Any remaining bad vibes were banished as we stopped to check out a random beach in St. Leu. It was sunny and warm, the beach cluttered with surfers, para-gliders and happy tourists. How could you not pick up the good vibe? We snapped a few pictures and continued along the coast with eyes peeled for our next destination.
The target was not long in coming and shortly after the beach stop we were pulling into Kelonia, a turtle farm just north of St. Leu. I was not significantly motivated to check this place out, but Jeff wanted to drop in and get some pictures for his daughter. Kelonia turned out to be a quality stop, so a tip of the hat to my niece!
Kelonia showcases the five different species making their home near the island, sits right on the beach and does a first-rate job of displaying these creatures. After paying admission the first section is a couple rooms filled with exhibits. Alas, everything is only French, so I was pretty clueless about what was being presented and cannot offer any opinion on whether or not it was quality. But on to the outdoor exhibits!
Immediately beyond the doors leading to the back forty of Kelonia are a bunch of tanks widely ranging in size. The biggest tank is where most of the action is, holding three giant turtles and a varied assortment of tropical fish. The other tanks often contained a solo turtle which looked rather bored, but in the large tank the turtles and fish were constantly on the move, lending vibrancy to the exhibit.
Once you get outside you can’t help but notice the towering observation deck on the premises. The deck is enjoyable for several reasons. Primarily because it overlooks the large tank and affords much better views than at ground level (I hadn’t really noticed the tropical fish until I peered into it from above), and additionally because of Kelonia’s beachfront residence. The deck offers nice views beyond the farm and it was every bit as much fun to scope the beach and para-gliders flitting about.
But venturing down below is the best spot. There is a large plexi-glass window framing one side of the large tank that you can reach by walking down a stairwell. Here you can glimpse the turtles and fish frolicking about up close and personal, a great spot for taking photographs.
Returning topside, you can go back outside to see what’s going on in the front of the farm, where they have some pens for turtles not requiring such an aquatic environment to live in. Feel free to visit the gift shop before you leave, it actually has some quality items and didn’t immediately repulse me as these venues usually do.
After Kelonia it was a brief jaunt to Boucan Canot, but we had arrived a bit early to check in to Grand Hotel des Mascareignes, our next campsite. There was ample parking available right around the hotel (it doesn’t sit on the beach), so we deposited our wheels and walked to the beachfront strip. This was your classic beachfront: a sandy shore lined by surf shops, restaurants, bars, gift shops, etc.
Lunch was nothing special – just a couple burgers. Of course it was still a struggle attempting to place orders with our extremely limited French vocabulary. Despite our foibles, sitting outside in the warm sun with all the beachfront activity, however, was quite energizing. A good thing, because it was time to abandon Jeff in the lobby and steer towards St. Denis – time to register for the big run!
Getting to the stadium was a half hour drive, and nearly as long to get parked. Past experience had me prepared for a crazy time, because race registrations are typically insane, and with 5,000 runners in all three races congregating it was bound to be a zoo. But gracious, this was a zoo on steroids!
I had to park about a half mile away, and even at this great length from the stadium it was necessary to park by hopping onto the sidewalk and snug up so close to a fence that pedestrians were forced to take to the streets.(please keep in mind I was only duplicating what extended the entire way back to the stadium). Traffic was nuts in both directions and I’m amazed there were no accidents or injuries amidst all the confusion.
Taking to the streets (too literally), I hoofed to the stadium and joined the throngs about a half hour before they were ready to start handing packets out. But there was a coagulated mass of humanity in front of a long line of tables and I had no idea where to go. They were making frequent announcements over the loudspeakers, which helped me not at all, so I just dove into the mess at one end.
Here I saw they had signs in front of each table indicating who should go there (of course you couldn’t read them because they were on the ground and everyone was standing in front of the signs), but approached the attendants at one on the very end labeled “Mascareignes and all 3900+”. Three races will be run this weekend: Le Grand Raid (162km with 2,400 entrants); the Bourbon Trail (my race - 93km with 1,600 entrants), and the Mascareignes (61 km with 1,000 entrants). My bib number was 5313, so I was guessing perhaps the table indicating everyone over 3900 might be mine?
A bad guess, and the attendant shook her head no, but a guy behind me asked “boor-BOH?” It took me a moment to digest this, but I suddenly realized he was correctly pronouncing ‘Bourbon’ in Creole and acknowledged. The kind soul pointed in the general direction where my table should be and I made my way towards another blob of runners. Had to squeeze between a lot of people to get up front and read the signs, but finally identified “Bourbon 5300-5399” – a separate table for every hundred entrants. After quickly retreating to the end of the line I began waiting.
It was fascinating to witness the friendship embedded among all my fellow contestants. Every other minute I would hear a name called out loudly, followed by smiles, high fives, embraces and kisses. Confess I cringed a bit when two guys would exchange cheek kisses, but que sera, sera.
Once the lines began moving I received my bag and had my bracelet strapped on in about twenty five minutes, but I didn’t pose any of the hundred questions I had. My inability to speak the native tongue limited my conversation to “oui” and “merci”. I am so nervous about all of this – everyone seems in ultimate physical condition and so certain about what is going on.
Still, I had accomplished what needed to be done and immediately headed for the exits. Escaping the area right around the stadium was problematic and there were a few traffic jams heading back to Boucan Canot, but now there was nothing between me and the big run but arriving at the starting line Saturday morning!
The three of us piled into Herve’s car and he drove into town for a relaxed dinner at Chez Bobonne – a great restaurant off the beaten path. In a relaxed atmosphere we passed the evening chatting over random topics, including receiving some good pointers from Herve on Reunion (originally from France, he had been residing here for some years now).
Only one part of the evening’s conversation confused me. We asked Herve the meaning of “bobonne” and he told us it was derogatory. Searching for an apt translation, Herve settled on “maid” and added that you would be in trouble if you called your wife a bobonne. I didn’t pursue it, but remain mystified because the eatery was far too elegant to incorporate gutter language into their name???
A fine meal concluded, the gang returned to Herve’s, said goodbyes and parted ways. A truly pleasant evening.
Back at the ranch, we were chagrined to discover the front entrance for our hotel was locked (further cost cutting moves – no night crew). The place was huge and didn’t seem too secure, so we headed left around the main building to seek alternate access. Aided by Jeff’s cell phone, now deployed as a flashlight, we identified a stairway past some brush behind the pool. Plunging through the weeds I made it to a locked gate entering the pool area. Had to climb over and drop down, but we had successfully regained the interior of the hotel grounds.
Naturally there was a dude sitting poolside at this late hour, but he hadn’t been startled by my dropping in and seemed to recognize the dilemma. Pointing to the other side he uttered something in French I recognized as “entrance” (something like “progression” or “passage,” I forget now). The next day we checked out the other side and there isn’t a fence or anything, we could have simply walked in, lol.
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