Dive Right In!

If you were a girl growing up in America in the early ’90’s, you were probably a fan--if not a fanatic--of Lisa Frank. Lisa was a genius graphic designer who captured the hearts and minds of most females 12-and-under for over a decade. She did this with a hallucinogenic worldview that involved splashing cute and cuddly animals with melty, dreamy, electric colors. Her images were pasted onto every school supply I ever owned. No pen, pencil, or trapper-keeper was exempt from the fantasy.

Having not thought of her for years, I suddenly realized that I was living a Lisa Frank wonderland in Mayotte. On any given day, I swam with sea turtles, frolicked with dolphins, ogled at clown fish, and cuddled with lemurs. It all came clear when a local informed me that the main island, Grande-Terre, is shaped like a seahorse. I kept looking for a “Lisa Was Here!!!” neon pink-purple sea otter tattooed onto a rock or tree.
Of many grand “Lisa Frank Moments” during my time in Mayotte, a highlight was my first dive. We were taken to the far reaches of the lagoon, near a coral formation called “Passe en S.” It is an extensive reef shaped like a--can you believe it--S! All of the master divers jumped in and got underway, but the first-timers waited for one-on-one dives with our guide, Patrick. I somehow got voted to go last, which gave me over an hour to contemplate the concept of breathing underwater, and put me at a point where I quite nearly wet my wetsuit.

Finally Patrick came for me. Because I was so anxiously worked up at that point, I did some panicked breathing and almost drowned. Fortunately Patrick hurled me above the surface, yelled, “Get a grip!” and pushed me back under. I did just fine after that. We had a beautiful tour of the ocean floor: I brushed my hand over the most gluey, dancing, neon red sea anemone (which I named Lisa) and made faces with some really ugly eels.

The rest of the stay floated on, I saw octopuses, sting rays, and even sea turtles laying their eggs on the beach late one night. I was so inspired that I came back and opened my own competitive graphic design company. Nah, just kidding, Ma! But I do think it was all pretty surreal...

Patrick and I after my graduation ceremony

Les Ilots

One of the beautiful things about Mayotte are the small uninhabited islands that surround it. There is the main island, or Grande Terre, where most of the people live. Then there is Petite Terre where the airport and a handful of the population live. A number of tiny picturesque islands dot the waters around these two primary land masses. Local fishermen will occasionally agree to take visitors in and around the lagoon: we were not to be left out!

Two of our days were spent "small island" hopping. The first was to the Ilots du Sud. This included Ilot de Sable which is a breathtaking white sandbar in the south, only present during low tide. As deserted and silent a place as you’ll ever visit, we snorkeled and lounged along the shore. Later in the week, we traveled to the Ilots du Nord, spending hours quietly exploring the small territories of the north. In these places, we had entire aqua beaches to ourselves. Perhaps tourism will one day explode on Mayotte, but these days are quiet and untouched.

Mount Choungi

Having grown up in the Alps, Miss Austria gets anxious when there’s not a mountain nearby. It was therefore one of her highest priorities to find something to climb in Mayotte. On our second afternoon, driving towards a small southern town called Chiroungi, we could see a large and looming anthill in the distance.

We pulled over for lunch at the (one and only) bakery on the island, Boulangerie Artisanale. It is run by a couple of burned out French expats, Guillaume and Yann. They made us feel at home, fed us like we were old friends, and told us their tales of adventure. Guillaume once lived in the United States and was proud to reminisce about his participation in the L.A riots of the early ‘90’s. He claimed that he may have killed a man at the time, wasn’t really sure, didn’t want to find out, and came to Mayotte to escape the possibility.

Not quite sure how to respond to this news, talk quickly turned to the anthill. “Mount Choungi!” everyone in listening distance chimed in. Learning that it was both the highest point on the island and possible to climb, Austria promptly informed us that we were hiking it the next day. Guillaume, inspired by the enthusiasm, cleared the plates, motioned us to the car, and we were off to see the trailhead, all part of the trek prep.

At 3:30am the next morning--because, according to Austria, “we have to do this right!!--our alarms went off and it was time for our sleepy heads to scale the famous Mount Choungi. We had all brought frontal headlamps and by 4am-- in the pitch black--the hike had commenced. Fortunately, in the dark, we couldn’t tell that the trail was nearly vertical. Only being able to see five feet ahead of us anesthetized the fact that we were climbing tree roots at a 90 degree angle.

By 5:30 we were catching our breaths at the summit. The sun hadn’t started to rise, so we had time to get ourselves in the right position for the best show of the day. And what a show it was! From the highest point on the island, we had a grand panoramic view: the Mozambique Channel on one side, the Indian Ocean on the other. We waited as the sun began to shine on the place, little by little, bringing light to a quiet, dark, sleeping land. By the time we started our trek back down several hours later, Mayotte was on fire under a bright summer sun.

This is Mayotte

Mayotte is a French territory--recently voted a department--located between Madagascar and Mozambique. It is a small island, geographically part of the Comoros archipelago. The population is primarily Maoré, a Muslim people, descendants of East Africa. French colonization has seen rise to a small white European expat community there.

The land boasts a rich and savage nature. It is a volcanic island like Reunion, but thousands of years older, resulting in much lower mountain reliefs and flourishing, extensive coral barrier reefs. While Reunion has a significant coral lagoon enclosing 5 km of the west coast, Mayotte blows the competition out of the water with a lagoon surrounding the entirety of the island. It is a water wildlife paradise: dolphins, sea turtles, sting rays, octopus, and every tropical fish in the book team through these waters. Because the island is protected from the open ocean, there is no concern of larger predators like sharks, and the waters are still and calm--if you’re looking to
catch waves, this is not the place!

Mayotte looks socially and economically like what Reunion Island may have looked like 40 years ago: it has yet to see the hand of westernization. With French departmental status, however, that is expected to change. The land is undeveloped, peaceful, verdantly green. Many parts of the island have only recently been hooked up to the electrical grid and virtually no one has internet in their homes. There is a very limited agricultural infrastructure in place: 98% of goods and wares are imported. Bananas and manioc are in abundance, but beyond that, you better know a good fisherman!

In this primarily Muslim society, husbands still practice polygamy (although it has officially been banned under French law) and families are large. The population is growing rapidly, and as a result, is quite young. There is a reservedness of the people of Mayotte, most everyone keeps to themselves and outsiders are regarded wearily. Women wear beautiful, colorful fabrics, the city streets--as well as the rural routes--are splashed with color, people walking distances to reach family, friends, and work.

While some locals live comfortably on Mayotte, this is hardly the case for most. There are blatant extremities between rich and poor, black and white. At the end of our stay, we were picked up hitchhiking by a French guy driving a shiny blue BMW. He drove us from downtown Mamoudzou to the place where we had left our bags in Kaweni. This particular route led us through some really tough areas, places where rain had hollowed out the roads, only cratered muddy flats were left, and children were sitting idle and alone in front of ratty, fallen down homes. The question we all asked ourselves afterward was, why would you need or want to drive a BMW in this place? The racial divide was very noticeable; from an outsider’s perspective it was hard to ignore images of rich vs. poor, colonizer vs. colonist.

An additional issue on Mayotte is its proximity to the other islands in the Comoros, significantly worser off than their (comparably) wealthy French neighbors. There are over 20,000 arrests a year on Mayotte, police are constantly battling unauthorized immigration. Driving around the island, you can see endless check points where authorities stop cars to verify immigration status. There is a palpable tenseness that exists on this island: it begins locally and extends to the foreign politics that lap on Mayotte’s shores.

A socially complex but naturally beautiful place, both humbling and inspiring. We spent nine days there getting to know the land, the sea, the people, and the rhythm of a life that beats so far away from home.

Touchdown in Mamoudzou

Austria, Germany, and America headed to Mayotte at the beginning of March for a week of sunny exploration in a forgotten corner of the earth. We spent our days combing the reefs of the Mozambique Canal and swimming with sea turtles in the Indian Ocean. A colorful place, rich with nature, filled with human complexity, as removed from the rest of the world as I have ever felt.

Customs officials really like Germanic blonds, they also consider American passports the collectors editions of border control, so the three of us were able to do pretty much whatever we wanted once we touched down. This included but was not limited to bringing another person's baby into the country. Susanne and I sat next to an overwhelmed mother on the plane who promptly handed off little Abdi here as soon as the seatbelt light turned off. "I'll meet you in the taxi area," she said, as she raced off to hit baggage claim. Susi was goo-goo-ing and ga-ga-ing with the little guy while I promptly began to panic about going to jail for smuggling small children.

My fear was unfounded. The border police were so blinded by Susi's blondness, they didn't even see the baby. And then my passport caused a back up of 10 minutes because everyone in the office needed to come and see, hold, pat, and caress a piece of paper with an American eagle on it. The biggest relief was that Abdi's mother was in fact waiting at the taxi stand when we exited the airport and my half hour as a panicked father (I was playing the role of the logistical stern-faced one), ended.

Because of a mix-up, Austria had arrived a day ahead of Germany and I. At the precise moment where Susi and my parenthood ended, Sophie, our welcoming committee, arrived with customary chains of jasmine that were placed in our hair. It was nice having such a seasoned guide since figuring out the airport is a project. Mayotte is composed of two islands: Petite-Terre, where the airport is located, and the main island, Grande-Terre where most of the population lives. In absolute torrential rain, we managed to crowd into an over crowded taxi, cross Petite Terre, huddle with the masses under a small awning, and board the barge that took us to the heart of the capital, Mamoudzou.

Gecko to the Face

The other night I woke up with a blinding headache for some reason. I staggered to the bathroom, opened the door, and was promptly smacked in the eyebrow by something cold and gluey. Honestly I was a little bit afraid. On occasion my apartment has poisonous visitors, I wasn't ready to take a sting to the thigh in addition to a crack to the cranium. But not on this night! Just a little gecko guy out for a midnight walk. I met his cousin a few months back, a nice family.

Heavy Hitters

Sometimes you have to take one for the team, surrender yourself to science, and become an experimental guinea pig. I had been hearing about Lycee Hotelier's, Restaurant d'Application, in Plateau Caillou since I began working there five months ago. In this restaurant on campus, the school's waitstaff and culinary students hone their skills on the willing public. Last week I was invited by a colleague in the English department to see our kiddies in action.

As a sixteen year old I may have successfully whipped up a box of macaroni or toasted a mostly un-scorched grilled cheese, but anything beyond that would have been too physically and emotionally taxing. Never mind serving this food in an elegant 4 star-esque environment where you needed to acknowledge which fork is for what. Nightmare!

With these prejudices of my own teen-age self in mind, I arrived at the school's restaurant with my friend Caroline, ready for anything. What awaited us was a truly impressive display of serious culinary aptitude and professionalism. I was impressed. The funnest part was being treated like celebrities by our students who pulled out all of the stops for us. We popped our heads into the kitchen where kids were hard at work in tall white chef's hats making quiches, tarts, beautiful roasts, and heavenly desserts. On the floor, the waitstaff students jetted around, serving customers and advising them on wines.

You may go to this restaurant expecting a patchwork of student errors, but would leave mesmerized by the talent and ability of these rising culinary heavy hitters. You would also need to fully prepare yourself for some insanely delicious food and friendly, competent service.

Trampled by Turtles

Some people are self-described "Horse Lovers." Others have plastered their cars with "I love my rottweiler" bumper stickers. Dog, cat, ferret, fish, everyone has their pet preference. I discovered several weekends ago that I am a "Turtle Lover."

I was invited to spend a night at a friend, Cyril's, family-run gite in Hellbourg, Salazie. We met up at his house in St. Andre and waited in a mosquito infested jungle-garden for the rest of the troop to arrive. The one thing that saved my sanity was an intriguing shell I saw wedged in a corner of the patio. I knocked three times. Like a genie coming out of his lamp, four stocky limbs and one wrinkly head sprung from within. I was shocked, terrified, and instantly enchanted.

This poor sweet turtle has no name, but he has a lot of spirit. I spent the rest of the waiting period force feeding him cabbage, gooing and gawing over his prehistoric face and, "chasing" him around the backyard. I was ready to put a leash around his neck and give him the first neighborhood walk of his life (he has apparently never left the backyard), when I noticed a concerned crowd gathering around to discuss my sudden decline to insanity. I had to brush myself off and quickly abandon the amour.

Off we went and soon were climbing into the dreamy verdant mountain passes of Salazie. The eastern-most cirque on the island, it is also the rainiest as a result of its selfless daily cloud collection. The result is a violently lush and green pallet of forest which covers this mountainous bowl, surrounding its visitors from all sides. It's hard to catch Hellbourg, the golden child of Salazie, in a sunny disposition, yet on this particular day, we were lucky to arrive with a clear and vivid sky. The sun was setting behind Piton de Neiges, the highest peak in the Indian Ocean, as we carried our bags into the gite.
The gite, Ti Jack, is an iconic homestead which has been inhabited by Cyril's family for over sixty years. The family's matriarch-- who still lives in a small bungalow there-- pridefully acknowledges that she gave birth and raised all of her children in this place. Jack, the oldest son, runs the main building as a guest house for visitors to Hellbourg. While my day was already nearing perfect from a chance meeting with a terrific turtle, the night was topped by a delicious dinner prepared by Jack and his wife, Marie-Paul. They were thrilled to have their nephew Cyril and his friends up for the night and spoiled us to no end.

As is often the case on Reunion Island, you find yourself at the end of the day exhausted from playing and eating so hard. Susanne and I fought to keep our eyes open after the last and final course, Banane Flambe, alight with a rum-induced fire, was delivered to our seats. The heat was on and Susi may well have singed her eyebrows off, had I not been there to redirect her sleepy head. We crawled to bed and slept soundly in our mountain perch until the sun rose again and it was time to do it all over again.