Trip 43 — Réunion Walk

Day 4: Saint-Philippe to Saint-Pierre
Saturday, 2 November 2024

Yesterday: 44317 steps/35.29 km/21.93 mi/6h 34m
Total: 150647 steps/122.18 km/75.92 mi/21h 57m

I woke up yesterday to Laurent's e-mail: "This morning, I will pollinate vanilla flowers. Please feel free to join me if you are interested."

But he had sent it at 5:52 a.m. How long did it take to pollinate vanilla flowers? And where were they?

I showered and found Laurent outside, along with his neighbor. The vanilla plantation was adjacent to the Dan'n Tan Lontan pool and guest bungalows. That was fortunate for our timing, and also for security — those who keep their plants up in the hills risk having them ransacked.

October to December is the time for pollination. It's done by bees in Mexico, but it must be performed by hand on Réunion. A slave named Edmond Albius discovered the means of pollination in about 1841, extrapolating from the technique used for watermelons on a plantation in Sainte-Suzanne. He was never properly credited for his discovery during his lifetime.

The flower is a white orchid with a membrane separating its male and female parts. To pollinate a flower, you use a spine from a barbel palm (the type of tree to which Laurent's vanilla plants were affixed) and lift the membrane, allowing the upper flap to come down so that the male and female parts can be attached.

This must happen on the day the flower is ready. Last year's harvest was bad, but this year Laurent has a couple hundred flowers to pollinate each day. The pods are then collected and left out to dry. It takes almost two years between planting and ready product.

I headed out of Saint-Philippe. I would spend most of the walking day going west on the N2. For the first hour, the trip was mostly flat. I passed a couple of places where I might have emerged had I managed to take the Tremblet trail and stay up near the volcano: innocent signs marking the turnoffs to unforgivingly steep and long access tracks.

When I passed through neighborhoods, they smelled good. Whatever was being cooked inside announced itself with rich, spicy aromas that lingered with me all the way up the long gradient of the eighth kilometer. Some people had grills set up by the road, offering takeaway chicken. Other stands sold fruit, vegetables, vanilla, honey, and even handicrafts such as woven baskets.

I paused for lunch in Saint-Joseph, just over halfway through the walking day. One version of my plan had been to spend the night here, rather than at Dan'n Tan Lontan. I'd reached Saint-Philippe just before six in the evening. I'd never have made it another three hours after taking the lava tour the same day.

Saint-Joseph had a few places to eat, including a burger spot and something called My Food City. An appealing place on the main drag was Les Bons Enfants, a cafeteria-style place listed on Google Maps as being open around the clock. I did a reasonable job of ordering cogently by pointing at the cod in tomato-onion sauce (rougail morue) and chicken egg roll and using advanced French such as "petit" for the portion size, "oui" when the server made for the hot sauce, and "ici" when he said "ici."

But not all "icis" are the same. Perhaps he was asking about something else, but he handed me the food in a takeout container. When I started to claim a pitcher of water, as I'd seen others do, the cashier told me I had to take my food elsewhere.

"But I said 'ici,'" I protested.

"Ah, it's OK," he said. But I forwent the water and took my trash away when I left — just as this supposed 24-hour place was having its gates resolutely shut a few minutes after two.

I'd gotten used to the rhythm of the traffic. It wasn't dangerous, but it was boring and a waste of energy to devote part of my mental attention to staying in the shoulder and occasionally crossing the road. The shoulder was delimited by dashed white lines, but not all drivers heeded them. When cars edged into the shoulder, I wagged my finger toward the proper lane. I never made eye contact.

For better or worse, I had noticed the elevation on Google Maps' routing, and I knew I had an hour of steady climbing up to a place called Petite-Île before coming down just as steadily to Grand Bois. Just before Grand Bois, the N2 went inland and became a proper limited-access highway again, so I took the ramp down into the town.

It was instantly so much quieter. The main beach — lava, of course — sprawled out under a central park with palms and banyan trees. I took advantage of some mango and passion-fruit ice cream and the relaxed pace, and then I walked the last hour into Saint-Pierre.

Hassad met me for beers an hour later. He had seen my Tweets and wanted to know more about the walk. We found a place near the Lindsey Hotel that looked to be too busy for us to hear each other, but there was a quiet room in the back.

"How will you vote?" he asked.

"I already did," I said. "I put it in the mail."

"We're interested in American politics as much as our own," he said. "Next week will have a big impact on the world."

Hassad just turned 40. He was born on Réunion and come back to the island after 15 years in Paris and a couple of years in Mauritius. In Paris he had met the person who would become his wife. Her career as a fashion designer became more of a challenge on Réunion; she currently has a line of children's clothing. They have a four-year-old son and a home that they rent a few minutes' drive away from the center of Saint-Pierre.

He echoed Jerome's comment about Réunion's inclusivity, with a couple of exceptions. "The most recent to arrive are looked down on by those who are already here," he said. "That means people from the Comoros and Sri Lanka. But I don't know why. We have Black people, and we have people from the Indian subcontinent. The new arrivals should be treated the same."

He also noted that Mauritius doesn't have the same welcoming attitude. People over there tend to stick with people of similar heritage, whereas they're more likely to mix on Réunion.

"Do they marry each other?" I asked.

"That depends on the house. Muslim parents often don't want their children to marry non-Muslims. But it is possible."

Mauritius also has a bigger income disparity and less-developed infrastructure. A department of France, Réunion has reliable electricity and water, a robust bus network, and overall a higher standard of living.

The rents have gone up in the past few years. "Wealthy people from France come in and buy houses," he said. "People are having to move farther out of the cities. We were lucky to get a place on the outskirts of Saint-Pierre."

Hassad worked for an Internet startup in travel, but he lost his job a few months ago. He's currently interviewing for a company based in the French West Indies.

"It's nice that you can do that kind of job anywhere," I said.

But I was mistaken. "That was true during the pandemic," Hassad said. "But now they want people on site. I've had three interviews by phone; maybe the fourth will be here in person."

The company he had applied to was recruiting people to bring them to Réunion. "Shouldn't you have an advantage, already being here?" I asked. "They don't have to pay for your relocation."

"Yes, but if they bring in someone, it may be easier to manipulate them. They can tell them where to live."

Hassad isn't sure he wants to stay in Réunion. He might want to move back to France, but not Paris. And we share a favorite place to visit: Japan.

I had a heavy dinner of foie gras and magret de canard and returned to the bar for another beer. It was good to be in a city again, with noisy patrons. The local Picaro, brewed near Saint-Pierre — Hassad had emphasized the growth of America-inspired craft beers on Réunion — was the draft of choice.

The original plan for this morning included a helicopter ride over the interior (AWKWARD-allowable, I decided), but the company had called it off yesterday, saying there would be no flights until Wednesday. I wasn't heartbroken not to have to walk out to the little Pierrefonds airport in the early morning on my rest day. Instead, I did laundry (easy machines a couple of blocks away) and headed to the outdoor Saturday market. On the way was a cluster of flower vendors, whose sales made the adjacent cemetery the most colorfully floral one I've ever seen.

The market was half food, half handicrafts, and all jampacked with people. Different vanilla from different parts of Réunion were for sale, as were samosas, fruit juices, sausages, and a bright, technicolor array of produce.

The fruit offerings included a couple I hadn't heard of: jabotika or jaboticaba (Brazilian grapetree) and cerise à côte (ribbed cherries, also originally from South America), deep-purple and bright-red, respectively. The jabotika had a white, pulpy flesh that adhered to its seeds and made eating it difficult, and the cherries were sour; they're better used medicinally. I searched for the little cranberry-like goyavier (strawberry guava) but found it only in liqueur form, in a supermarket.

Squishing my way out of the market, I joined the line for sausages and skewered pork. I checked out the covered market, also enjoyable although many of the items are imported from Madagascar and other places. I walked along the shore to Terre Sainte, the eastern half of Saint-Pierre across the Rivière d'Abord. When Hassad was growing up, this was a rough part of town. But now there are many places to eat and stay along its narrow streets, and the long fishing pier welcomes adults, children, and dogs for the sunset.

I ended the lazy day with grenadier, a bottom-dweller whose French name makes it more appealing than its English name (rattail). But enough of the laziness; I've got two long days coming up.

Go on to day 5