Sailing from Mauritius to Durban - Part Two Reunion

It was love at first sight, Reunion is an island that was completely surprising, diverse and utterly breath-taking.

36 hours after a gorgeous sail from Mauritius we set foot on Saint-Pierre. The first passage sailing on Topaz was gratefully uneventful, only passing a handful of large ships, light winds and calm seas carried us closer to land with only a couple of hours motor-sailing. We arrived just off Saint-Pierre at 02:00am; the entrance to the small harbour was tricky as we heard the pounding surf smashing onto the rocks.

For five hours we heaved-to a stone throw away from the lush green voluptuous island. As the morning rays brought light all around us, we dropped our sails and prepared for the challenge of surfing the massive swells. Viatrix, a sturdy ketch that we had been sailing in convoy with allowed us to tackle the entrance first, holding back and observing with interest.

Our 51ft Australian built Adams monohull motored forwards, aiming her bow for the first set of leads, nautical markers set on land that assisted yachts entering harbours. Our yacht surged over large surf as Rob Ferenczi, my skipper, guided his vessel between two large treacherous looking rocky outcrops. After the adrenaline pumping entry, we successfully avoided shipwrecking Topaz and nestled in the small craft harbour that was overlooked by colossal volcanic mountains.

Customs officials came quickly and cleared us in. We were officially in ‘France’ and free to roam.

The village of Saint-Pierre is set in the south-west of Reunion and being the third largest populated on the island, bustled with vibrancy. Pristine coral beaches lined the delightful French village, the beach adjacent to the harbour was protected by a man-made reef with tourists and locals alike making full use of the ocean.

The main street running along the coastline was filled with an array of cafes that spilled out onto the pavement and all offering endless views and wi-fi, much to our relief. Our Canadian friends discovered a patisserie a block away from the entrance to the harbour and they frequented the bakery each morning, wandering back to the boats with an armful of deliciously baked French loaves. I admittedly strolled past acquiring a croissant each morning as I headed out to explore the island.

It was an interesting contrast, visiting a near neighbour but with the constant feeling of being in first world Europe.  English was hardly spoken so we again resorted to a lot of animated hand-signals. Robi and I refreshed our petit French vocab, reminding ourselves of the essentials- how to count to ten, ordering a coffee or beer.

On the weekend, we had the honour of being part of the festivities, the Dipavali or Festival of Lights. The entire strip was transformed for the occasion. Two stages had been set up during the week and the police had left notes on every lamp pole informing us that the road would be closed. On Friday on both stages it was scheduled to have music and dancing and on Saturday there was to be a parade and then fireworks to close off Dipavali.

Dancers of all shapes and sizes took to the stage, entertaining the masses. Little people clad in traditional attire joined more experienced dancers. The faces of the tiny tots were too precious as the pure concentration of the steps and hand movements were etched all over their features. Sari after sari, beautiful bright colours, invaded our vision as more dance troops took to the stages to perform. The evening ended early with the promise of more delightful entertainment to follow the next day.

As the sun began to set on Saturday, the road was again closed and people filtered out and crowded the streets. In my wanderings that day, nervous people had urged tourists not to wander around the harbour as luminous workers went about setting up the massive firework display. Further along I had come across a number of carriages that were being dressed for the occasion. That evening, the decorated carriages began the precession, followed by musicians, dancers and dignitaries. Wheel barrows laden with fire broke up each dressed wagon, with another dance group going to great lengths to create their identity at the parade. Tinsel, statues, gorgeous models adorned the slow moving coach. After a few hours of watching the parade, carriages pulled by bulls rounded up the formalities and the crowd dispersed towards the beach.

As I moved to the beach, I bumped into Rob and we wandered to the grassy banks to get a good view of the fireworks. Punctually, the first explosion ignited the sky. For what seemed like an eternity, the sky was highlighted with exploding fairy lights, red, green, brilliant white lit up the sky accompanied by thunderous bombs. The finale was fantastic, the smell of gunpowder wafted around for a while and the crowd surrounding us visibly was buzzing from the display.

With the help of fellow crew member, Jen’s marvellous French vocab, we managed to navigate hiring a car on Monday for two of the days which gave us the opportunity to really explore the island. The Topaz trio ventured out to Cilaos on our first outing. Cilaos, to the north west of Saint-Pierre was up in the mountains, at the foot of the Piton des Neiges to be exact. The Isle da le Reunion had two main roads, the one that etched the coastline and the second bisecting the island with smaller roads branching off each.

Signage was easy to understand and it didn’t take a rocket scientist to steer towards the high peaks that dominated the horizon. Tour De France slopes greeted us as we got out of Saint-Pierre, exquisite green hills surrounded us with the quaintest of wooden houses interrupting the greenness. Our tiny little Nissan’s tyres glued themselves around the thousands of corners; the only rule seemed that if you hoot first on arriving to a hairpin bend, you get to go first. We edged our way up the winding road, constantly racing towards the misty clouds that hovered just above us, avoiding the locals as they expertly ‘Schumachered’ their way along the road.

Cilaos instantly transported me to the Camino. Bodies of all shapes and sizes walked around the small village, armed with walking sticks and backpacks. Paths disappeared off the road transporting their walkers onto yet another trail taking them deeper into the pulsating forests. The tiny colourful village swarmed with people, meandering around I had to stop myself from uttering Buen Camino.

Pausing for a coffee at the Le Tsilaosa, a hotel located in the heart of Cilaos, we sat on the veranda of this beautiful building mesmerised by the rich wooden exterior that was complimented with overflowing window boxes. After a short stroll, lunch was enjoyed taking in the immense hills encompassing us.

As the temperature started to drop and time marched on, we jumped in the car continuing through the forests, stopping briefly at a picnic site. The mist tumbled down the hills, obscuring the tops of the trees and hiding the mountains and the air was crisp but inviting.

Our final adventure that day was driving on the coastal freeway. We got a feel for the other side of the island but in the darkness didn’t see as much as we had hoped. Saint-Denis, the main town was a maze of roads with office blocks and brightly lit shop fronts giving them identity. The harbour in Saint-Denis was huge compared to our small craft harbour, with tall cranes evident from the road.

The next day we set off early, our intention was to bravely explore the volcanoes of Reunion. According to our basic research the island experienced an eruption every four years and was due for an explosion quite soon! Armed with this knowledge, we still set off up the windy roads to wander on the edge of a crater.

Our first stop was at a lush ledge that overlooked a forested valley hundreds of meters below. Sheer rock faces camouflaged by super-hero trees clinging to the outcrops. Circumnavigating the valley, we stopped several times; each time the landscape altered slightly from the previous spot, the soil redder, the rocks bigger and the trees more hardy.

Having driven the entire shards of rock, the road dropped off to a fascinating landscape. A mixture of a red and brown desert waited below. As cars and buses made their way through the section that looked very similar to what I imagine Mars to look like, clouds of dust billowed behind the vehicles. Cumulus clouds began to dominate the horizon at the edge that dropped off to another valley. Imaginations running wild, the rising clouds could have been compared to gases rising from a near-bursting volcano.

Venturing down to Mars, we stopped at a layby getting out of the car. The entire ground was covered by bits of volcanic rock. Picking them up, the light aerated rocks of varying colours and textures must have been a geologist’s heaven. A few persistent tufts of grass sprouted their heads through the dire surrounds, the only visible sign of life. A mate of mine, Adrian, suggested that the Curiosity Rover actually landed on this section of earth and roamed around Reunion, not Mars. I would have to say if I were a conspiracist, then I would agree.

After spending time marching around, kicking dirt, tossing bits of volcano and building cairns we moved on to Piton De La Fournaise. It was nearing lunch time and by the amount of cars and buses in the parking lot, it suggested that this was a popular destination. Leaving the car, we headed to the edge. Observing the massive crater below, there were hundreds of ants that were hiking around the volcano. Clambering up the lava dome and peering down into the unknown, bold tourists wandered around following paths that took them across a sleeping beast that could awaken at any time. Like lizards, we found a rock that had soaked up the rays, sheltered from the breeze and energetic tourists, the Topaz trio sat and gazed across this mystical landscape.

From the barren volcanic parts, our trusty small Nissan whizzed us up to Salazie. The small town high up on yet another mountain was encased by brilliant green trees with waterfalls cascading down, breaking up the canvas and adding yet another element of wow to the island. We drove towards Hell-bourg and parked the car. Descending down vertical paths, twenty minutes of scaling down rough rocky pathways, we found ourselves submerged in a crisp river that was just reward for the rock climbing. Tumbling water was the only interruption to the peace and quiet. As the light began to fade, we trekked up to the car and then meandered back to the boat.

The final day with the car, we did the necessaries before our second chapter of the voyage, a stop at Carrefour. The Nissan needed to be back at the car hire before 10am so we flew through the shopping. Packing 40 oranges, 40 apples, kiwi fruit, as much fresh food that we could into trolleys, yoghurt, French cheeses, French bread, you name it; we whisked around the massive store and loaded up the trolleys.

Dashing back to the boat, we offloaded leaving Jen with the responsibility of packing the boat and hurrying to the car hire to return the wheels. As the clock struck 10, we drove into the yard and had the vehicle scrutinised and checked. After the agonising inspection we were free. I left Rob and adventured to new bits of Saint-Pierre, falling more in love with this quaint village. A Nordic church, a Chinese temple, a Hindu temple, a Gothic style church, the people, the coastline, the cuisine, the coffee – what wasn’t too love?

The remaining time I absorbed as much of La Reunion as I could, promising myself one day I would return.

We set sail on a Friday, with ladies on board… and bananas.