Trip 43 — Réunion Walk

Day 5: Saint-Pierre to Saint-Leu
Sunday, 3 November 2024

Today: 43631 steps/34.00 km/21.13 mi/6h 42m
Total: 194278 steps/156.18 km/97.05 mi/28h 39m

I headed west through Saint-Pierre's quiet Sunday streets. The big church at the end of town was open, of course, and there were buses running. Réunion has a surprisingly robust bus network; they run frequently and ascend the steep, winding roads. Everyone had a good view on those slopes, if they were willing to make the trip.

I emerged from town onto a sandy coastal path. Joggers, walkers, bikers, dogs — two of the last having an obedience lesson — and the ocean waves made up the activity on land. In the air, a sightseeing helicopter or small plane came by every few minutes, and I wished I'd booked with one of those companies rather than the one that had canceled on me.

The path took me around the back of the airport, a long, straight stretch. It dumped me into a scruffy tangle with several overgrown trails; I scraped my way to the water's edge and followed the dirt track. By now I was alone.

Google Maps had the next 1.2 kilometers over water. I expected a bridge, but the track continued, over solid earth.

Until I suddenly came to a small stream. I might have been able to jump across, but it would have been very messy if I'd missed. I took my shoes and socks off and waded: three cool, refreshing steps. I put my socks and shoes back on, trying to balance on the rocky path. The stones hurt my feet.

A minute later I came to another stream. I removed the socks and shoes again, walked across, and put them on again.

Fool me twice, shame on me. By the third stream I didn't bother. And the fourth and fifth. There might once have been more, but some of the riverbeds — actually all part of the Rivière Saint-Etienne — have run dry, and pink dots marked the trail across the fields of small boulders. The last crossing had a stronger current and a long step up the other side — not dangerous but unexpected.

I came out of the trail in the town of Saint-Louis. A Burger King and a McDonald's greeted me, and that's the best the town had to show. It seemed to be primarily concerned with the operation and maintenance of automobiles. Even the street murals were cars.

This was a Sunday, and Saint-Louis managed to have all of the traffic and none of the business. The supermarkets were closed. There weren't restaurants in this part of town. I paused for a swig of warm water. A glimpse of a red fody, and someone with a table selling gateaux manioc (cassava cakes) and papayas, brightened up the scene and my mood.

Why was Saint-Louis so noisy if there was nothing to do? The road passed under the N1 motorway. Somebody yelled something at me from a car; I didn't acknowledge it. I had another chance at a Burger King.

As if to confirm the town's dire lack of appeal, as soon as I passed the sign at its exit — "Saint Louis" with a line through it — not ten steps later there were a supermarket and a bakery, both open. I thought about stopping, but I was halfway to lunch and happy to press on.

From Saint-Louis I had two options for proceeding to Saint-Leu: up to the hills and through the towns or along the shore, more or less. The upper route was two kilometers shorter, but it involved a long climb at the end. The lower route still offered lunch spots and had the potential to be quieter — and, being closer to the water, it would certainly be more Abecedarian Walks–appropriate.

A back road led me through sugarcane and banana fields. I tried to zigzag to the road on the other side but came to a dead end. Someone was plowing the adjacent track. I was sure I'd been seen. I quickly studied the French for "I'm so sorry, I'm looking for the main road," but I retraced my steps quickly and avoided an encounter.

Having found the road, I enjoyed progress on a wide bike lane for the next hour, along a park and beach. There were few cars, and there was a parallel walking track, but it was sandy and I found it easier to walk in the bikeway.

This easy going brought me all the way to L'Étang-Salé les Bains, a holiday town for beachgoers with street murals bearing hills, waves, trees, and a bird, the way it should be. I entered the main street under the arch and then made my way past zillions of parked cars to where the restaurants were. The first one was full, but at the second one I was granted a seat just back from the window a bit, with a breeze and sight of the palms — only for the people sitting at the window to have the staff close the shades, knocking out most of the view and transferring the responsibility for ventilation to the fan oscillating above us.

Still, it was a pleasant place to linger. The salad with shrimp and tuna tataki turned out to be plenty, but I had already committed to the special of the day — a kangaroo filet with tagliatelle and ratatouille. The idea of an American having Australian game at a French restaurant in an African island in the Indian Ocean was too much to turn down. I found the kangaroo a bit tough (having perfectly conveyed my desire to have it "saignant," rare, literally "bleeding"), but overall it was an enjoyable meal.

And it had been an enjoyable morning. Today's 20 kilometers before lunch seemed to go faster than the 18 kilometers before lunch on the way to Saint-Pierre, even though the streams had slowed me down. There had been so much variety. I'd walked out of the island's second-largest city, taken a coastal path, wended through an overgrown tangle, made my way across the Rivière Saint-Etienne, seen Réunion's least interesting city (maybe Saint-Louis is where that company interviewing Hassad will house all the unsuspecting expatriates), crossed some plantations (and gotten caught but not reprimanded), and had an easy go along a bike path. I'd even snacked on a cucumber.

I reapplied sunscreen and started up the western coast. I had 2½ hours left before reaching Saint-Leu, all along the N1A, the secondary highway fronting the sea (the limited-access N1 runs higher up the slopes). The afternoon lacked the morning's variety, but the cliffs down to the sea were dramatic, and there was plenty of space to walk. Once in a while I looked up and marveled at the altitudes of the houses.

It took a few minutes to find the Villa Complet, and then it took a few minutes to find George to show me my room — the young woman brushing her teeth on the patio turned out to be another guest. The room was one in a rustic house, with a strange outdoor refrigerator, an indoor light whose only switch was outside, and a toilet oddly accessed through the shower — but the fans kept it cool enough, and it was close to the lively beach for the sunset.

Once again, I over-ordered. A problem is that a lot of restaurants don't have starters, so trying two things involves getting two large plates. I knew I wanted a salade de palmiste (with palm hearts), and I would have been happy with a small plate of it, but there it was served in a giant seashell with shrimp. And the "Choucroute Exotique" with scallops, shrimp, and toothfish over papaya strips with a passion-fruit sauce sounded just right for this beach town.

This was only a moderately long day, but my legs were aching after dinner, and I'd forgotten to let my feet air out after the river experience. I stopped for a Picaro IPA at the bustling Zinc Bar partly because I wasn't ready for the last 220 meters to the Villa Complet. By the time I left, the DJ had started, and the patrons spilled out across the street, the kind of crowd that rolls their own cigarettes and wears tattoos saying "I won't kill your baby." (I had to stare at him until the last word was revealed.)

Opposite the bar, on the inland side, the lights dotted the roads and the homes up the slope. They were lovely to view from down near the sea; I was happy not to have to carry myself up there after this tiring day.

Because that's how tomorrow's walk ends.

Go on to day 6