Arm Wrestling

Today I received the following photo of my brother and his arm: direct from the pow wow nar nar of Jackson Hole, Wyoming.
My arm had no choice but to respond:

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.

Easy come, not easy go

re·un·ion (noun)

a. The act of reuniting.

b. The state of being reunited.

"Reunion" in both French and English, is a word describing meeting and togetherness. The island draws people from around the globe. Although a good chunk of the population was born and raised on this little rock of heaven, nearly half of us come from the outside. Some hop on board for a few months, others claim they'll be gone within a year and end up staying ten. Friendships are strong in a place so far away, everyone is eager to find their home here.

The greatest joy is that new people are always arriving. The saddest part is that those same people eventually have to get going. Amongst other dramatic and unfortunate events of the past week, was the departure of one wonderful Tom. Car troubles and torrential downpours ruined what was already going to be a dreaded goodbye, stranding me and Dad on the other side of the island. Racing home, realizing that I was quite nearly going to miss the opportunity to see him off, I made a deal with the devil, in this case, Tom's host dad, Philippe Gamba.

Philippe gave me 10 minutes. In that time I was to descend my house from a jagged rock cliff, cross a ravine, wade through hip-high waste, and jump through a barbed wire fence to join their car, barreling forward--nothing could stop it's airport-boundedness---in the center of la Saline. Dad, recognizing the feverish determination in my eyes, agreed to join me for the most epic cyclonic trek of our lives. If you want to know what the spirit of our departure sounded like, listen to this gem.

Petrified and certain that we would miss their car, I took the whole thing at a breakneck pace. Poor Dad, whom I had already nearly drowned once that day, was a little more cautious. I arrived huffing and puffing in downtown Saline, shocked by the flooding. The place was unrecognizable. Out of breath but victorious, I could hear Dad behind me saying, "Wow, we just walked through open sewage." I think that would be a bit of an exaggeration. But someone should probably tell Diana to add a "sewage" section to the mountain-valley part. We were walking a fine line there.

In the end we did make it in time, I did get to say goodbye to Tom, and I did cry a little bit, but I was able to play it off as raindrops in my eye. And to all of you others out there who have left (Jo!) or are going to be leaving soon: DON'T. DO. IT. This is Reunion. Stay. Don't go.

Citroen meets Cyclone

On Dad's first day, we gazed with beleaguered faces at the dark lagoon in front of our eyes. The storm was starting to be described as "a cyclone without the wind," and everyone in the media was giving the "end of the world" hype that I can't stand. This was the third day of heavy rain and it was not showing signs of letting up. But of course, we reasoned, Dad didn't come to the other side of the world to be intimidated by a little water, so off we went.

Our first stop was to St. Leu, a great town south of Saline. It was raining pretty hard, but we cozied up under a tarp at a local hangout, sitting outside, (mostly) sheltered from the downpour. Dad said it reminded him of his Central Africa days, all the fun in being together, not being in a rush or racing against the clock. We took our time before heading farther south still, driving a hitchhiker to her house, then battling the increasingly heavy rains to St. Pierre.

We stayed long enough for Dad to see the town and for me to realize that I had forgotten the picnic lunch I prepared. No matter! We chowed down at a little street side cafe before musing that the rain was really starting to pour. I lazily suggested we head back north towards home and Dad agreed.

Roads that were manageable an hour before had become unrecognizable. By the time we reached Etang Sale, there was massive flooding. Reunion Island is a cone-shaped land mass: the mountainous center slopes violently downward into the towns and beaches that line the coast. This means that all of the rain drains and collects at the foothills. We were toast. We came to our first area of major flooding where I was able to follow the crown of the road and pass through without a problem. Unfortunately these difficult passes were becoming more frequent along our coastal route; we were trapped between an angry and rising ocean on one side and massive mountain drainage from the other.

The breaking point occurred when we arrived at a bridge or "radier" that was completely flooded. Feeling that we would be damned to stay and let the water rise around us, I decided to gun it through some very high water. Flooding was up to the windows, water splashing over the windshield. My poor Citroen just couldn't handle all that inundation. She died right in the middle of the rapids. Lucky for us--and what probably saved our lives--was that at that exact moment a 4x4 truck came from behind and helped push us out of the danger zone. We were able to wait on higher ground for help to come.

Friends with a pick-up truck came an hour later--to "Save America!"--and towed the car back through heavy rain to a garage in La Saline. The mechanics there were able to get her started again, allowing us to believe she had avoided a worse fate. However, several days later, while making a steep climb into the hills near Plaine des Cafres, the motor exploded on us. Her last gasp for breath and then she was gone.

Between punctured tires, stolen hubcaps, and a drowned motor, this poor little car had a tough month. We did, however, learn some valuable lessons. The first is that when it rains on Reunion Island, it's probably best not to drive because the hype is not exaggerated. Secondly, never cross a flooded radier. And thirdly, if you decide to take your car for a swim, insurance will probably refuse to pay for it. Ergo facto, rigorously avoid these three points! Otherwise, Dad and I are alive, we are healthy, and we have some great stories for the grandkids, as hard as this loss and close call was for us.

R.I.P little Citroen

A Reunion on Reunion

After spending months telling my family about the "sunshine all the time" on Reunion Island, my father decided to make it a stop on his 'round the world business trip this January. Carrying a suitcase filled with bathing suits, a selection of Hawaiian tropical shirts, underwater cameras, and a snorkel-mask, Dad arrived in the worst tropical cyclonic rainstorm the island has seen in a decade. The sign greeting him at the airport should have read, "Welcome to the land of apocalyptic rain, Dad! I hope we don't die!"

Going to pick him up at the airport, I might have been better served rowing a paddle boat up the coast line. The "Route du Littoral," a highway hugging the mammoth cliffs along the central west to northern coast, is notoriously dangerous for falling rocks that are frequently dislodged in heavy rains. On this particular day, the rainfall was such that waterfalls had sprung along the route, cascading down the cliff sides. Radical Tom Rawlins, also heading north to the airport around this time, caught some incredible footage that will give you an idea of the rain's intensity.

I made it to the airport in one piece despite numerous detours from flooding and a tunnel closed because of falling rocks. Dad's plane was four hours late coming from Mauritius, making the Reunion on Reunion all the sweeter when he finally walked through the arrival doors.