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.

La Roche Ecrite

There is a magical mythical place in the center of Reunion Island called the Roche Ecrite. If you have the wherewithal to start hiking at 4:30 in the morning, you might make it in time for a stunning view of this unique place which straddles two cirques, Salazie and Mafate. Looking down into one cirque is like looking down into the eye of the earth. Now TWO, that's more than an earthly man might be able to handle. My pal Anouk and I decided to give it a shot.

We started our hike from Dos d'An, north of La Possession, a quick and easy way to shoot into the cirque de Mafate. I parked the car in a residential area and we hit the ground running. As is always the case with the weather here, the mountains entrap clouds early on in the day, and once this happens, you can't see much. It's a race against time and we were already late. Added confusion abounded when we lost twenty minutes roaming around the little neighborhood looking for the path. Soon we found it and were on our way.

The early morning views were spectacular. Nonetheless, we started getting nervous when we asked someone how far to La Roche Ecrite and he laughed at us, shook his head, and walked away. The next person was more helpful, "At least 6 hours from here!" We had planned to do this in one day and started to feel the heat; time to book it. The trail was something out of a fairytale: we passed through secret mossy fields and across knife-head paths, sheer rock cliffs dropping from either sides. If we didn't feel like we were starring in the Lord of the Rings, we did by the time the fog started rolling in and everything became more mysterious.

This also unfortunately meant that everything became invisible. We made excellent time to our destination but it was not time enough. The tremendous view we had hoped to see was entirely covered with clouds and fog by 11AM. We did see the Roche Ecrite, or "written rock" which is a lovely slab of concrete with graffiti on it. If you are Philippe, Pierre, or Antoine, you have been to this place more times than is appropriate, and should stop writing your name--now. In any event, anyone planning this hike would be advised to begin in darkness or stay in the gite at Plaine des Chicos so you can get the sunrise view. That's what I will do next time...

Back down the mountain side completing our 24km hike with some very tired legs and a small twinge of disappointment, but mostly we just had fun. A great time that came to a screeching halt when we got to the car to discover that some trickster had stolen the hubcaps and popped a back tire. Thanks Dos D'an! Apparently this is a local pastime in the neighborhood; locals like to give tourists the run around. Moral of the story, avoid parking in this area.

There were some kids hanging out near the car and Anouk went over to try to scare them into confessing, but they were smiley and just offered to help us put the spare on. At this point my legs were rubber--every time I took a step, I almost fell down. It was embarrassing. Especially when I realized that one of the boys, Christopher, is a student of mine at Lycee Vue Belle. A small tire-popping world. Tried not to lose face by wiping out in front of everyone, but at this point the entire neighborhood had gathered around to watch us struggle with the jack. I gave tire-changing authority to a 14 year old boy because I no longer had control over my muscles. It was an ordeal, but what are you going to do. I was too tired to be indignant. As we were cruising out of town, a friendly neighbor flagged us down. The fire started growing in my belly when we were informed that it was my student and his father who vandalized my car. Not over any personal vendetta, but just a fun father-son activity when there's a visitor in town. I hope that sweet little Christopher is ready to write "I will not vandalize my teacher's car" 800 times on the blackboard...