Kaput
Waking up at 3am is never easy: it’s right in the middle of the graveyard shift, the crickets have finished their requiem hours ago, and the morning chorus will wait for first light. At 3am on Sunday morning, 5th day of the 5th month, the only life on the street outside my flat was the taxi man who sat waiting and a cat.
The airport too was almost empty and on the plane I watched the sunlight spill slowly over the brim of the world.
Joburg, where I landed so that I could take off to Saint Denis in Reunion, grew busier as the morning aged. I felt exhausted; my mind seemed to slip in and out of consciousness, like a buoy anchored almost out of its depth gets pulled under the waves of a rough sea.
From my seat on the starboard side of the plan, I had a perfect view of the island as we drew close, like Richard Attenborough in Jurassic park as the chopper landed.
A pretty blonde lady in a stripy top met me with a sign that said my name and together we picked up a rental car. Then she led the way in her Renault and I followed in a little Citroën. The number plate of my car read CT 006 JP and I was sure it was sign: I was a Cape Town agent and most likely would end up in a bunker being threatened with a laser at some point during the week.
At the hotel I met Jean Cabaret, ‘in charge of ze artistic programmation of the festival’ and we agreed to meet the next day and I slipped away into the clean sheets of my double bed.
The hotel Iloha is nice, a little corporate maybe. The rooms are small huts in the gardens and everyone has a set of plastic wicker chairs on their balconies.
Breakfast is laid out for you to help yourself. I pressed the button for a cappuccino but the machine made me a hot chocolate. Which was fine, and I helped myself to a few croissants too. There are tiny ants crawling through the bathroom of my room. I can’t tell if they’ve climbed through the window or maybe live in there, but unless they have headaches or tooth decay, they wont find much of interest in there.
The Leu Tempo festival, which has brought me here, starts on Tuesday, giving me Monday to fill how I’d liked. Working was option – my room has wifi, as does the hotel bar. But I decided first to take a better look at the island, to head towards the volcano.
The roads wind up from the coast like Mountain Rivers, and in half an hour or so I had risen nearly 1000m and the temperature had dropped by 13 degrees. There are little stands that sell fruit and vegetables all along the streets, each advertising the price of their tomatoes. A stray dog crossed at the zebra crossing.
After getting lost and going the wrong direction up a one-way street in a town called Le Tampon, I made it as far as the road that turns towards the Vulcan. And this is where my day had a bit of a melt down.
I was, of course, driving on the right handside of the road. Operating the vehicle was easy enough – the pedals are same, and other than sometimes smacking my left hand into the door when I went to change gear, I seemed to have the knack of it. But my spatial awareness has never been great, and I was still getting used to having the bulk of the car on my right.
Along the side of the road there are large rocks painted white to mark where the tarmac ends. Now these rocks are about the size of an upright rugby ball, you know, how they leave them when Pat Lambie’s about to score off a penalty. Except they don’t fly when you kick them, they’d stub your toe like nothing else.
As you got closer to the summit the landscape changed. The lush green fields turned into scrubby plains. I’d been admiring the view when I looked up and saw a tour bus coming towards me down the narrow road. I flinched, and pulled the wheel to the right and rolled my wheel into one of these boulders. The wheel ripped and the rim scrapped along the road.
I do know how to change a tyre, but I panicked for a moment. I had no phone and my French is pas très bon. So I prayed. On an Island where almost all the towns are named Saint-something, God must be around somewhere. And you know I was feeling quite religious, I’d been saying ‘merci, merci’ all day.
I always believe in moments of disaster that God is involved, that he is trying to teach me some lesson or punish me. I hardly ever admit that this is not really divine intervention; this is a spectacular human blunder.
A minivan moving in the opposite direction stopped and four or five people got out to see what had happened. I asked if any of them spoke English and one stepped forward to help. The men amongst them helped me take off the wounded tyre.
As one bent down to turn jack, he asked ‘is you married?’. His eyes were dark and his lashes long, and – other than the safari hat he had tied up under his chin – he was well dressed.
‘No,’ I said.
‘Ah,’ he said, and looked up from under the brim of his hat. ‘This man,’ and he gestured to a friend standing next to him, wearing running shorts that must be un peu plus petit than his swimming trunks because his tan line was clear across his thighs, ‘is looking for a pretty wife. And he is a very good driver.’
When the biscuit tyre was on the car and it had been lowered off its tiptoes back onto the road, I turned away from the volcano and made my way slowly back to the hotel.
The rental company confirmed that I was responsible for righting the damage, and asked if the whole car ‘was kaput?’ I told them no, but I was.
This trip was meant to be about the culture, not about la voiture. But the garage would have to wait until the morning.
I bought myself a croissant and an orangina and sat for a while on the black beach in Saint Leu. Then I went to meet Jean again to find out what my timetable of shows would involve.
I met one of the other journalists: Julie, from France. She was tired from her flight and her glasses were slipping down her nose I drove her back to the hotel.
I had supper at the hotel, the only advantage of which is that I can have a drink (which by then I needed) without worrying about doing further damage on the roads. And once again, I slipped into the clean sheets of my bed.
