Heading Out

The year has come to an end, and I am leaving La Reunion for the time being. Check back soon for more travel adventures!

Island Flying

My colleagues at Lycée Hotelier chipped in and got me an aerial island tour as an end-of-year gift. It was 90% perfect, 10% terrifying since I enjoy flying about as much as stepping on sea urchins. But it's hard to be afraid when you're dipping in and out of such beauty. We were up there for over an hour, exploring all of the ins and outs of a place that I have come to know and love.

Piton des Neiges

Le Piton des Neiges is the big mountain pursuit of Reunion Island. Call it Maine's Katahdin, Tanzania's Kilimanjaro, or heck, Nepal's Everest--it's the right of passage that turns mortal men into super humans.

All that happened to me was rapid advanced aging: stiffness that I hope not to experience again until my 90th birthday and irregular breathing that may have otherwise been attributed to cancer sticks, except that I'm not a smoker. I was stumped by the entire experience. But my friend, Caroline and I had a fantastic time.
Before we started the epic road trip up to the trail head, I made everyone eat Piton des Neiges yogurts. There's a whole line of dairy products on Reunion Island named for this mountain boon, and I figured it would be good luck for us to fuel ourselves with it. Caro thought I was borderline intolerable. BUT, we both made it to the summit in the end, and I'm not calling that a coincidence.

The trail from Cilaos to the gite summit base camp only takes about 2 hours to hike. It's short but steep. No matter. We arrived huffing and puffing, had our lunch, and then twiddled our thumbs. The plan was to spend the night in the gite, then wake up at 4am and hike the summit for sunrise. Since we had gotten there so quickly and had a long afternoon ahead, I got giddy with childish excitement and boredom, and decided to kill some time by exploring the summit trail for a little while.
Before I knew it, I was delirious and alone without food, water, or a cell phone at 3070m. But, I got some great shots on the summit above the clouds.
I also got dizzy, scared, and guilty thinking about leaving my future children motherless, so I hot footed it down to civilization so as not to die alone.

We had a very cold but convivial evening in the gite that culminated with us eating an epically heavy creole meal of sausages dipped in oil. It was a long night of terrible digestion, bunk beds filled with bloated hikers tossing and turning in agony. At 4am, after a sleepless night, the whole gang hiked to the summit with our headlamps and awaited the sunrise in the frigid, burning cold.
Sadly, with the sunrise came a pretty intense cloud rise. This all gave way to a chilly damp rain that chased us down the mountainside immediately. I felt glad that I had had a clear view the afternoon before. It left me feeling that the hardest part about hiking the Piton des Neiges is the weather. And the sausages. But we did it, we made it! And I guess I don't need to go back there ever again...

Oh, hello Maurice!

At the end of May, I looked lazily at the visa in my passport which was set to expire on June 1st. "I wonder if there's anything I need to do for that," I yawned to myself. I approached the woman at the Prefecture in St. Denis with mild disinterest, handed her my passport, and waited for her to tell me to get back to the beach day. Her eyes said to my eyes, "You're an irresponsible idiot." What she said out loud was--(in the French version of a Texan drawl)-- "Ma'am, ya'll need to make like a wild fire and get out of this country bah tomorrow. You have a nice day now."
After pleading with passport and visa officials who confirmed that if I didn't leave the country immediately, I would go to prison or risk never getting a visa in Europe ever again, I put the peddle to the metal, went home, and bought myself the next plane ticket out.

Mauritius, or Maurice as it's known to the French, is our little island neighbor. It's only a half hour flight away, but you might as well be going to the other side of the earth for all of the talk. The two islands spend considerable time distancing themselves one from the other. It's your standard infantile rivalry: people from Reunion are "lazy" and people from Maurice are "just plain self involved." For the record, stereotypes seem silly when you consider that both islands have similar climates and histories. But ah well, they are different---long live island pride!

All that was legally required of me in this situation was to prove my absence from Reunion Island on June 1st; I had the right to return anytime after as a tourist. This will go down as the most expensive passport stamp I'll ever have. I decided to declare a "Visa Vacation" and make the most of this forced visit. After all, there are worst problems in the world than being required to escape to an exotic tropical island.

I stayed with Jose and Ayesha, the parents of my Bates friend, Tanya. Kind souls that they are, they let me crash at their beautiful home with no prior warning. "Hello, this is a stranger that you have never met before and I am beaming in to your island. May I please sleep at your house." The answer was an unequivocal yes that came with full extensive Mauritian touring benefits, the best Indian Ocean cuisine of my life, and surrogate parenting. Really fantastic people who pulled out all of the stops.
Mauritius is India meets tropical in the same way that Reunion is France meets tropical. It has a strong Hindu culture peppered with a local French-English creole tradition. Everyone is extremely generous and hospitable. The tourist infrastructure is much more built up than Reunion's which means that it's nearly impossible to find the lost, savage corners that exist next door. But this is all for a reason: the place is a beach paradise.

Last Woman Standing

I have been spending a lot of time at the Roland Garros International Airport, and I don't like it one iota. As the other language assistants finished up work and started hopping hemispheres, it felt like my entire social life was making one long, sad, parade to the exit door.

To help ease the pain of goodbye, Sophie developed a genius approach called "Airport Apéros." In every Air France baggage check line, there is a good bottle of rum punch and cocktail peanuts. It is an enviable practice wherein all line "neighbors" eventually want to be included and soon there is a rumba chain leading right on up to the....airport police.

Goodbye, chère Susi!

But police are people too, and usually even they can be coaxed into an olive or two.

Thomas walking the plank

Dodos for Rom's goodbyeAnother wonderful woman off! Bye Soph!

And here I am, the last woman standing: still working in the Port, hanging on the boats, and soaking up the rays for as long as I can!