Maloya You

Sweet Susanne invited me to tag along to a dinner thing with her last Friday night. Figuring I could battle my fatigue enough to sit upright in a chair for a few hours talking to strangers, I agreed to accompany her. Susi had befriended a Creole couple who runs the snack bar at her high school; they'd been trying to have her come "meet the family" for months. When we arrived at their place high up in the hills of Trois Bassins, they promptly ushered us back out the door and explained that we were going to a brother's house for the party. "There's a party?" we asked. "Oh yes! And everyone will be there!" explained our hostess, Sophie.

Everyone was there alright. Literally. Everyone. Sophie and her husband, Teti, are related to the entire town, plus Teti was once the deputy mayor, so their circle of friends and relatives is, shall we say, vast. I was wearing whatever I had worn to school that day, Susi too, which was quickly recognized as unacceptable party gear. Soon we were being lovingly assaulted by 16 of our newest female relatives. They ushered us into the back bathroom of the huge warehouse and shoved traditional maloya dresses into our hands. We had no choice but to change. And everyone got to watch!

This type of dress, when combined with rum, is extremely potent. Warning to all who try: you might not be able to stop laughing or dancing. Uncles and brothers were building the beat on huge drums from one side of the dance floor, the younger generation stomping barefoot to the rhythm and music on the other. Everyone insisted on teaching us the traditional Reunion Island dances, Sega and Maloya. I danced so hard I could barely stand the next day. Children and grandparents, mothers and fathers, everyone was participating with abandon. The wildest family-friendly party I'd ever seen, I tell you.

After we had been dancing for what felt like hours, the oldest brothers took the huge marmites, or cooking pots, off the open fires and called everyone to the long tables for dinner. Huge portions of rice and cari, the Creole culinary staples, were shoveled onto large banana leaves which we ate with our hands. I made America proud, out-eating some of my biggest-bellied male counterparts. You just never know if you're going to get to eat like this again!
Late into the night this continued: eating, dancing, drinking in abundance. We were most certainly the outsiders, but treated as the dearest friends. I may have been able to go for the rest of the weekend, as some of the relatives apparently did, but seeing these sleeping kiddies in the wee morning hours, they inspired the fatigue I had checked at the door hours before. I nudged Susanne, and she agreed, time to carry out and head on home.