Happy Thanksgiving!

Thanksgiving 2010 was a holiday of firsts: certainly the first time I'd ever been tan in a sundress at the end of November. It was also the first time I ate Creole sausages instead of turkey, hosted my own Thanksgiving, and (literally) had people banging down the door for more.
For the past month I had been offhandedly inviting friends and acquaintances to my little ocean view studio for this happiest of American holidays. As friends began following up to ask what they could bring, I sat down to count the confirmed guests. Suddenly I was eying a list of 35 people and wondering whether my pint sized patio could handle the masses. Even as the event approached, I was receiving daily requests: "Can my friend come?" "Is it alright if my boyfriend's sister's brother comes?" "Can Uncle Claude come because he once ate a turkey," etc. Of course Reunion's social code of conduct requires that you turn no one away, and the numbers kept rising.
Two days before the Thanksgiving Apocalypse, a large package arrived in the mail from my dear parents filled with cans of the staples: pumpkin puree, cranberry sauce, turkey motif table cloths, napkins, and plates--everything needed for an authentic Thanksgiving in the tropics. My landlord's mother sternly delivered the box to my door and sweetly stated, "If you and your guests so much as crush one blade of grass in my daughter's garden, we will evict you."

The fear was ultimately unfounded. Our lovely little Reunion Island Thanksgiving embodied all of the wonderful togetherness that the holiday is known for. There were Creoles, Cubans, Austrians, Germans, Frenchies, Indians, and one and a half Americans! Many nationalities, colors, creeds, ages, and walks of life gathered to discover the holiday and support me in my home away from home. There was music, art, dancing, laughing, delicious food, and plenty of wine.

We did not have any turkey, but with the help of my landlord's daughters, we constructed some mighty tasty turkey cookies (which my pal Eliot is modeling above). All of the guests were responsible for bringing a dish to share. I initially tried to keep it as traditional as possible. When people asked what they could bring, I would e-mail a mashed potatoes recipe, for instance. The response generally followed like this: "Actually, I'm sorry, but I really don't want to make mashed potatoes. I have no idea what that is and I think it will be too hard for me. Would you mind if I make a mixed spiced pork roast with a curry vegetable sauce and fried banana plantains instead?" Of course I threw in the towel after a while. Thanksgiving was Creole cuisine heavy, though yours truly did all in her power to keep some of the root vegetables alive and well on the otherwise non-traditional table.
The party lasted late into the evening; even those with the most skeptical view of the whole affair ended up being the last to leave. Of course no Thanksgiving would be complete without a little bit of drama. At 4am, after everyone had departed and I had long cleaned and gone to bed, a still enthusiastic guest returned with hopes for more, banging on my door and ultimately falling asleep in our driveway until my landlord and I sent him packing at sunrise!

Dipavali Festival of Lights

The Diwali Festival of Lights (Dipavali in French), is a large Indian holiday signifying the new year. Over 23% of the population on Reunion Island is of South Asian descent, within this figure resides a sizable Tamil population. During the first two weeks of November, celebrations were hosted around the island. St. Andre, a lovely town on the east coast, is home to the largest Tamil Indian community on the island. From the moment I arrived in September, everyone began telling me to head east for an incredible Dipavali display on November 13th.

My Dipavali experience was something akin to the Griswold Family Christmas, I starring as Clark Griswold. I began amassing brochures and Indian trinkets weeks in advance, mentally preparing myself for the glitz and glimmer of the Festival of Lights. One paper said that vehicular access to the parade site would close at noon on the day of the "Grande Spectacle;" I began rallying the significantly less enthused troops for an 11:30AM arrival.

Disgruntled and tired people were pulled from their beds early Saturday morning to my excitable beating drum. Eastward bound to St. Andre! Didn't want to miss a thing! Upon arrival came the brilliant yet eerily quiet flash of understanding that the newspaper had lied to me. After all, nothing on Reunion Island happens according to schedule. Not a soul, not one living soul, had beaten us to Dipavali. Some eyes were rolled in my direction--but on the plus side, I reminded everyone, we got the best parking spot in the whole place!

Not long after, little stands began opening and we had the whole place to ourselves which--everyone had to admit--was wonderful. We made friends with all the vendors, ate lamb kababs, amassed lots of spices, I even considered buying a sari, but abandoned the plan when the salesman became too actively involved in measuring (or feeling?) my waist and bust size. Onwards and upwards! We tried all of the sweets, touched the beautiful silks and flower garlands, and later, hot and sleepy, sought refuge under a tent with a sweet young girl who gave us beautiful henna tattoos.
After 7 hours in the market place, we had fully immersed ourselves in Indian festivities and culture. The sun was setting as more friends began arriving and beautiful lights strung around the site began lighting up. Someone had placed little oil pots along the long length of the parade route and they began burning at dusk. Drums beating, music playing, men and women in the most breathtaking costumes and floats began marching past. For over two hours we stood in awe over this happy, colorful, display. I felt that I was actually in India, surrounded by people shouting, crying out, singing, dancing in the streets. Every once and a while a float would pass and someone would throw brilliant orange flower petals into the crowd. A beautiful sight to behold.

As the last float passed by, people began streaming to the far side of a vast field where a big fireworks display was underway. After only a minute, fire ants began attacking my feet and I too began dancing! The display slowly died down and the thousands of spectators began the long trek back to their cars; our little family had only to walk a smug five feet to my car, driving off elated into the dark night, Joyeux Dipavali!!!

Col du Taibit

After a movie several weeks ago, my pal Susanne and I were invited to go hiking with a friend of a friend whom we bumped into on the side of the road. The plan was to hike from Cilaos to Mafate via Col du Taibit, a narrow little pass high in the mountains that connects two of the island's three immense volcanic craters. From there, you can see the ocean on one side and down into the Cirque de Mafate from the other.

One of the joys of hiking on Reunion Island is how the geography is so truly untouched. It's a raw and beautiful experience of extremely remote, serene, and quiet terrain. The downside is that if there's any sort of problem, you usually have to get airlifted out. About two hours into our trek, we crossed a woman who had broken her leg. Soon we could hear the helicopter rescue team off in the distance. It got me thinking that the pain of injury may be worth it just to get an island tour! Just kidding, Ma! I couldn't get enough of these guys:

We made it up Col du Taibit without another incident and began the descent down into Mafate. Somewhere along the line Susanne made friends with some radical Creole mountain-men-band- of-brothers who were hiking, skipping, jumping all over the jagged rocks without any shoes on. They were doing the same trail we were on, a roughly 16 hour round trip adventure. I had seen this once before during an earlier trek when a guy with dreadlocks down to his ankles sprinted past me barefoot on a trail that was so unpredictable I needed poles to manage it alive. A Creole pastime, I've been told.

We got hit with a flash flood as we were approaching Trois Roches, our base camp for that night:
And here is a great shot from the next morning when we got up to begin the journey back. Someone let the cows out--though we have no idea where they came from. Apparently there are individually isolated farmers that live in these very remote mountain corners. Sometimes they live by themselves, other times with their families, but mostly they are roughing it alone. Access to the outside world is limited to the decision to hike the 8 hours to Cilaos, the closest town.

You can click on the pictures to get a better look!

That was easy!

The people I have met here have an endearing and irritating habit of declaring things "Easy," when in fact, they are very "Hard." At first you might find it charming when your friend who has invited you to a beach picnic brings a six course meal with wine, sees you ogling it, and says, "Oh really, it's nothing." But then you may start to find it irritating when you say, "Wow, Claude, I can't believe you brought a roast duck to the beach, what inclined you to do that?" and Claude's response is, "It was the easiest thing I could think of for the beach."

Well Claude, I can think of some easier things. Ever heard of a PB&J? How about a Lunchable?

Recently I was invited to my next door neighbor's house for drinks so I could meet their friend, Nadine, a choir director. At the very last minute, my host called to explain that Nadine was running behind schedule and could I please come over for a quick bite to eat later on? Sure, I said. I was truly not expecting the Christmas Dinner that awaited me on the other side of the fence. An exquisitely roasted leg of lamb, artichoke stew, a plate of fine cheeses. The dessert, an apple tart, was as much a work of art as a culinary masterpiece. It must have taken over an hour to arrange each paper-thin slice of apple into the birds-nest shape it assumed. When I asked for the recipe, my host refused to give it to me saying, "It's so easy, I'm embarrassed to tell you."

These examples about food can be equally applied to acts of physical fitness. A favorite Reunionais pastime is hiking, but if you're invited, you have to assume that it will be akin to trekking Everest. Every invitation goes something like this: "Hello! How do you feel about a quick hike this Saturday? It will be easy, maybe 2 or 3 hours." That is followed by two hours of death defying treacherous mountain passes, four hours of scaling vertical rock faces, two minutes of flat dirt path, and a final 3.5 hours of climbing down house-sized boulders.

As I approached a trail head with a friend last weekend, he asked me whether I was afraid of heights. First of all, when you've just driven two hours to a high mountain peak, can you decide that the hike is no longer of interest? Secondly, wanting to impress peers becomes a priority when you're surrounded by excellence. So I coughed a "no" and put one foot in front of the other. We were off. I will describe the trail by saying that it was constructed as if someone had taken a small pocket knife and etched a foot path along the side of a vertical cliff (see picture below). There was a cable along the length of the trail, which I grasped with an iron grip. But this was truly one of those instances where one false move, you're a goner, no little hand hold is going to save you. I made it, but I no longer have control of any bodily functions and my hair is shocked with gray. A small price to pay for showing ease and grace. On the plus side, I caught my friend in a moment of weakness back at the car when he shook his head and said, "That was steeper than I remembered!"


Long story short: allow yourself to be impressed here, but don't for a minute be fooled. Just like those pretty Olympic water ballerinas who seem to effortlessly kick dance through the pool, you know that they've worked their whole lives to present flawless aesthetics. This concept is a frequent encounter on Reunion Island!

Early morning hike: I brought you some coffee for your croissant! Do you take sugar?