Happy Halloween!

Happy Halloween Ghouls and Boys!

It was a popular card this year--I'm still waiting for a third to make it a set!
Halloween is not widely celebrated here, nor is it very well known; some even go so far as to boycott it, expressing chagrin over the fact that this is yet another symbol of the encroaching "western world." Nonetheless, my neighborhood was transformed come sunset: little witches, monsters, and unrecognizable winged creatures shrieking for, "Les Bonbons, Les Bonbons!!"

I had done a fairly arduous hike earlier in the day and was hoping for a nap before the festivities began, but was awoken by a heavy rapping on my door with the sounds of, "There is an American who lives here. Come out America. You are here. We know because we saw you." So up I went, dressed as an American (which was sufficiently thrilling for everyone present), and snapped this shot of my little neighborhood friends:
The funniest sensation was knowing how truly far from home I was at that moment, but surrounded by children who could have been me and my friends 15 years ago. In place of the chilly autumn air whipping through some little polyester princess get-up, a hot stifling stillness was causing a small vampire's face paint to melt off. No bobbing for apples, crisp fall leaves, or candy corn: just mangoes, palm trees, and bonbons!

Madame

I am working in two vocational high schools on the island. Lycee Hotelier is a culinary school with a very serious career preparatory program. Some of France's greatest cooks come out of institutions like this. The best part of the whole place is a little bakery on campus where all of the "practice" bread and pastries are sold to the teachers. For a nominal fee I can by a decadent tart that is decorated with two crooked pieces of apple. You just can't lose. The other school is Lycee Vue Belle, also known as Lycee 9 mois (for the pregnancy epidemic that exists there). It is a much tougher crowd and the kids are more likely to give me the run around. In both cases I am only a few years older than the students and they see me as either their peer, an alien, or a potential love interest. I know this because they talk about me (and don't realize I speak French--should I spring the news on them at the end of the year!?).

Mostly my job is to encourage conversation and urge them to speak English. The most popular words that students like to work into any given sentence are "Sexy," "Hot Mama," and "Do you have boyfriend." I am becoming ruthlessly skilled at cutting teenage boys down to size. Obviously the best part of the job is working with the really serious students. Many and most have never left the island and they dream of traveling to the United States (New York specifically). I am really touched by the ones who make an effort.

The biggest surprise is being called "Madame." I always look around for the buxom 50-something behind me before realizing that apparently I just aged 30 years. I've noticed that most of the students have been trained to think well within the box and, therefore, calling a teacher by her first name is not possible. The beginning of every class is the same: I write my name on the board, pronounce it 5 times slowly, and encourage students to repeat after me. "Now what's my name?" response: "Marsha." From boy in back of classroom: "Madame, do have boyfriend?"

Failure.

Lycee Vue Belle

C-A-F-A-R-D

There are certain vocabulary words in a foreign language that you never have to know. Then again there are certain ones that suddenly pop up into your life and you have no choice but to confront them (or scream them, as the case may be). C-A-F-A-R-D is one such word.

After several years in the slums of Brooklyn, I became well acquainted with cockroaches. They were gross and I hated them, but on the plus side, they were small as ants! At a dinner party with friends several weeks ago, I met my first cockroach à la Reunion Island, a cafard. We were sitting around the table when suddenly a black hockey puck-sized mound flitted across the wall. Everyone screamed. I made the poor karmic decision of smugly proclaiming to my neighbor, "Thank God I don't have those at my house!"

Flash forward to last night when I was sitting eating dinner in peace and a cockroach the size of Alabama started playing in my kitchen. A frequent reaction to insects back home is to kill them. My question to the contrary is, "Would you step on a mouse to get rid of it?" Similar sizing--some things are much too big. I sat stock still in mortal disgust for nearly an hour, hoping that the cafard would skitter out of my home on his own accord. We each bluffed at each other: me with a broom, he with his antennae.

Honestly, after a while I lost interest in his childish games and went to bed (with one eye always opened!!). He was gone when I woke up this morning...

Logistics: the Russian Doll

The logistics of moving to the other side of the world were something akin to regressing to pre-school. I arrived on Reunion Island as a 25 year old with the logistical capacities of a toddler. Fortunately I fell into the good hands of Michel Eyquem, an English teacher at one of my high schools. He and his wife, Alice, graciously accepted me into their home, assuming the role of spoon feeding me pureed mangoes and strapping me into my car seat each morning. It was a ride on the total dependence side. They took me everywhere from looking at cars and apartments, to dropping me off at the beach, and showing me the secret back way to the neighborhood patisserie. I could not have done it without them.
In hindsight, my primary problem was that I had arrived on the island mentally under-prepared for the logistical reality of things. I had done virtually nothing to research apartments or living situations and although I had entertained the idea of a car as a fun activity, I did not realize that it was going to be an absolute necessity. The first two weeks were a scramble to recognize needs and figure out how to tackle them--in French. The process can best be described as opening a Russian doll: you identify one need which subsequently sprouts another task or need, then another, and another, until your head is about to explode and you realize that the only thing that will soothe you is playing "Super Bijoux Quete" on your cell phone (a mindless, brain-cell killing waste of life video game).

The other obstacle to settling into life on la Reunion is the pace with which tasks are accomplished. Most stores and businesses are open approximately 20 hours a week (that's being generous!!) and only about 7% of the work force is inclined to exert themselves. It is pulling teeth to get people to take your new bank account, for example, seriously. It's not that people aren't friendly or kind, it's that their enjoyment comes paramount to your logistical need. Bank account = not fun. What's for lunch = fun. I was forced to learn this equation very early on.

After all was said and done, I found an excellent studio apartment looking out over the west coast of La Saline-les-Bains. It's in the downstairs of a house owned by a woman named Elodie who lives there with her two young daughters (who are incidentally star-struck by my presence in their home). I have a breathtaking view of the lagoon and race home each afternoon for the best show of the day: the sunset. With the help of Michel, I also found a sweet little Citroen hot rod, and I am now zipping around the island like there's no tomorrow...

Neighborhood Volcanic Action

After only two weeks of being here, our local volcano, Piton de la Fournaise, began erupting. Laure, a friend from work, called me immediately to take an evening hike to see the lava flows by dark. That afternoon I headed south with three other German assistants and met up with Laure and her friend Adelaide in Petite-Ile. Laure lives in an incredible old mountain tree-house type place, perched on top of a ten-mile vertical winding incline. Needless to say, everyone was carsick by the time we arrived. We did manage to recover in time for a decadent Creole dinner of Rougail de Saucisses followed by an immediate food coma.

By the time we finished dinner, it was 10:30 pm and the moment had arrived to see this lava we'd been hearing so much about. What we hadn't anticipated was another hour and a half of driving à la NASCAR through steep mountain passes. Carsickness again, but this time we were filled up on sausage and in two separate cars. Upon arrival at the entrance of the national park, the others were nowhere to be found. By 1AM we had been waiting nearly an hour and were becoming concerned that a tragedy had befallen our friends; no one had cell phones. Finally we decided that we had no choice but to descend the mountain and find the corpses ourselves. After 45 minutes of more nauseating driving, we finally received word that the others were already climbing towards the volcano and where were we!!? Back up the mountain again.

Long story short, a major fight erupted between Laure, Adelaide, and the Germans when we finally reunited. Large and in charge women were screaming at each other in French and German about responsibility and friendship. As the lone Anglophone who didn't care about anything except seeing the lava, I was literally left to twiddle my thumbs and gaze at the stars while the others duked it out. We lost Adelaide who stormed off in a huff, leaving 5 of us freezing cold at 2AM to begin the hike inwards towards the volcano.

To say that Laure underplayed the rigor of the hike would be an understatement. What we had all pictured would be a 10 minute walk under the stars was a 2.5 hour hike over centuries old hills of hardened molten lava. We had head lamps, but the going was arduous to say the least. The one thing motivating me was the red aura that we could see from a distance. Every few minutes we were hit by a blast of warm air and we could tell we were getting closer. We arrived at 4:30AM at a most astounding scenic overlook of the volcano. In reality, we were about a mile from the eruption, but it felt much closer. Lava exploding into the air, an orange red train flowing down into the unknown. Maybe it was the emotion of fatigue, but at that instant, I felt that I had never seen anything so enormously impressive. We stayed fixed on the sight until we were all too cold to stand still any longer, and thus began the long trek back to the car. The sun was coming up as we finally got back to the parking lot at 7AM. Exhausted but moved to the core.

Piton de la Fournaise is one of the world's most active volcanoes and emits some of the most lava. It erupts every year--some years more significantly than others. This was a "moderate" eruption with lava projections of up to 65 feet in the air. Reunion's volcano sits within a protective crater, so in a moderate year like this, the lava did not flow out of the natural barrier. As recently as 2007, it is known to flow up, over, and down into the surrounding hillsides--sometimes into the ocean as well. No one lives in these hazard zones, so the volcano is typically viewed as an exciting wild card of nature, more so than an impending disaster. The picture below is of the lava trails from 2007; the rocks are still hot and smoldering!

Ile Bourbon

La Reunion has a long and winding history that involves both French and British rule. In the 18th century, the French East India company and French government took it upon themselves to settle the previously uninhabited island known at that time as Ile Bourbon. France introduced coffee as the primary cash crop. The ensuing demand for manpower led to an extensive import of African and Malagasy slaves. From the long history of slavery emerged a local Creole culture and dialect that is still widely spoken among locals as a first language. Indian indentured servants and Chinese merchants came soon thereafter, creating a marked ethnic diversity on the island which is still notable today.

During the Napoleonic Wars, Bonaparte lost the island to the British, who subsequently introduced sugar cane as the new big cash crop; vanilla and other spices were added to the mix as well. You can see vast fields of sugar cane all over the island today. During harvest season (ie: right now), motorists the island over must share roads with mammoth tractors. They descend the mountainsides piled two stories high with cane, blocking the sun and sky with their enormity. Fear envelopes me every time I see one of them 'a coming...

Ile Bourbon was returned to the French under the Treaty of Paris after only 5 years of British rule. In 1848, slavery was abolished, the island was permanently renamed La Reunion or 'meeting,' and it became an official Departement Francais d'Outre-Mer (DOM) in 1946. Today the island is home to nearly 800,000 people including Creoles, French expats (affectionately or sometimes derogatorily called les Zoreilles), Indians, Chinese, and of course little pockets of random foreigners like myself.

La Reunion is a tourist destination with many visitors from Europe. The primary reason that people seem to come here is for the hiking and extreme sports--there is no shortage of incredible trails and mountain passes to explore. Of course there are also the white sandy beaches that encircle the island, but believe it or not, the beaches are not what the island is known for. They take second place to the mountain adventures (although I would personally disagree with that statement!). All living and activity is inclined towards the outdoors. There are more than 20 micro-climates; from one town to the next you can see stark temperature changes and differences in rainfall. As we approach the very hot summer months, I am happy to know that I can always go into the mountains to cool off.

And finally a word on the quality of life: La Reunion is not a wealthy country, but it receives a lot of assistance from France and most people enjoy modern conveniences; it's not difficult to find the things you need. The population is extremely ethnically diverse, so despite the small size of the island, you have a nearly New York melting pot vibe. The west coast where I live is notoriously Zoreille, but going deeper into the mountains you will find many small Creole towns, the east coast town of St. Andre is famous for its Tamil Indian population, and of course the large cities like St. Denis have a little bit of everything and everyone.

Au Bout du Monde

Since my arrival on Reunion Island at the end of September, many people have asked why I decided to come here. I am greeted with a general expression of awe over the fact that I knew their small island nation existed in the first place. The simplest and most charming thing to say is that I did a presentation on the island in an elementary school French class and have ogled over the existence of La Reunion ever since. This is not my story, but actually one borrowed from my dear friend Sara's true life experience (she tried unsuccessfully to dig up the poster-board before my departure).

The actual truth about my knowledge and intrigue of the island is much more vague and unknown, even to myself. After reflecting upon this question, I believe that the answer is simply that I have always been intrigued by adventure and the ends of the earth--le bout du monde. I have known and admired La Reunion for as long as I can remember, for the simple fact of its sheer distance from home. As with any plan, pure fascination raises the question of how one might explore this place for oneself. The day comes when the opportunity to go arises and you see that a small seed of thought has grown into a chain of events that has you suddenly sitting on a runway headed to this far-distant land: my explanation, more or less.

Reunion is a French department (DOM) located in the Indian Ocean, 500 miles east of Madagascar. I was hired by the French government to work as an English language assistant for 7 months in two vocational high schools. I am living and working in la Saline, a small community on the west coast of La Reunion. The job is more of a pretext to be here than anything else; when all is said and done, there are many more holidays, vacations, and strikes on the school calendar than actual days of work. The season upon me is one of exploration, sunshine, and time to take life slowly.