sweet.

Two days ago, I stumbled into the Cité Internationale scraped, scratched and stinky with bits of fern and various other things caught in my hair. I had finally made it back from crossing the island. I started out in St. Joseph, which is in the south, just next to the volcano. I took the route that goes through a big ravine of boulders and sand called La Rivière des Remparts. It was about three or four hundred yards wide, and full of giant boulders and rocks that had been washed down from the mountains during cyclones or big storms, and it took me all day to make it roughly half way through the ravine. I camped right next to a little place where the water got pushed up above ground (it was an intermittent stream) and a couple of tec-tec's lived. It was a very nice day. The next morning I promptly got lost. If you look closely at the map above, you'll see that the trail splits from the "river" right after my first campsite (the blue x's are camp sites, the green dots are obviously beginning and end). In the stupor of my sleep, I followed the river, thinking that I had seen trail blazes the day before that went that way. So I went for about thirty minutes, and then realized that there were no trail blazes. I hate turning back, and I saw footprints left in the volcanic ash covering the rocks, so I kept going. After another thirty minutes or so, I noticed that there was one set of footprints left. I told myself, "Well, that means its possible" and kept going. A little while after that, I came to a place where the river bed dipped down a little bit, and ended in a big wall of rock, about thirty feet high. In all honesty, this wasn't any big surprise, that happens a lot here with rivers when there is a waterfall (or in this case, was a waterfall), and I immediately began to look for a way around it. I saw that I was on a level with the riverbed after the cliff, so I decided to bushwhack around it. I put myself into the woods, using my walking stick to beat back the brush and brambles, and I made it through without a scratch. After a little while longer, I came to another dip down and cliff. Now, I wasn't doing this simply because I got lost, I had an idea where I was going. I knew that the trail ascended up the left side of the ravine, so I figured that if I stuck to the left side, I was bound to cross it at some point. So, I stuck like a well-cooked noodle to the wall, and bushwhacked my way back into the brush on the side of the river. This time, it was harder. There were enormous plants that have thick, waxy, hard leaves that ressemble giant aloe plants, and where difficult to walk through, and at one point I was entirely surrounded by brambles, and had to beat them back again with my stick. After struggling against the external forces slowing me down and the internal forces telling me to be afraid of the witch they say lives in those parts, I noticed that I was past the escarpment. phew. Five minutes and the riverbed began to descend again, so I stuck myself back into the woods, which were more open this time, but also higher up from the riverbed, and I passed another dropoff. After a forgotten amount of time, I came to a little sign, that said "GITE ---->." I had come to the trail. Sadly, that was about when the trail got hard, as it began to ascend farther into the ravine, and I began to see the end of the ravine, and the climb that awaited me. A ways into the incline, a hawk startled and put to flight about ten feet from where I was, making his way right past me. Their piercing calls had marked my time in La Rivière des Remparts, and this close encounter was an absolutely breath-taking experience. Litterally, I couldn't move a muscle. Otherwise I would have a picture. Eventually, finally, I came over the lip of the canyon onto a flat place that overlooked an enormous plain, and stumbled up to a road that passed by there, hoping for a sign that pointed me towards Le Piton des Neiges, the next landmark I was headed towards, or atleast something telling me where I was. Sadly, I had not put the pictures that I took of Justin's map in a folder named "100NIKON" so I had no map except for a very poorly drawn touristic map of the whole island, which showed almost no detail and had names of only larger places. Sadly, I found absolutely nothing in the way of signs, and was a little worried. There was a small park across the street, and a gray-haired couple were embracing one another at what looked like some sort of long-awaited reunion. I was desperate, so I asked them if they had any idea where to go, and the man told me he didn't know, as I expected; they didn't seem like they had ever been there to go on a walk. So I flagged down a car, and they showed me where I was on a very good map, and where I had to go. So I had a hint. I turned to the right on the road from the ravine, and put to walking. After a while I found an unmarked trail that split off to the left. I remembered that the trail I was looking for should cross it if it went straight, and took it. I was right. For some reason, I was more worried about being lost this time than I was before, and when I found a sign pointing me in the right direction, I dropped my pack, flopped onto the ground and had a good giggle. The picture that I took of that sign has perhaps the most emotion in it than any other photograph I have ever taken. I was ecstatic. So, happy and singing, I made good time across the plain, and made it to a place where the light was failing and a small unmarked trail split off of to the right of the road I was on. I dropped my pack and took it to see if there was anywhere for me to throw down my tent for a night. There was an area cleared out in the bushes about 5X10 feet, and I figured that was perfect. So I cooked my dinner with myself in my tent and my stove outside, watching the sun give out its final light upon the plain that had twice been the delight of my eyes and the Piton des Neiges in the distance, a glimpse into my future. The next day I toiled long and hard to make it to the Gite du Caverne Dufour on time. I had told Bert that I would meet her, Yvonne and Rosie at the gite at two o'clock, and the whole day I knew that I was going to be late. But I made wonderful time across the plain, practically running at some points, and huffing and puffing my way up the mountain to the gite. On the way I met a Belgian man who was crossing the island going the opposite direction from me, and had a wonderful conversation about the bear triangle, the appalachian trail, baboons, Reunion, zamal, english and Bill Bryson, and a man training for Le Course des Foux, which is race across the island. Apparently, the fastest time ever is 17 hours. Several people have died doing it. When I made it to the gite, it was 2:50, and the girls weren't there yet. I had busted myself to get there on time, so I was a bit annoyed, but I knew that they would be late, so it was no big deal, I was glad to have a rest. After about fifteen minutes or so, I saw three white dots come trooping around a bend in the trail that goes to Salazie. I asked if they wanted some coffee, and they said yes. So by the time that it was ready, they had arrived. At a little after three-thirty, we left the gite to set up our tents on top of the Piton. The walk was easier than I remembered it having been, but that might have been because the first time I had a splitting headache, and this time I popped some Ibus at the gite. In any case, we got to the top just as the sun slipped behind the edge of the world, leaving us just a little hint of light to get out our head lamps. Sadly, the girls decided that it would be best to sleep all together in the three person tent, which had no rain fly. So the night passed slowly for all of us, and with many drips on our faces and wet feet and very little sleep. I should have slept in my tent with the bags. In the morning, we got up for the sunrise, which was magnificent, as there was just a little haze on the outskirts of the island, and the mountains where blue with distance. It was an amazing thing to see just how far I had come in three days. We then picked our way down the mountain, which was difficult for me at that point because I think that my boots had bruised my achilles tendon and it was getting a bit difficult to walk. When we made it back down to the gite, we refilled on water, said a few parting words, and I left for Cilaos, as I had a lot farther to go than they did. I made it into Cilaos in time for lunch, thanks to a lift that I got from a nice elderly couple who owned a fancy restaurant in the downtown area. After I finished the coffee they offered me, I grabbed a sandwich and a bottle of the cheapest beer (which actually turned out to be non-alcoholic beer...not bad, actually), and promptly found out how to get to my favorite spot on Reunion Island, L'Ilet des Trois Salazes, just between Cilaos and Mafate. I found out where the bus stopped to take me closer, as it was mostly a route on the road, and I have no interest in walking on a road like that, and not enough integrity to feel bad about taking the bus. When I got there, I recognized one of my friends from L'Ilet immediately. I said hi, and he told me that they were taking the bus that passed that way as well. I told him of my plans to stay the night there and to return later that week, and asked him about the place and what their cohesive beliefs were. There was another man with him who I had not met yet, and he told me that it was for love of the earth that everyone was at L'Ilet, and that beyond that there were no other specific beliefs, that it was all mixed. I was content with that, as I simply did not want to end up in a veritable hippy commune with a bunch of crazies that would make me smoke pot. So I took the bus with them to the trail, and they told me when to clap so the bus would stop, I got off, and took my first hike without my walking stick, as I had left it in the car of the couple who had given me a lift. It was a lonely moment and I felt genuinely sad to have parted with such a dear friend that had served me so well. So heavy of heart and heavy of feet, I made my way up to L'Ilet. After a good hour of walking, the trail turned away from the cliff that I had been climbing, and I saw the familiar welcome sign of one of my homes on this earth. When I arrived, almost everyone was at the welcome center, and I told them of my travels, my plans to continue the next day and my plans to return later in the week. Everyone seemed very excited to hear it, and very glad to see me. As usual, a tizane was in my hand before I could blink. That night, I wandered a little farther than I had before, found a few more things there, and wrote poems in my head, promptly eracing them as the sunset colors are eraced from the darkening evening sky. They fed me a meal of rice, beans and sausage and later that night invited me up to where 'Papa Ian,' the head hippie, lived for a little concert and festivities. I slept that night in one of the army tents set up for whoever wants to sleep in them. In the morning, I got up and had my usual breakfast of Shuford Couscous (raisins, apples, honey, a little sugar and couscous), a good conversation with a Metropolitan who had had enough of France and moved his family to La Réunion to live better, and hit the trail. It was at this point that I realized that my achilles tendon is much, much worse in the mornings, and actually, it troubled me all day long. And the drizzle didn't help. The whole morning, I did not want to stop as it just made me feel like I was getting wet for no reason. If I was getting wet, at least I would get wet going somewhere. So I rarely rested, and was aggravated by a rain that fell from the trees just as much from the sky. When I got to Mafate, I was greeted by signs for about five or six gites in this one little place and a couple of snack bars with rap/dance music playing inside. Not exactly 'sauvage' like everyone had told me. But I believe that the worst part of the whole day was that I was ecstatic to see Mafate, and the whole time I was in Mafate, it was cloudy and drizzling. So I saw just what was ahead (except for a few times like this one...), and nothing else. That is the last time I will put that much excitement on seeing a view; it's just not at all sure, above all on Reunion Island. But sadly, I also felt pressed that day, which I had no need to feel, but I thought that the dividing line between Mafate and Salazie would have been harder to cross. So I took the quick route out of Mafate and headed directly to Salazie. It turned out to not be such a bad idea, because Mafate had clouds pouring out of it the next day when I woke up as well, so it probably would have been crap again. When I came up over the lip of the border between Mafate and Salazie, I was in a place called La Plaine des Tamarins. I had seen a sign telling me I was going there, but when I read it, I figured it would be full of rolling hills like all the other plains, and would be tough walking anyways. But it wasn't. It was flat. The second my eyes saw it, I felt very close to bursting into tears. I have seen more beautiful, stunning and amazing things, but at that moment, nothing would have been better. I walked in a daze through a large clearing surrounded by little hills and groves of tamarin trees. A field mouse scurried across the path ahead of me and the smell of cows was thick in the air, as were their marks in the trail. I strolled along singing 'And the world can't do me no harm' from that DC Talk album, and feeling like a crisp, but smelly, hundred dollar bill. It was then that I realized that I had no idea where I was going to camp. I was quite sure that once I started down into Salazie, there would be absolutely nowhere, and battled internally to stay in this large flat grassy area even though it was only about 4 o'clock. Eventually, my crazier side won out, and I made a deal with myself that I would begin to look for a campsite as soon as there was a color in the sky that wasn't blue or white or gray. So I continued. Through the pass to Salazie, down the trail cut out of the rock face to a little plateau, through a dense, darkening forest of filaos trees, and farther, farther down into Salazie. I had seen a few spots, but nothing that would have actually been good. It was all on grass that was too long and had grown into clumps, which is worse to sleep on than rocks or roots, or places that were too low and I was afraid of sleeping in the middle of a swamp. Eventually I came to a very small, flat section of moss that was literally just next to the trail in a place where it went along the side of a very steep ridge. The spot was big enough for me to put my tent, with about seven or eight square feet extra to cook on. There was no wind, and I cooked the meal that I had the first time that I went backpacking (macaroni and cheese with tuna and corn) by candle light. The sun had set the sky ablaze and I was happier than I had been for what seemed to be a very long time. I slept soundly and through the whole night. I woke the next day intent on making it back by nightfall. You will see just how intent I actually was. I sped off about an hour after sunrise, taking care not to push my achilles tendon too hard. It seemed to be better today than it was yesterday, and that put me in a better mood. I made it down the ridge to a road, where I turned the wrong way, realized that I was going back into Mafate, and took to the trail again, this time headed towards a place called Grand Ilet. The trail turned onto a road, and I followed it into town, asking people directions the whole way and buying a sandwich in town. On the road I saw this: Go Hornets? Anyways, I eventually made it all the way to the trail head to go to La Roche écrite (walking on mountain roads is especially annoying because their bends are far too long and graded for the hiker who could have done that much elevation in half as many). The sign said that it was for 'experimental' hikers only. Oooo... So I started up, forgetting that I only had about a liter of water left for the whole ascent. Immediately it was steep, but soon I was rock climbing. There were points where the trail would climb 6-8 feet in four feet or less of distance. At one of these points after the half way mark, I turned forward too fast and unknowingly lost my water bottle, and the only water I had left. I knew that there would be no watering places until I crossed the lip. Luckily, I had two oranges, and I made good use of them in my time of need. At one point, I scared off another hawk from his post, and I was followed almost the whole way by a flock tiny zoiseau blancs. When I had finished climbing, I had climbed somewhere close to 3,000 feet in about 3 miles. And I only almost fell once. I stumbled away from the edge of the cliff, fell on my back, ate an orange, and directly got up and continued, determined not to go much longer without water. The first pool I came across was too disgusting, even for how thirsty I was, so I came to another, which was bad, but I had some water purification tablets that this guy had given me earlier, and I was good to go in about thirty minutes. After I had secured my water situation, I had a decision to make: go down the path that I know, past the gite and to La Montagne, which is very indirect, almost making my path an L (I would go almost all the way to the sea and then have to turn right and walk another few hours to get back home), or go the more direct way. Simple enough, eh? Not so; I had heard about the more direct way from a group of germans who had taken it, and they had told me not to do it, that there was a section that was impossible, and they had had to trespass to get through and a guy had pointed a gun at Henning, and basically they told me to do it. You can't tell me something like that can't be done, it just make me want to do it. So, with Boris's words "That's the jungle, man," ringing in my ears the whole time, I set off down a path I barely found, and immediately had to fight to stay on, the plants were so thick. After a nice walk across the grasslands of the plains of La Roche Ecrite, I saw the first water-loving plant I had seen since coming over the lip, and I knew that I was about to be in the real jungle. After trees had begun to surround the trail, the blazes had disappeared, and it was less than a single track. I was constantly brushed, scraped and scratched by plants, had to skirt fallen trees and bramble patches (which, I swear, are the most proliferous plant here. Its like kudzu.), and walk on the sides of the trail so that I didn't slip and slide on the damp, hardpacked mud trail to my doom. At many, many points, I had to put myself flat on my stomach and army crawl through/under something, usually those evil spiney bushes, making it worse as I had to crawl on the parts of the bushes that had fallen to the ground. This is not the worst part either, because I knew there was a part coming up where I would have to make a decision: cross hostile territory, or risk death, not to mention it was foggy and I had no earthly idea what time it was, only that the light appeared like it does on a cloudy day just before the sun goes down. So I thought it was almost dark. So I was running. Every time I fell, I never stayed down. I stopped for nothing, except to drink. And finally, at the end, I saw that the trail got smaller, til I could barely make it out, and then it opened onto a road. I had made it past the part where the germans hadn't! I had crossed that little section of slippery rock that they couldn't! ha! I tromped wearily, but merrily, down this dirt road for about thirty minutes, absolutely thrilled with myself and proud of how I had overcome so much in one day. And then I saw it. A sign nailed high up in a tree - 'Défense d'entrer. Propriété Privée,' above a barbed wire fence. This was it. There were no other signs. There were no trail markings. Only a barbed wire fence, and a patch of that demon weed to the left, and a wall to the right. I was stuck. I was dead. So I conjured up my ideas as to what I could do: 1) sleep on the road, 2) jump the fence, 3) find the trail and keep going, 4)turn back. I knew from the cattle markings in the ground that if I slept there, I might be dead in the morning from a stampede of cattle driven by a maniac who eats hikers. I also knew that if I jumped the fence, I might get shot, not to mention that if something is on a sign, I automatically obey it. Please don't use that to my disadvantage. Thirdly, I had no idea where the trail was, and I sure as bumblesticks was not going to go wading into that prickle bush. I don't turn back. So. I thought. And thought. And eventually........I said to myself, "I have climbed 3,000 feet and descended a lot to get here, through a practical drought and a literal jungle, I'm sleeping in my bed tonight." There was a part of the demon bush that grown up and over some dead trees back about twenty feet from the barbed wire fence, and I decided that that was the only option of being able to get around the fence. In I plunged, picking my way past the splinter-covered stalks of the demon bush and emerging out the other side where there was light, live trees, and a line in the grass indicating a trail. Taking no time to celebrate (I knew I wasn't done), I pressed on down the trail. This trail was worse, and followed to a tee the edge of the wonderful man's property, taking me down embankments, through bushes and trees and always with the road in sight. At one point I slid down a good 10 feet. Luckily, by this time, I had developed enough sense to, when I am falling, spin around and land on my pack. It made life much more beautiful. Finally, finally I began to pass sugercane fields and realized that I was no longer on the outskirts of that man's property. I breathed a sigh of relief, and made my way down a lane that separated two fields to a dirt road that headed down. That was one good thing-I always knew which direction to go: down. The road joined a paved driveway, which, just as it got dark, joined a real road, alive with cars and the sounds of people having dinner. I asked someone how to get to Moufia, and he told me to catch the bus, which would take me right to Jumbo, 10 minutes walk from the campus. And so I was done.

I got my grades back from my exams. For cell biology I got a 14.7/20 and for genetics I got a 14/20. phew. Life is beautiful. Especially because I learned that many people failed their exams, so I am proud. :) Well this was long. I'm gonna put in some pictures.

Love you guys, miss you too, and I'll see you soon.

O yeah, and this little guy is a tangue, accidentally brought over from Madagascar years and years ago, he just sorta chills out on Reunion Island. Tranquil, ouai.