It is Christmas, and we are on the plane. After the eleven-hour flight, I will relive a typical tropical Christmas again. This time, I'll explore the island. Find out what my motherland looks like.
Reunion Island has the type of beauty that bring so much awe that it is scary. I feel like a Romanticist would employ the word sublime for everything. There are colours everywhere. People are from all colours as well. On Reunion Island, the green of the sugar cane fields contrast with the beaches of dark sand, while the blue of the Indian Ocean opposes fields of vetiver. The following day after our arrival, my father wakes me up, and we go for a run. I run between creepers and small streams. We even pass an old railroad track now covered in roots. We land on a large beach of light grey pebbles. I notice no coral reefs because the sea is so rough. The water is very dark and murky, perfect for a shark attack. Nature is breathtaking on this small island, with chameleons colouring the fences, flamboyants blooming, a typical Christmas feature, bunches of sweet red lychees, vanilla perfuming the houses and, of course, the white rum produced from fermenting sugar cane.
The landscapes are equally impressive. La Plaine des Sable appears almost as surreal as if some landscapes of the moon and rainbows were to mix up on Earth. Red, brown, purple, green, blue, and yellow run after each other. It reminds me that even the Earth can be indecisive about what colour she wants to wear. Looking at this right now, it is so intense that I can feel it in my body. I start to understand why the island is named “The Fierce Island”. My eyes are glued to the winding road dancing between the dunes. I see the cars following each other in a single file. There's only one road to admire the high plains. I want to take the time to fix this image in my head. The red sand, an almost electrifying blue sky, and the dust that cars leave behind. On my face, I can feel the cold wind from the mountains; the air cuts my throat.
It's our turn in the single file on the way to the Piton de la Fournaise. Red sand gives way to volcanic rock with an undulating surface and is as black as night. Families stroll along the Pas de Bellecombe. The sun is at its zenith, and the volcano is asleep. Here, on the last caldera, I can see the whole volcano in peace before its next eruption, which will make the sea roar. We can't wait too long because we have a big day tomorrow. I look back at the volcano for the last time from this point of view, because tomorrow I will be on top of it.
I sleep in a small bed, in a small lodge. The night is short and cold. We get up at dawn and pack our bags. Outside, it's pitch dark, with only the light of our headlamps piercing the darkness. Step by step, we begin the long descent from Pas de Bellecombe. The artificial stairs are built right into the rock. Once we've reached the volcano's enclosure, it's a long walk to its foot. The volcano towers over me, and I can already see myself at the summit. This little volcano has co-created my little island lost in the Indian Ocean, along with its long-extinct friend, Le Piton des Neiges. Today, it's one of the most active volcanoes on the planet. I tell myself that the forges of Hephaestus must be roaring beneath the great volcano. The climb begins and lasts six hours. I feel like I'm never going to make it. Day breaks, and I take it step by step. I follow the white paint marks on the rock. I'm careful because, in some places, the ground is not solid; it's just a pile of small volcanic rocks that can easily slip.
I come to a sign indicating that 800m remain before the summit. 800m of ascent can be long for those who don't hike. But I finally make it. I can see the ocean and the flow of dried lava. I turn around to see the crater, the mouth of the dormant volcano. The sky is azure blue, the clouds are wispy, and I can see the green of the mountains in the distance. I wonder how long I'd fall if I threw myself into the crater. At the top of the giant, I can see the sun glancing off the water. I imagine the little town of Sainte-Rose, where I used to live. A little town that could be in danger every time it erupts. I recreate the lava's winding paths when La Fournaise erupts, seeing this burning flow into the sea. But right now, all is calm. The volcano, caressed by clouds, sleeps soundly, and it's on its black, rocky body that I descend.
During my stay in Reunion Island, we pass a cemetery when walking dans les Hauts (in the mountains), in a small village cut from the world. Each tomb has the most colourful flowers. I can see the roots of a flower intertwine a cross. And right here and right now, between the grey sky, the green mountains and the flowers, only what's alive gives colour to the landscape. The mountain rises high above the cross. This place reminds me a lot of the song De Là-Haut by the French artist Pomme. The song features an already dead character who sees his funeral from the clouds. The song is not sad, despite its theme of death, and neither is this place. This cemetery is almost cheerful, with all its flowers. So I walk through the cemetery in the mountains, almost hidden, almost touching the sky. Since we're high up in the mountains, the wind is blowing, and the clouds are accumulating increasingly, nearly drowning out the sun's darkness. I'm comforted by this sweet place, where flowers grow everywhere and colours shine in a place where usually darkness and death reign.
As Romanticists say, creation is limitless, far different from my daily life, where innovation is limited and almost nonexistent. Everything is so tight, everyone in their little box, comfortable, girls like pink and boys like blue. It's all about routine and schedule: Sunday is Church day, Friday parties, and Monday back to 9 to 5. Everything is dictated. Everything I learn is about control of my emotions, energy, money, and life. Exploring the world in your 20s is okay, but by your 30s, you should be married, have a house with a double garage, stable work, two kids and a golden retriever. Or else you fail in life. But nature does not fail; it reinvents itself constantly. Just as creativity isn't about failure, it's about discovering new horizons, reinventing ourselves and new ways of seeing the world.
It is another Christmas, and we are on a plane. This time, we are not flying towards the Indian Ocean; it is only a four-hours flight, and we are staying in the Atlantic. It's an island, and no, it's not Cuba. We're discovering the French West Indies. And more specifically, Guadeloupe. Smaller than Reunion Island, the island still has an extraordinary character.
Once landed, we hit the road to my parents' friends' house, where we'll stay. The landscape resembles Reunion Island, but banana fields have replaced the cane fields. When we arrive at the home, we're greeted by dogs. It's a long house, with no stairs, just one long floor. I take my place in the bedroom, with a bed topped by a giant mosquito net. I head out onto the terrace and almost lose my breath. I see the banana fields, the red and blue roofs of the houses and, in the distance, the sea sparkling under the sun. To my right is a small terrace with a barbecue at the far end. Just in front is a large swimming pool, which I soon learn lights up at night. Below the pool is a small garden and a little shed at the far left. I see a small animal moving slowly in the grass: Gus, the little tortoise. I learn that her favourite snack is hibiscus flowers. I find these flowers in the garden; I see the flash-pink petals with a yellow centre. The afternoon passes quickly; I unpack my bags, and it's already pitch dark outside.
As usual, my father wakes me up the following day. Our race course consists of crossing a colossal banana field and climbing a little higher up a hill. At the top, we see some cows - the lucky ones have a sea view. At every gate we pass, the dogs bark to warn their masters that there's traffic. On the way back, we remove our running shoes no sooner than we both jump into the pool.
Another morning, there is no running as we meet with La Soufrière volcano. We hit the road early in the morning in our tiny manual car. The road seems so long in the night. The headlights barely illuminate the road. I can see the street lined with long green grass or trees in the darkness. Intriguingly, there's so much vegetation, so close to the volcano. The road is so long that I fall asleep. When I wake up, I learn that we've lost our way. Once we've found our way back, we arrive at the parking lot an hour behind schedule. We begin the ascent of the green giant by the light of our headlamps, but it soon becomes light. At first, tall trees and grasses tower over us. As we gain height, the vegetation shrinks. Like all mountains, higher up, there's a lot more wind, and the trees aren't very keen. When the canopy is gone, it's easier to see the landscape. Everything is green, like an immense sea of green stirred by the wind. The volcano has been extinct for a long time; it has gone dormant, and life has reclaimed its rights. Although on paper, the distance to the summit of La Soufrière is much less than that to the Piton de la Fournaise, the conditions are not the same. The air is very humid, wet and cold, making climbing difficult. The higher I go, the foggier and windier it gets.
After a 4-hours walk, I reach the top; I can't see the ocean; rather, a sea of clouds. The sun is shining, and I can see the blue sky between the clouds. I feel like I'm on top of the world. The light is just as beautiful as a sunset in the middle of the day. Even at the very top, moss covers the volcanic stone. The volcano looks more like a mountain. With all the clouds, I can't even make out the volcano's mouth. I feel like I'm floating above the clouds. It's as if I could walk on them or lie in them and make them my bed. La Soufrière has a new jungle on its body and its head in the clouds. I come down quietly from the island's sleeping guardian.
We walk along the beach; the weather is fine, and the steady sound of the waves comforts me. My feet are in the water, and the children are playing in the sand. We pass a small bar and some surfers. I see a surfer with a big straw hat catching a wave. I want to take surfing lessons! We stop for lunch. I have a sausage and cheese bokit. It's a typical Guadeloupean sandwich made with fried dough; you can choose what you want to fill it with. So I enjoy my meal by the beach, watching the blue of the water that blends perfectly with the white sand, the smell of fried food mingling with the scent of sea salt, and the shouting of the children between the roar of orders.
After eating, we set off in the opposite direction. A little further along the beach, I see a cemetery. I wander among the graves and shells. Here, everything is decorated with the most beautiful shells. The outlines of the tombs are, I believe, even made from shells. They look like little ocean gardens as the shells form small enclosures for each person. The soil is a mixture of Earth and sand. The sky is bright blue, and the cemetery is neither dark nor gloomy - on the contrary, it's white, thanks to the shells. I can hear the sea's roar, and the cemetery has a view of the sea. This place doesn't look sad to me; it's resplendent, like a contest to see which tomb is the best decorated. Even the salty tears that run down each cheek and fall into the sand will find their way back to the sea. Later, I find myself on a large rock overlooking the sea outside the cemetery. I like this viewpoint; a little lower down, I can see the beach and the water washing up on the shore, children with shovels in their hands. I turn around and see the cemetery full of shells, glistening in the sunlight as if the graveyard sparkles.
The following morning, we take the boat, a small ferry that will take us to tiny islands called Les Saintes. Once on the island, there are no cars, just bicycles, small scooters and golf carts. My family rents a golf cart to tour the island. Our first stop is the highest peak on the island to get a view of the coastline. The light is magnificent, the sun sparkles and the sea is a deep blue. I take many photos, because I'm afraid I won't remember this moment. I look at the different houses on the way to a beach for snorkelling. I wonder what life might be like here, on this little rock lost in the Atlantic Ocean. The beach is beautiful; the trees create shade and there are plenty of coral reefs where the fish take shelter. The water has shades from deep blue to turquoise and green. For the moment, there aren't many people on the beach. I hurry into the water and put on my mask and snorkel. A world of wonder opens up, colours dance before me; fish of all colours swim and hide between the corals. I try not to frighten them. I sail with the current, and the sun warms my back. This beach is called the Pain de Sucre (Sugar Loaf) because a little further out in the bay, there's a large rock that looks like a sugar loaf. This beach is in a small cove, and the shallow water heats quickly. It's one of the most famous beaches in Les Saintes. I've always loved beaches, the sun, the sea, the sand—the salt that burns my skin, the seagulls that steal my food. We don't stay long; we still have several beaches to explore.
By the end of the day, my phone is saturated with photos. I want to remember the exact colours of the landscape, the smell of the beach, the ambiance of the place. I take videos and panoramic photos. I'm so afraid I'll forget. At the same time, I'm so scared of spending too much time taking pictures and missing the moment. I'm afraid all I'll remember is the moment I took the photo rather than the moment I had to observe the landscape. I'm so scared of returning home and not having lived my trip. Everything will be a blur, so I try to remember exactly everything.
We are on the plane for 14 hours. Once we land in Izmir, the sun is up in the sky. I cannot read any of the signs. They are all in Turkish, written with letters that are not in our alphabet. We get in the car and know we need to head towards Cesme. We had never had so many difficulties in getting directions. It is a region for local tourism, far from the big cities. As a result, people are not speaking English. We do not have any data. We are lost. We stop at a grocery shop to get some maps, but in 2023, no one buys or sells paper maps. Fortunately, a security guard kindly shows us on his phone a map to see where we should head. We take pictures of the screen's phone and hop in the car for another three-hour drive. The road runs along the Aegean Sea, the sun sets towards the west, and our car is manual. Arriving at destination, it takes us about two hours to find our hotel. In the shade, it's hard to see the names of the streets, most of which have no words; it's just a number. Without data, we stop in front of a restaurant to ask for directions; the owner calls a cousin who knows how to speak English.
The town is bustling, and it's around 10 p.m. Fish, salads, gyros, shrimp and octopus are served in restaurant kitchens. Vendors chant their prices, and everything is a bargain. Tourist guides are courting tourists for the excursion of their life. I can see all this from my car window, and I can't wait to venture out into the streets, bargain for the lowest prices and, above all, taste the fresh flavours of the Aegean Sea. After a long search, we find our hotel, with a magnificent view overlooking the city, the port, the huge cruise ship moored a little further on, and the lights of the Greek coastline in the distance. Although the journey was long, we hurry out to discover the city. The first thing that struck me was how hot it was without the sun. It felt as if the heat wanted to compress me to the ground. The second thing is the choice of restaurants. If we had to try every restaurant, I think we'd have to stay for the rest of the summer - and we are at the beginning of July. After a short walk, we settle into a small restaurant with radiant lights beside the port. We toast to the start of the vacation. Once back at the hotel, I collapse from exhaustion and fall asleep.
In the morning, my father wakes me up, and I put on a pair of shorts, a T-shirt and my running shoes. Outside, the heat is oppressive. I can see the city waking up. We run along the harbour and restaurants, approaching the small public beach. We end up on a small knoll. Below us, the sea crashes against the rocks. The sun is shining; the sea marries turquoise, dark blue and green colours to perfection. I can see the Greek coastline clearly from here. We finally end up on a small pontoon of a private hotel. The crystal clear water lets me see the seabed, strewn with pebbles and sea urchins. The view is breathtaking. This landscape is like nothing I've ever seen. Small fishing boats dart out of the harbour. I tell myself these waters are the hope of migrants. Directly opposite, Europe opens its arms. On the way, I notice the tiny, narrow, and cobbled streets. The people are friendly; the contact is very human; the vendors come up to you, bordering on harassment. The servers serve you like kings, and the meals are delicious. Fish, seafood, salad, cheese and raki are all on the menu to delight even the most demanding palates.
One morning, we take the ferry to visit the opposite Greek island. As we leave, the sun bathes the entire bay of Cesme. The engines throw up vast clouds of smoke, tinting the beautiful blue sky with grey. Arriving on Chios, the harbour is a sad sight. No one is walking around; only the sound of cars breaks the silence. Settling into the car, we set off for our first beach—a pebble beach with a magnificent view. Roads wind through the mountains. Along the way, I see old mills that are now one of the island's emblems. In the car, my brother and I sing along to ABBA songs. Arriving at the beach, the water is dark blue, with no turquoise tones, as if we were in the middle of the ocean. The sun-warmed pebbles burn my feet, so I run for the water. I jump into the water, and celebrate my first swim in the Aegean Sea. I let myself float, drift, when suddenly there's a bigger wave - the salted water rapidly fills my mouth. I cough, but keep swimming. Before exiting, I take the time to thank Poseidon for this perfect swim.
Back in Cesme, we book a table in a restaurant. We look out over the port and the sunset. The port is divided into three parts: the small harbour for small fishing boats, the dock where small yachts are moored, and a little further out of town, the pier for ferries and cruise ships. In the distance, I can see the sun disappearing behind the mountains of Chios. Its rays ricochet off the water. As it leaves, the sun tints the sky a warm orange to a pale pink. People bathe in the harbour. They jump from the pontoons, children compete in jumping contests, and parents swim laps. I hear their laughter and the ball landing in the water from my table. Gradually, stars appear in the sky, and I notice Venus shining brightly. Small fishing boats leave the harbour to go fishing. On the other side of the port, the huge cruise ship is moored. I can see people dancing on the decks or eating in the large dining rooms. Others are enjoying the giant screen on the upper deck. Only the city lights now colour the landscape of the small town of Cesme.
The colours are no longer in the city of Ephesus. All that's left are the white columns, stripped of colour, which, to the delight of the tourists, rise as best they can. Ruins are all around me. I look at the front door and think there was a time when the sea reached the city gates. Ephesus is one of Turkey's best-preserved cities. It is said to have been a magnificent city that shone under the Greeks and even the Romans. And yet, although it was once one of the most important cities of Antiquity, nothing remains of it today. I take a tour of what used to be the market. The theatre is huge, and the stage is equipped with microphones and chairs, so it's still in use today. Ephesus was home to one of the Seven Wonders of the Ancient World: The famous Temple of Ephesus, dedicated to the goddess of the hunt, and also where the imposing statue of Artemis of Ephesus rests.
This city is proof that glory is fleeting. Nothing lasts forever. Everything can change overnight. Ephesus was one of the greatest cities of Antiquity, but today there's nothing left. I'm thinking of our cities in North America. The massive skyscrapers, the tourists who flock here, the singers who come to vibrate their vocal cords in the big theatres when it's not a basketball or field hockey game night. What are we doing right now so that future generations will remember us?
