'Réunion', I said, 'I'm going to La Réunion', I repeated.
'Where and what is that?' they said.
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| La Réunion at its most beautiful |
Those who met me in the weeks preceding departure know that I was not totally comfortable with the idea of heading half-way across the world to a place few have heard of, let alone travelled around, to speak French and nurse unwell children. Understatement, I was terrified. Months of never-ending bureaucracy and organisation ignited my excitable imagination and led to a very nervous me on the morning of departure. But being the daughter of my parents with a necessity for trying new (perhaps stupid?) things despite the fear they install, I managed to board the plane.
Leaving the drizzling rain of early British autumn did not sadden me, nearly missing my connection did. The relaxed French connection bus nearly broke me as it arrived at Orly airport with one minute to spare. I was luckier than I had originally realised; the previous week's flights had been cancelled due to a lightening-struck Air France plane in Guadeloupe and the next few flights were fully-booked...So at least I was on my way.
The Réunionnaise 'cool' hit me as soon as I arrived. (Not that kind of cool, general temperature sitting at a humid 26 degrees.) Having bitten my nails the whole journey worrying about not having any contact details of the lady who was picking me up from the airport, Perle was the first person I saw as I came through customs. 'Cool', 'tranquille'. I was swiftly swooped through Saint-Dénis, the island's capital and my home for the next five weeks. Saint-Dénis is situated on the north coast of the island, sitting comfortably between the rock beaches in front and green volcanic hills behind. The whole island follows this theme; mountains high, ocean low, cities in between.
The car began to climb one of the many looming hill-sides and Perle and I soon arrived at the church. Yes, church, not a converted church as I had thought, but a fully functioning protestant church with a choir and all. Turns out 'Perle' is the head of the church group - queue me realising the bad-taste of my 'Me: you work in wine, that's the best job in the world. Perle: I don't drink' joke in the car. Anyway, my studio, situated comfortably beneath the service room, was nice, if a little bare. Perle went swiftly on her way, leaving me to swallow my surroundings. The view was awesome, the slight incline of the hill giving me a fantabulous view of the sea which is a half-hour walk away. This is a retrospective observation, at the time I could see nothing for the torrential rain; 'c'est très rare', Perle said. Yes, I'm sure it is, I thought ungratefully. It is actually quite rare, I have discovered.
Now, one tip for lone travellers, maps. Maps maps maps. I cannot exaggerate the importance of having a map when you are in the suburbs of an unknown place without internet access. Oh how Westernised and spoilt I am by 3G. After a little nap to centre myself, I set out to find some food for lunch. After half an hour walking, the rain started again. No umbrella. No coat. No map. Lost & hungry. Formula for disaster. I found one open pharmacy and squelched in, sopping, to speak my first bit of French. 'Je suis juste arrivée en La Réunion, je cherche de la nourriture'. What a strange sight I must have been. The lady gulped and said 'Vous êtes a peid'? (You're on foot?). 'Oui' I said, heart sinking. 'Oh, c'est loin, trop loin' (it's far, too far). Merde merde merde.
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| Tea makes everything better, even a rainy view |
Stomach rumbling, I stood in the porch of the shop waiting for the rain to pass. I considered that I may soon have to beg for food. Upbringing highlighted, move on. The rain slowed to a normal, British speed and so I ventured out. I passed by the Children's Hospital where I would soon be starting my placement, a cool 5 minutes from home. I traversed the botanic gardens which looked rained-on but happy for it. I crossed many big state-funded signs saying 'Les Réunionnaises sont formidables'. I traipsed through many streets, asking people 'is there a food shop around here'. Each time coming up blank. You get the gist. This went on for 90 minutes.
The streets in Saint-Dénis follow a New-Yorkian block format, which, for those who don't have a map, can be very confusing. One instruction was to go to the end of the road, take a right, when you see the school, take a left, then turn right. No shop. Ok, I understand that you get the drift but, genuinely, finding that supermarket was the best moment of my day. Not landing in an awesome island in the Indian ocean, not exploring the world, but finding a bloody supermarket.
Foodstuff in hand, I headed home, a swift 20 minutes (too far by foot??!! Live in London). I stuffed my face, placated, and made a plan. The plan now was to brave the hospital, go and say 'Hi, I'm the English student, are you expecting me?'. They weren't expecting me. Total, unadulterated, blank face. 'Do you have the name of the nurse you will be working with?'....'Uhhh, no?'. 'Bahhh, je ne sais pas'. Ok, deep breath. I took the initiative and asked to find the lady I had been emailing, who thankfully greeted me with a warm smile and set up a meeting with my two mentors. TWO MENTORS. That doesn't happen at home. She also printed me a map. Merci. Merci bien.
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| Maps maps maps |
I know I have a tendency for hyperbole, this may all seem exaggerated, but spend the day in my brain and you will realise this is actually how the day looked. Overall it was good, so the highs and lows of travelling alone begin.
I will continue soon with stories of my first week spent exploring the island.
Bonne nuit.
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