hands and he could “not be held responsible for what would happen”.
I immediately contacted the South African High Commissioner and the head of business and economic affairs at the US State Department’s Africa Bureau, both of whom advised us it was perfectly reasonable to pay by the previously agreed method and against a proper invoice. The high commissioner phoned Pentiah to make this clear.
I returned to the lobby to find Pentiah huddled with the hotel management. “Can you at least explain to me how a single orange juice can cost R700?” I asked
“Mr Harrison, I have to make an urgent phone call.” He wandered off, chatting away on the cell phone for which he expected me to pay. Ten minutes later I again asked if we could discuss the orange juice; he promptly excused himself to make yet another urgent phone call. This happened four times.
That evening I sought the advice of a senior counsel in Mauritius, who advised me that neither the hotel nor the government had a legal leg to stand on and that I should tell both of them to “get stuffed”.
On Saturday my wife and I went to reception intent on resolving the matter: we were scheduled to return to Johannesburg the next day and wanted to establish whether one of us would be required to stay on until the account had been settled in full. We also wished to query several items on the final invoice. But Beachcomber staff would not speak to us. The waiting police swiftly cleared the lobby and literally dragged us from the hotel.
Later that evening the South African High Commissioner arrived at the police station and demanded to know why we were being detained. He was kept waiting for four hours while the deputy commissioner of police conferred in a back room with the hotel’s manager.
The high commissioner eventually left at about 10.30pm, protesting at the police’s refusal to accept our repeated offers (of personal credit cards, passports and promissory notes) to resolve the matter.
Sometime after midnight, my wife was graciously informed she would be released, provided we settled part of the account by credit card and she did not file a complaint about an earlier punch to her breast. She was allowed to catch the next flight to Johannesburg and immediately paid the full outstanding amount claimed by Le Mauricia hotel by bank transfer.
I appeared in court on Monday morning. Given the very real risk that I might swim the 1 800 km to Mombasa if released on bail, I was remanded in custody for a week.
Late the next day my lawyer succeeded in obtaining my release, but only after confronting the authorities with proof that the full amount had been credited to the hotel’s account.
However, he was informed that I would not be allowed to leave Mauritius until the task force’s claim was also paid in full. Moreover, unless it was paid promptly I would be charged with some other (unspecified) offence.
Though my inclination was to challenge such banditry in court, I was mindful of the way vengeful officials are a law unto themselves in this “island paradise”. Having already sampled Mauritian-style fair play, it seemed prudent to pay the full amount to secure my departure.
The fraud charges against me have been dropped, but the attempt to smear my name endures. The Mauritian high commissioner to South Africa wrote to newspapers, claiming the matter was a private dispute between Beachcombers and a client and suggesting I was lying about the circumstances of my arrest.
When challenged on this by my secretary, he disclaimed responsibility for the contents of his letters and explained that he had taken the information from a Beachcomber press release.
Well, well, what a country: clearly just the place to go for a holiday.
Humphrey Harrison is managing director of Europe Energy Environment, an investment consultancy that organises the annual Sub- Saharan Oil and Minerals Conference