Edouard Maunick, the late world-famous Mauritian poet, was born in Flacq. Just a stone’s throw from Trou d’Eau Douce. And the lover of words that he was knew more than anything that Creolité could also jazz.
And that even if this village in the east is a long way from New Orleans, the sea is always just a space to be explored. With boots of seven places and a slam of the tropics, we could marry the black notes of Louisiana with the tropical rhythm of the ravanne. The result is a marriage blessed by Mo’zar.
The shadow of another deceased musician, José Thérèse, hung over this festival. And if you closed your eyes, you’d think you heard him setting the tone for the musicians who now lead the Mo’Zar ensemble, a crazy project set up to save the children of the ghetto from poverty and social ills.
The Kreol Festival can also bring together old glories, both musical and poetic. And young up-and-comers Blackwell and Kelly Ang Tin Hone, slammers for a night, can hope to wear Edouard’s shoes in a future chiselled with flamboyant flowers.
All that was missing was Charles Baissac, even though his name has yet to be spoken, to remind us that he is the man who brought sirandanes to life in books. So that these ‘zedmo’, these puns that seduced Malcolm de Chazal as much as Jean-Marie Gustave Le Clézio, winner of the Nobel Prize for Literature. But we’ll have to remember that there was a Baissac, to exorcise the voodoo nights that gave birth to sega, blues and jazz. And the Kreol Jazz Pioneers and Philippe Thomas, now in charge of Mo’Zar, can call on big brother Louis Armstrong:
‘I see trees of green, red roses too
I see them bloom for me and for you
And I think to myself
What a wonderful world…’
Yes, the world is beautiful when it’s Creole. And Creole is beautiful when it’s jazz. The waves applauded this tropical surrealism. Like an invitation to fraternity. Richard Duval, the Minister for Tourism, knows what he’s talking about: ‘We’ve given visibility to artists thanks to the Kreol Festival. Fode pa nou ena fristrasion dan zorey’.
Listen up: Creolité is more alive than ever. It lives in a freshwater hole. Like a spring that never runs dry!
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