St Denis, Reunion Island - a salad bowl of French, African, Asian cultures

Curbed by language, time and transport

When we dock at the major port in Reunion Island, a French territory in the indian Ocean, closer to Mauritus and Madagascar than to France, we are shuttled to the bus stop at La Possession. From here we take the local bus to St Denis, the capital as well as the most populous city on the island. We could have taken buses to other parts of the island, 42% of which is a national heritage park boasting volcanoes, calderas and waterfalls ( including Niagara Falls and Bridal Veil Falls!) but the connections and timings as well as our limited knowledge of French or Creole (not that it has bothered us before while travelling in Portugese or Spanish speaking countries in South America, or France) we do not venture further way from English speaking areas. More importantly we cannot afford to 'miss the boat'.

Dare devils?

The 40 min 22 km ride from La Possession to St Denis takes the coastal route with astounding views of the bay and cliffs(covered with nets to arrest rockfalls) that border the highway. At one point we glimpse three figures rappelling down the cliffs. Are they maintenance personnel or thrill seekers?

Really? A city? French?

We alight at the bus terminal. All the chatter around us is in Creole. There are very few people up and about. Is it too early in the morning? Office goers are probably already at their desks. As we leave the terminal in one of the furthur exits  a golden gleam catches our eye. Screwing our eyes we are met with disbelief. It is a revelation. It's the top of a Hindu Temple tower! Naturally curiosity nudges us towards it. We negotiate two streets behind the temple before we reach its traditional gates. Alas,  it is closed. We wait to see if someone would come by and tell us more about the building. Sure enough a dark skinned man appears on his bicycle and stops at the gate. He tells us this colourful temple dedicated to Kali Amman ( a female Hindu deity) only opens in the evening then rides away on his errands. 

We are practically on our own traversing the streets which seem to be in a truly cosmopolitan part of the city. Within a short distance of each other are a Pagoda, a Mosque and a Hindu Temple. What more, the road next to the temple carries the name of Jawaharlal Nehru, the 1st Prime Minister of India. Also in this area are the Petite and Grand Marches, enclosed in wrought iron, the first for mostly market produce and the latter for both produce and ethnic crafts which reflect the cosmopolitan nature of the city. However many of the stalls are closed. Only a handful of people are in the vicinity. 

It is a historic city after all 

We decide to walk towards the more historic looking buildings. We begin to experienceva bustle very becoming of a capital city. Traffic is picking up.The city is very easy to negotiate, since all the streets form a neat grid typical of colonial posts. The architecture is modern with elements of French like the wrought iron balconies, gates and fences and muted colours. There also the Victorian patio lace and colonial columns as seen in the Villa du General built in the creole style. The old town hall is now a hotel. The Churches are also situated around here.

Nearly Laundered: not decapitated

The walk takes us past several important looking buildings towards the square facing the Esplanade. For the first time we encounter a self cleaning toilet. Somewhat like Japanese toilets, there is an array of buttons for various functions, including self clean. The labels are easy enough to interpret but the instructions are practically non-existent. Do you press self clean while you're in it? How do you do it if you are already out? Press and leave or press and stay? Inadvertently the second happened. The floor began to 'flood' . Would I be sprayed from above. Would cleaning gadgets attack me? Of course I made a quick exit with only the wet hem of my pants as proof of my experience. I'd rather see how it all works on a video. 

Interestingly the park had been created nearly a hundred years ago for an exhibition. It is the very place where, lin 1940, 2 men were guilotined for the murder of an elderly woman in 1940.

Azure skies, balmy breeze

Walking the waterfront promenade, the Barachois Waterfront, takes us from an array of cannons facing the Indian Ocean towards the bus terminal. Shady trees, park benches and mechanical exercise machines border the path.

Could haves  

We could have walked furthur towards the botanical gardens and into the various suburbs of the city to get a better vibe of the culture -- its harmonious social diversity, heritage and cuisine are reflected in the store fronts. It seems the Chinese and Gujeratis from India immigrated here in the 1890s. In the 1900s Muslims followed.

On our ride back we are able to better appreciate the clean, quiet, orderly neighbourhoods the amenities within easy reach. We also drive by what looks like a ware house now refurbished into restaurants. St. Denis's economy depended heavily on coffee exports and these warehouses must have housed the commodity during the times of the East India Company. Now the economy relies heavily on sugar.

Trivia

The son of Emperor Duy Tân (of Vietnam) , a jazz musician, was born here. In his final years he resided, with his family, in Saint-Denis.

Carrying the torch for yoga in Olympia!

Ha!The evil eye alleviates a problem.

We arrive in Kotokolon, a port on Peloponnese island in southern Greece. It's a small 3-street town of 600 with a main street lined with sovenir shops spilling over with a variety of products from key chains to accessories with the ubiquitous evil eye motif in hues of blue. Why are we there? It's the port closest to Olympia, the birth place of the modern Olympics. 

Of course, almost every guest on board wants to visit the historic site. Some have pre-arranged  private tours. Some have booked shore excursions. Then there are others like us who try to find  public transport, playing it by ear, as soon as we are at the port. 

We have two choices: take the train or a private bus for which tickets are sold at one of the souvenir shops. The station is only a short walking distance away from the port but, in 2015) only 3 trains ply the 45 min route with a two hour interval between them. This wouldn't do. We cannot risk missing the boat if our return journey is not guaranteed against delays. We hurry to get our round-trip tickets and then wait for the chartered bus. We wait and wait and wait. Some of us are getting jittery. The sales agent is not very assuring. At long last the bus does arrive and we board. Again we wait and wait. There is a commotion at the door. Some people with tickets have no seats. It's been over booked. The agent boards and announces that a van has also been arranged and if some of us could wait for it the other infuriated customers could have our seats. Drink and I thought, out of goodwill ( after all we were literally in the same boat), we should transfer to the van and help ease the furore but we were spared at the arrival of the said van and the herding of the irate into it.

Will our knowledge of Greek letters be put to the test?

The 34 km 45 min bus ride, through verdant countryside finds us in the 5 street town of Olympia. We are  dropped off on the main strip, given 3 hours at the site before returning to the meeting point. There are no clear directions to the ancient site. We follow the crowd. It's fun trying to make out the names of streets written in familiar Greek alphabets. Getting our entrance tickets is relatively easy. 

Conjuring what was

And there we are at the ruins without a clue as to where to start, and in which direction to proceed. As we amble about the ruins trying to reconstruct the buildings, in our mind's  eye,with the pieces lying about, we come across an information board with the floor plan, who constructed it, date of construction and  the purpose of the said building. Luckily oak,and plane trees provide adequate shade .

Fascinating truths and tales

The Olympic torch

The temple of Hera is the oldest temple in Olympia. This is where the Olympic torch is lit by the high priestess before it is relayed around the world signifying the beginning of preparations for the games. Did you know? It is lit using a parabolic mirror to concentrate the rays of the sun. No matches! But there is always a plan B if the weather is uncooperative! Also, the torch does go out at times and other means are used to relight it.

However, originally , the lighting of the torch was not a symbolic gesture. Many torches were lit because one of the competitions was to run with a torch and if your fire went out on your torch you lost!

Temple of Zeus

Only one column, reconstructed, stands among the ruins that housed a huge gold and ivory Statue of seated Zeus, one of the masterworks of the Athenian sculptor Phidias whose residence and workshop is near by. It is considered to be one of the seven wonders of the ancient world.Some of the sculptures are now in a museum.

Pillipeon: who built it?

This circular memorial building  used to house many statues. The most significant was that of Alexander the Great made of the same material from which Zeus was. The fact that Alexander's father, Philip, had seven wives, could mean that after his death there could  be claims to the throne by other progeny. The presence of the statue (on par with Zeus in terms of material) is a clear statement about who the successor should be. But the motive will depend on who really built it!

Other outlying buildings include workshops, hostels, a senate meeting hall and rooms for councils with a courtyard that served as a swimming pool  when filled with water! 

What's in the word gym(nasium).

Today, the word evokes a place filled with equipment for an exercise regimen that tones muscles. An athletic body is greatly admired. So did the Greeks. But with a difference. The word is derived from the  Greek word gymnazein which means to exercise naked. No gym attire.

But gymnasium also refers to a place of learning. In Germany state-maintained secondary schools that prepare students for higher academic education are called gymnasiums. We surmise that the gymnasium in Olympia also included mental calisthenics.

The Stadium: Baring the truth

We come to the athletes, now. An arch leads to the entrance to the stadium which is simply a bare field with stepping stones at the start line. (The grandchildren sprinted to their hearts content.) There had been statues at the entrance. To glorify winners and remarkable athletes? No! To shame  athletes who cheated. A warning to aspiring athletes.

Beautiful bodies meant a lot in the Greek culture. Athletes competed naked. Hence unmarried women were not allowed to watch. Once a  trainer attended a boxing competition. The son won and when the trainer rose to congratulate him she gave herself away as the mother-cum-trainer. Since then all trainers had to prove they were males before being allowed to watch the sports. 

The Prize

Believe it or not, there was only one winner. Only one competitor had claim to fame. He was crowned with an olive branch twisted into a crown. He brought glory to his family, and community. He would be a celebrity, with the attendant perks, at home. 

Today athletes get gold, silver and bronze medals plus lots of cash.

A once over

We do a quick tour of the museum in town. Not wanting to miss the bus back to the port we trace our steps back to the meeting point. With time to spare we stroll the street coming upon a gelato bar with a cute calf, a quaint church and the Archimides museum which would have been very enlightening to visit, since we all had a mathematics and physics background, had we had more time.

Recipients of ancient hospitality : a sacred duty performed

When we returned to the port DrInk thought he should buy a belt which was reasonably prized. The moment the shopkeeper saw us he asked if I was a Hindu. When I affirmed it he began to tell about how he appreciated the Indian culture and how he was totally taken by yoga. He continued to express great respect for us with various hand gestures. And  then, he wouldn't have us pay for our purchase. We insisted. Then he began to unhook various types of evil eye souvenirs from the racks and thrust them upon us. We took one to please him and then left before he overwhelmed us with more gifts. 

The next time we visited Kotokolo with our grandchildren we went back to the store to gift him with a book on yoga. We found his grandmother there. The young had married since, and they took turns manning the shop. We left the gift with the grandma.

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Victoria, Mahe, Seychelles

Quiet dignity

Fancy a capital city with only two sets of traffic lights and a dozen streets? Look no further than Victoria, the capital of Seychelles. The unassuming cosy city of 25,000 is located on Mahe, one of the islands making up the archipelago. 

It is a rainy day and the town seems to be deserted. We trudge through the wet park grounds, avoiding muddy puddles between paving stones, towards a few huge collonaded buildings laid out in spacious surroundings with multicoloured long flag-like streamers greeting us. Definitely the mark of an important cultural and administrative centre. 

There's a bus stop nearby but the area seems to be deserted. Where are the gleaming glass towers that are a ubiquitous to a modern city. Where are the neon lights? Where are the parking lots or garages? The quiet city spoke volumes of its demure culture.

We sense we are at the town centre as we approach the clock tower, a replica of that at Vauxhall Bridge, London. A colonial reminder.Then come the banks, post office, the courts, travel agencies, etc.

That's  more like it

 Walking furthur we are delighted to see more of the vibrancy that we are accustomed to in a city. Most buildings, of wood or stone, have balustrades on the second floor. Shutters and facades are painted in bright colours. They remind us of the 60s shop houses in Malaysia.

Unmistakeably Indian 

Piqued by the many Indian stores and the aromas from the spices we walk into one and have a conversation with its proprietor who speaks our mother tongue. He tell us that the city is usually quiet, taxes are high and the pay for immigrant employees is inadequate. We are not surprised to see a Hindu Temple tower not far away, very close to the other city centre, Sir Selwyn Seylwin Clarke Market, dominated by a large mango tree. The two storeyed market is closed for the day but a glimpse through the iron gates gives us the unmistakeable colours and odors of an Asian market.

Temple surprise

From a vantage point we admire the colourful tapering temple tower, its height linking man and divine through art, the intricate statuary depicting the various gods and values of Hinduism, before entering the temple. The Navasakthi Vinayagar temple is in need of repairs. The rain has caused leaks in the ceiling and puddles on the floor in spite of pails positioned to catch the drips. The temple priest, musicians and helpers all speak our mother tongue as well. ( The muscian is a graduate who is unable to procure a job befitting his degree.)The temple serves about 5000 Hindus - 2% of the population- living on the island. I was surprised the priest had worked at the Southall temple in London when my cousin was a member of the temple committee. It is a small world after all.

Reflection of a culture

The quietness of the city is explained by the fact the citizens do their marketing early in the morning, specially on a Saturday. Leisure activities happen later on in the day. Besides it is the weekend, when government offices are closed. 

Traces of the colonial in rustic charm

Going further up into the residential areas built on the slopes of hills we spy mango trees with lots of fruit temptingly hanging within reach. The houses and their gardens are also typical of Asian residences exuding rustic charm, except that the views, either that of the hillsides or the sea are enviable indeed. We get a good bird's eye view of the bus station before we find ourselves in the driveway of a rambling wood and iron restaurant named Mary Anotoinnette - the oldest restaurant in Seychelles. I don't think the name is supposed to remind us about her beheading! In the garden is a series of cages with fluffy rabbits. Hopefully not to be heheaded for a Creole meal! There are also a few of the endemic turtles in its backyard. 

Tortoise mail

On the way back to the ship we spy a replica of the giant tortoise (unique to Seychelles, since these almost extinct creatures survived here because the archipelago is a sanctuary that has few of their predators). It is, ironically, at the entrance to the Post Office! We hope it is not representative of the speed of the mail. 

The two churches are also simple with some interesting but modest stain glass windows. 82% of the population is Roman Catholic. 

A place like no other - obvious Indian, South Asian, Creole, British presence and co-existence of two major religions of the world.

Knotty ticket purchase in a non-English speaking bus terminus

A prudent plan that almost turned wacky

Our South America cruise started in Los Angeles and ended in Rio de Janeiro.

Our port of call after we rounded the Cape of Good Hope was Beunos Aires. It was December 30th 2015. We were going to come back in about a month for a week long stay travelling overland from Rio de Janeiro to Buenos Aires via Sao Paulo and Iguazu. So Drink made this port of call a business trip. We would purchase our tickets from Sao Paolo to Iguazu right now.

Poof, and he's gone!

As we walked through the local terminus, Retiro station, close to the cruise port, and out into the city I lost Drink. From the corner of my eye i spied his disappearing form in an alley. This is Argentina and most of the businesses are closed during the celebratory period. There was hardly a soul on the streets. There was paper confetti every where.The confettii is shredded old documents from the previous year, clearing out the old to usher in the new year. That a very cautious person could be lured away at the blink of an eye was incredible. Stunned into inaction for a while I woke up to reality, and launched into action, as I am wont to do. I had to find him. The only thing to do was to follow him. Stepping into the alley, taking bold steps towards where I last sighted him, I found myself turning into another desolate alley, and there he was waving to me from a little shop. He was exchanging US $ fo Argentinan Pesos, not only to buy our tickets, but also because we would need the currency when we returned to Argentina. Here we are, in spite of having been warned about fake notes, accepting the change without even holding the notes up to the light to check for authenticity. We had to keep our fingers crossed till we got to use these notes.

We reached the inter City terminus without getting lost anywhere, but it was a different story within the complex. It was split level and the counters seemingly not grouped together acvording to destinations, we found ourselves trading up and down ramps and stairways until we found what we wanted. Then it was a matter of pointing , repeating the name of our departure point and destination, and then, after what seemed like ages, the stamping of our tickets. The lady at the counter checked our notes. We passed! 

Mission accomplished, we had time to saunter through the city, even checking out the place we were going to stay in when we returned.

Horror! We got ourselves into a mess.

We reached Rio de Janeiro  a few days later. Comfortably ensconced in our Airbnb, and also familiar with our vicinity Drink, on a hunch, took a look at the tickets we bought in Buenos Aires. To our consternation we  found that the ride would take us into Argentina, through Paraguay, beyond  the Brazilian side where we had booked our accomodation. We did not have a visa to enter Praguay while we were visa waivers for Argentina and Brazil. We went in search of the intercity bus terminus in Rio and to the ticket counter of the company who sold us our tickets. It was going to be very complicated for the bus did not have a scheduled stop at Iguazu, Brazil and they could not accommodate our request. They was no way they would refund or issue another in its place. That was a lot of communication in a mixture of modes -- sign language, spoken languge(English, Spanish), and facial expressions.

Mexican ( Spanish speaking) to the rescue

So we went back 'home'. Drink connected the lap top to the wi- fi and Skype called a cruise friend in Mexico City ( We had a cruise friend in Buenos Aires but she was out of reach). Drink explained to him our situation and gave him the contact number of the company from whom we had purchased the ticket. Within moments he called back with the good news that the company would issue us new tickets with our chosen destination. 

This time our walk to and from the terminus was jaunty.