Lizards not allowed

One of my favourite things about Mauritius is the reptiles (which I recently discovered no longer exist, evolutionarily speaking). Most of them don't belong here; they got carried on boats over the past few hundred years or so from various corners of the Earth, but have established some substantial populations here. A nocturnal house gecko is the one you'd see the most. See and hear, they are damned noisy little things. ("What's that bird sound?" "It's a gecko." "No way, they don't make noises!" "Yes they do." I've had that conversation many times, with the same person.) I couldn't help but laugh when I saw this one trying to get into the bank. Apparently he wasn't welcome, though he remained determined. I think it's an agamid lizard, which was introduced around 100 years ago from Asia. They do change colour for specific seasons, but are most commonly this brown/olive and sometimes grey colour. 

We went for an exploration through a small forest area not far from home. Small forest areas represent what was once the majority of the island, but now relegated to a few small patches, another example of the human impact here, something which is always very, very apparent. Anyway, it was the first time I saw the Mauritius ornate day gecko. It's a distinctly colourful little thing as you can see, and apparently quite common. It's also endemic, Mauritius is the only place in the world you can see it.

The whole trip was part of a weekend exploration down to the South of the island, and we ended up in Blue Bay. It's a nice place, but quite a loud, obnoxious tourist hub on the beach. Fortunately, the guest house we stayed at gave us access to another patch of beach around the corner, which had almost no-one on it. I spent a LONG time in the evening reading, and after a sound sleep woke up looking out of the window at this coconut palm, a worthy cliche icon of life on a tropical island. 

The weekend wouldn't have been complete with a walk along the beach at Grand Bay after getting home, and another photo looking out to the boats and the great beyond.