Sometimes one is ready to return home at the end of a journey, and sometimes one is not. It was the latter for me on this trip, as indicated by my mood boarding the plane in Dubai to return to the U.S. In spite of having thrown myself enthusiastically into both pleasant situations and uncomfortable detours, a part of me felt like I’d missed out on some opportunity that I couldn’t identify or describe. The journey’s end came before its ending.

Which is not to say that I regret traveling almost exactly halfway around the world. If money and time permitted, I’d pack my bag and be out the door again tomorrow. There were many brilliant moments sailing in the Seychelles, and even (especially?) in the trials and tribulations of getting there and back. But one of the ways of looking at a piece of art is to analyze what it leaves out, so if a journey is a manifestation of the art of traveling, then perhaps it is useful to describe what the journey was not.

Touch and Go

I often find it difficult when I’m walking or driving to stop and turn around because of an almost irresistible urge to “see what’s around the next bend.” Being on a boat with access to numerous tropical islands induces a similar impulse, especially when the time on board is limited. No matter how beautiful or peaceful the current anchorage is, there’s a thrill in seeing what’s around the next point, the next cove, the next harbor, the next island. It’s the dopamine rush of putting another mark on the map, as evidenced by the many red pins appearing in my prior blog posts.

The cost of that restlessness is missing the chance to commune with a place. It was that lack of connection that I think led to the frustratingly few interesting photographs that I took during the trip. The deck of a boat doesn’t offer as many photo opportunities as one might think. Pictures of islands, beaches, palm trees and sunsets quickly become indistinguishable. When I was able to spend some time on shore, the energy required to be observant was quickly depleted by the heat and humidity. The most important piece of photography equipment is a good pair of shoes, and the pictures I was most pleased with were taken while I was on foot. I wish I’d spent more time walking, especially on Praslin Island, which seemed like it might have been the most quintessentially Seychellois.

The Seychellois Cure

Besides better photo opportunities, walking also removes you from the air-conditioned culture bubble that seems to define modern vacationing. It increases the likelihood of interacting with the locals on their terms instead of yours. Since I didn’t do as much walking as I would have liked, interactions with the Seychellois that I would consider authentic were limited, and therefore my perception of the local culture might be totally off the mark, but I offer the following observation anyway.

The Seychelles felt like a beautiful hospital that the rest of the world visits in order to convalesce and recover from the ailments and diseases that their cultures back home suffer from. Everything on the islands was unbelievably tidy. There was no litter to speak of, and on many occasions we saw people going so far as to sweep up the ceaseless detritus of the jungle, stacking it in neat piles mostly hidden from view. With only modest means, they couldn’t keep up with putting a fresh coat of paint on everything that needed it, but when the paint had blistered and cracked from the inexorable effects of the tropical humidity, the walls were always scraped smooth and clean.

The locals I met were all kind, friendly and helpful, yet there was something very practical and no-nonsense about them. They had the demeanor of a capable nurse or physical therapist: there to help, but the efficacy of the cure depended largely on the patients’ own attitudes and behaviors (and adjustments thereof). Human nature being what it is, I’m sure there are internal problems and strife that an outsider like me wouldn’t be privy to. As a small nation, they struggle to protect themselves from powerful external forces looking to use their country for drug running, money laundering, and the exploitation of natural resources. They are keenly aware of how dependent they are on money from tourism. In spite of all that, there was a groundedness and determination stemming from a local wisdom that I wish I’d had more exposure to.

Discontent and Despair

Touching down again at Newark Liberty International Airport did not feel good, at all. Almost every aspect of the place – the noise, the disorganization, the bad design, the carelessness, the terrible food – made me chagrined at being an American. I had written the phrase “ailments and diseases” in my notes before ever leaving the Seychelles, so I’d had a suspicion some culture shock might be waiting for me when I got back, I just didn’t realize how sensitive to it I would be. I postponed writing this final blog post for a few weeks while I tried to identify the sickness I felt being back in the U.S., and more importantly, its causes. Then I found this quote:

There is much sadness in our societies even though they are full of wealth. We are an overfed people with societies choked by the amount of garbage we create. We infest everything, we buy things we don’t need and then we live in despair paying bills.

~ José Mujica, former President of Uruguay (source)

While I would have preferred to arrive at such an astute diagnosis myself, it relieved me of the burden of finding my own words to make sense of the final leg of my journey. I don’t share Señor Mujica’s opinion that some political system will lead us out of the sadness and despair, but he is not wrong that people of the “developed” world are trapped by their own insatiable appetites and slaves to their own dissatisfaction.

It is of course brutally ironic that I paid thousands of dollars for the privilege of sitting on airplanes traveling nearly 600 miles per hour for 22 hours in order to get far enough away to see the effects of the discontent, and then spend another 22 hours coming back only to be infected by it again. Now that I’ve written it down, perhaps the Seychellois Cure has started to take effect: tidy up the little speck of creation that has been put in my care; be adaptable and patient whether I’m ten thousand miles or ten feet from home; be content with what is, and grateful for what isn’t.

Last one off the plane

Dubai airport at 1 p.m.

With an expected layover of more than 12 hours in Dubai, Colleen had done some research into possible activities that were relatively accessible from the airport. One suggestion from her coworker was to pay a visit to the Arabian Tea House, exactly the sort of thing that Colleen is into. When we touched down at about 12:30 p.m. in Dubai, we took our time getting off the plane, then wandered through the massive terminal that was almost entirely empty and made our way to the Red Line of the Dubai Metro. Google Maps claimed that it would take over two hours to get to the tea house from the airport if we used public transportation, which we were a little confused by, but we had the time to spare, so we pressed on.

A large sign on our way to the metro station announced that a McDonald’s Cheeseburger Meal could be had for 15 AED (United Arab Emirates dirham). For the rest of our time in Dubai, all prices were converted to cheeseburgers, which was a fun and surprisingly effective way to establish the value of things.

Dubai Metro stations

We got off at the metro station indicated by Google Maps, which put us alongside a busy freeway. An enclosed moving walkway carried us through a tube over the traffic and deposited us on a hot sidewalk on the other side. We set off on foot in the blistering heat, relieved at the dramatic reduction in humidity. I quipped that we’d be fine as long as we stuck to the shady side of the street, but when we turned the corner to head WNW, we found that there was no shady side of the street.

Photographic evidence that I drink water only in the most dire of circumstances, courtesy of Colleen

Later on, I consulted Google Maps to see that we’d only walked about one mile to get from the metro station to the tea house, but under the merciless sun it felt like at least double that. We now understood why Google Maps showed that it was a two-hour journey. Other than an occasional tree or awning, there was no shade the entire way. The only relief were a couple public faucets at which we stopped to refill our water bottles. It goes without saying that we were the only people on foot (although we did see one person on a bicycle, albeit an electric one). Many readers might be wondering why on earth we didn’t take a taxi, and there are two simple answers: pride, and better writing material.

We were a wilted, sweaty mess by the time we arrived at the Arabian Tea House. We could see through the large curtained windows that it was an upscale place, with staff in matching uniforms moving amongst well-dressed customers sitting on white-cushioned chairs at white wicker tables. Since our only two options at this point were heat stroke or humbly asking if we could be seated, we chose the latter. The AC was such a relief it almost hurt.

The wait staff were gracious and patient with us, and it took a little time to gather our wits and make sense of the many delectable comestibles shown on the menu. They offered a formal tea, complete with stacks of dainty desserts, but it was not available until 4 p.m., and we were almost an hour early. We switched gears and ordered a lime and mint drink with crushed ice (the single most refreshing beverage I’ve ever had), labneh and flatbread, and a salad with thyme, cucumbers and pomegranate arils. We ate slowly, and as with every meal at the end of an arduous journey, it was mind-blowingly delicious. When the savory items were finished, we took our time looking at the menu once more, and this time ordered some date cake and fried pastries covered in a caramel syrup accompanied by some specialty teas: one with saffron in it, the other mixed with milk, sugar and a complex array of spices.

The dessert course was even better than the light lunch items we’d had prior. By now we’d had a few interactions with the staff, and one lovely young woman from Cameroon named Regina seemed to take a shine to us. One of the other items on Colleen’s extremely tentative agenda for the afternoon was to take a gondola ride on the canals, hopefully as a means to get to a metro station and a train back to the airport. We asked Regina if she might know where we could find such a ride, since Google Maps indicated it was somewhere nearby. She said she had a friend who did this very thing, and that she would be happy to call a taxi and tell the driver where to take us. The wait staff were not allowed to use their phones, but her supervisor made an exception while she helped us.

The taxi arrived, Regina used her phone to show the driver where we wanted to go, and we thanked her as many times as we could before the taxi zipped off. The driver, a Pakistani man, asked us if we were certain that we knew where we were going. We said we weren’t certain, we were just looking for a boat ride on the canal. He said that if we wanted to go to the canal, then the directions that Regina had given were not correct. He claimed to know the city like the back of his hand, and he assured us that he would get us where we needed to be. Since there wasn’t much we could do from the back seat, we said he should lead the way.

We drove and drove, looping from one freeway to the next, and it started to feel as though we were going much farther than necessary to get to a place that had seemed so close by on the map. When asked, our driver confirmed that he was taking us to “the canal, with many shops and tourists and boats.” He showed us the map on his phone, and I saw that we were going to the artificial island in the shape of a palm tree that I’d seen in some magazine or other shortly after it was completed. It slowly dawned on Colleen and I that when people in Dubai spoke of “the creek,” they were talking about something very different than “the canal,” and we had made the mistake of using the terms interchangeably.

To be fair, for someone from the western United States, “the creek” looked much more like a canal than a creek, at least based on the pictures we’d seen trying to figure out how to get there. But our imprecise use of language had resulted in a wild goose chase, and it was fairly evident that our taxi driver was growing weary of driving us in circles, even if he was getting paid by the kilometer to do so. He agreed to take us to a metro station that was in fact very near the creek, and we hoped that that might give us an opportunity to find a boat ride, but we had no such luck. He dropped us off at a bicycle path that ran between the parking lot of a nice hotel and a vacant lot that was currently in use for several cricket matches. We could see that the path wound its way around the lot and would take us to a metro station, so we thanked the driver for his patience, apologised for our lack of clarity, then set off once again on foot under a much less vicious late-afternoon sun in the direction of the metro station.

Photo courtesy of Colleen

If those footprints look reminiscent of Buzz Aldrin's, that's because the dirt is more like lunar powder than sand

We did eventually find our boat

It was rush hour when we got on the metro train, and we were greeted with more than a few confused looks by some of the people on their way home from work. The Dubai Metro offers first class tickets, which allows the ticket holder to ride in a separate car at the front of the train, presumably with less spartan accommodations than those provided for the “regular” ticket holders. We seemed to be the only people of caucasian extraction that didn’t get the memo.

Tired and satisfied that we’d extracted as much adventure as we could from our layover in Dubai – even without a gondola ride – we made our way through security, which didn’t open until 10 p.m. We found a couple lounge chairs and rested until it was time to board the plane. As a stark reminder that we were leaving civilization, there was a surprise TSA check at the door to the jetway. Everyone had their carry ons opened and searched and were then patted down. Anyone that had refilled their empty water bottles or purchased liquids for the flight after passing through the normal security checkpoint were forced to discard everything before being allowed onto the plane. The mood was sullen and irritated as people took their seats for the 13-hour flight to Newark.

Perhaps from still being a little jet-lagged, or perhaps from the bittersweet excitement that comes at the end of a serious journey, the crew was up early on our final morning together. While we set about packing and cleaning and generally getting ready to check the boat back in, we got word from The Moorings that we had an extra hour to return the boat. This news was met with some last few jubilant cannon balls (Robbi informed us that they are called “ass bombs” in German) off the port gunwale.

Photos courtesy of Alisa

Photo courtesy of Robbi

Some consideration was given to going around the southern end of Mahé Island on our way back to Victoria, but our ever-sensible first mate did some calculating and determined that we would arrive three hours late going that way, so we retraced our route from the day before and set off in a northeasterly direction to make our way around the north end of the island and return to Victoria.

North Islet

North Islet with Silhouette Island in the distance

North Point, Mahé Island

We arrived back at the exact same spot at which we’d abandoned and then retrieved Alisa eight days earlier. Crew from The Moorings came aboard and did an inspection of the galley, cabins and heads. We received 5 Stars for the condition of the boat. The last remaining garbage and all of our luggage was transferred to the electric carts and whisked to shore. Having chartered boats with The Moorings in both Tahiti and the Bahamas, Irina said it was by far the most well-run location she’d been to yet. As icing on the cake, they said they would allow Alisa to stay aboard the boat in shore-powered air-conditioned bliss until her flight home later that evening. She planned on giving all of our remaining provisions to Beryl, who would be taking her to the airport.

We had a lovely lunch together in an airy restaurant looking out over the marina and the granite hills to the west, then gave each other hugs and said our goodbyes. Our flight back home via Dubai and Newark didn’t leave until the following morning, so I’d booked us a two-bedroom apartment in the heart of Victoria for the night. It turned out to be on the fourth floor of a new building, with deliciously cool rooms and a great view of the city. I stared out the window for a while, watching a local soccer match in a grassless field and the occasional fruit bat flying by at eye-level.

After we’d settled in, I went out for one last walkabout through the nearby streets and alleys. I found a few last-minute souvenirs, but virtually everything was closed by 3 o’clock in the afternoon. I spent some remaining Seychellois Rupees on a couple Seybrews at an empty bar-restaurant overlooking the town square, as sweaty as the chilled bottles. Back at the apartment I took a shower, did some final repacking, then retired early for a good night’s sleep in the cool cotton sheets.

James arrived at 6:15 on Sunday morning and drove us to the airport. The four hour flight from Victoria to Dubai felt like it was going to be a mere hop compared to the 13 hours it would take to get back to U.S. soil, and being on an Emirates plane made it downright pleasant.

We awoke to our last full day aboard Takamaka and our preparations for leaving La Digue on one last inter-island journey had a certain sense of deliberateness about them. Provisioning had been pretty accurate, and several last little bits of remaining breakfast items and fruit were finished up.

After weighing anchor, we motored for 10 or 15 minutes away from the jetty at La Digue, then turned our bows into the 12-15 knot breeze blowing from the southeast and set the sails. Our heading for the northern tip of Mahé Island put us on a beam reach, and unlike our passage from Silhouette to Praslin a week prior, there wasn’t much of a swell this time. Takamaka plowed ahead comfortably at 6 or 7 knots, sometimes adding an extra knot of boat speed when the wind built.

It took a little over four hours to cover the 25 miles or so between La Digue and Mahé. We sailed past Beau Vallon, where Colleen and I had sat on the shore nine days earlier watching other catamarans go by. Development on shore became more and more sparse as we continued southeast, running parallel to the northwest-facing shore of the island.

There are several small coves in the area suitable for anchoring one or two boats, and we hadn’t decided on a particular location to spend our last night on the boat, so we moved slowly along, passing by anything that was already occupied. When we came to Baie Ternay, it already had a couple boats anchored in it, but the long stretch of shallow water – well protected from the wind and swells – looked very inviting. Two national park rangers came out in a little power boat and guided us to a spot in a narrow channel of sand where we could drop anchor without damaging any coral. Even though we were in only 2 meters of water, the park ranger advised us to let out 25 meters of chain.

With large coral reefs on either side of the boat, it was the perfect location for the hardcore snorkelers on board, who spent the remainder of the afternoon facedown in the water looking at sting rays, barracudas, bat fish, zebra fish and many others we weren’t able to identify. There were attempts at underwater photography using an iPhone in a special case, but operation proved exceptionally difficult, and the divers had to commit the images to memory instead of the cloud.

There are very few photographs from this afternoon and evening, partly because everyone was simply enjoying the moment, and partly because the things that made it such a special last night couldn’t really be photographed. We pulled together one last meal that turned out quite well considering the odds and ends we had left on board. The sunset, which seems to come and go so quickly in the tropics, felt like it lingered a little longer than usual this time, and when it was finally dark, there was no moon, just the Milky Way and the Southern Cross and The Big Dipper and Orion dominating the sky, bright enough to be seen reflected on the surface of the water. All seven of the crew gathered at the front of the boat to stare up at the sky and look out over the dark water, where occasional mysterious bioluminescent lights would blink on and off.

One of the interesting factoids Jessie shared that I forgot to mention in my write-up about our visit to Vallée de Mai was that the granite throughout the islands is pink. When exposed to weather, it tends to turn various shades of dark gray, almost black in some places. But looking at chunks of freshly hewn rock, it is indeed pink, and it is used a great deal in construction, giving the islands a distinct local color palette.

Imagine the pop-pop sound that an inflated balloon makes when you deform it slightly with your fingertips and then let it snap back to its regular shape. Now imagine that sound projected through a megaphone. Now add the heat, humidity and still air of a night near the equator. That should give a rough approximation of the comfort level we enjoyed while trying to sleep through Takamaka‘s fenders slowly rubbing back and forth along the concrete wall at La Digue. Never, ever leave home without earplugs.

One might think that a night such as this would make our visit to La Digue seem off-putting, but one would be wrong, because La Digue is an island that has disallowed personal automobiles, leaving bicycles as the primary mode of personal transportation. And bicycles make everything better.

When we had tied up the previous afternoon, the port employee had asked us if we would be in need of bicycles. When we said yes, he waved over a gentleman that rented bicycles, who said it would be 200 SCR per bicycle for the following day, but he’d throw in the afternoon for free. We were too gassed to be doing much cycling at that point, and there was a consensus that it wouldn’t hurt to do a little price comparison. On our way to the restaurant, a mere 150 yards from the boat, Robbi got a quote for 150 SCR per bicycle, and the guy would throw in the seventh bicycle for free. A savings of nearly 35%!

After the crew had had a spot of breakfast and packed the various necessities for cycling to a beach, we sheepishly walked past the more expensive bicycle purveyor and made our way to the better offer. After much brake checking and tire pumping and seat adjusting and derailleur testing and basket packing, we finally set off on the wrong side of the road headed south.

Photos courtesy of Robbi

We rode past many shops and restaurants, charming old buildings that had seen better days, and not-so-charming cookie-cutter new “resort” construction. When we entered Union Estate, an old plantation that had been turned into a national park, we had to temporarily get off our bikes and pay an entry fee. A woman who seemed unperturbed by the fact that she was dressed in a uniform that would have caused anyone of European descent to burst into flames if they’d been required to wear it in the tropical heat gave us information about the park and the many beaches that lay beyond.

When her PSA was complete, she smiled and gestured toward a couple penny farthing bicycles leaning against a nearby wall and asked me if I’d like to try riding one of them. I said that I didn’t come halfway around the world to not give it a whirl. There were two very large ones, one slightly smaller than the other, and then a much smaller one that she said was “for the ladies.” I chose the mid-size one and discovered that it was much lighter than I was expecting because it was a replica made out of modern materials. Even so, it was more than a handful, and the park ranger gave me instructions to get the contraption going as fast as I could before attempting to hoist myself into the saddle five feet off the ground. After a few attempts, I managed to get underway, and it was at that point that I realized she’d offered no instructions for dismounting, which was even more ungainly than getting on.

Riding the bike was a huge amount of work and terribly uncomfortable. We should consider ourselves fortunate that it was consigned to the dustbin of history. I stuck a leg out as the bike tipped over and somehow managed to avoid tumbling into the dirt, unlike Colleen, who yard-saled in front of a group of tourists coming into the park behind us. She was on the “ladies” version, so it wasn’t nearly as far to the ground, and no harm was done. Mark made it look elegant and effortless.

Photo courtesy of Colleen

Having done our duty of providing total strangers with high-value Instagram and TikTok content, we got back on our rental bikes and continued our way toward Anse Source D’argent, one of the more famous beaches on the island. We added our bikes to the couple hundred parked in a lot near the beach and walked amongst huge granite boulders toward the water. When we got to the sand, it was crowded with people laying on the beach, and there was loud music coming from a little bar tucked under the palm trees. Several social media influencers were posing in the water or on rocks for cameras and drones. None of us were in the mood for such worldliness, so we continued trudging along the sand, occasionally wading through shallow water to go around large hunks of granite that stood in our way. After a half-mile of walking we finally arrived at a part of the beach with few people on it, set down our things, and enjoyed a couple of hours of staring out at the sea under the shade of a thick overstory.

Photos courtesy of Robbi

Photos courtesy of Robbi and Colleen

A mysterious abandoned stone building I found at the southern end of Anse Source D'argent

Our group slowly drifted apart. Some went to a little nearby stand selling fruit and drinks. Some walked around a huge granite outcropping to see what lay farther to the south. Colleen snorkeled in the shallow water while I climbed amongst the rocks and trees to explore an old building situated at the top of a cluster of massive boulders.

Colleen and I rode our bikes back the way we’d come, stopping at a vanilla plantation and the Union Estate’s original house that had been restored to serve as a gift shop and art gallery. When we were nearly back to the place where we’d rented the bikes, we ran into Alisa, who joined us for a late lunch at a nice airy restaurant with beautiful stonework throughout.

With everyone back on board near the end of the day, there was hearty agreement amongst the skipper and crew that there was no point paying for another night of suffering tied to the dock. We paid our docking fee (calculated by the hour), ran a few last-minute errands ashore, then cast off to go just outside the breakwater and drop anchor. A pleasant breeze cooled the boat, Irina made a delicious pizza, and we watched our schooner friend drop anchor nearby against the backdrop of a tropical sunset. When it was dark, we turned on the boat’s underwater lights and watched hundreds of fish swirl around under the boat.

Photos courtesy of Robbi

I awoke in the night to the sound of the diesel engines starting up, as did the rest of the crew. Irina had gotten up to find that we’d dragged anchor and were uncomfortably close to boats anchored around us. It took us several tries in the dark to find another spot that was shallow enough but far enough removed from other boats and the shore. After nearly an hour, the anchor was set once again, and some of us managed to get a few more hours of sleep.

Here is what the British Navy thought of the island of La Digue in 1892:

And here is La Digue today:

Our first mate Mark had done some internet research that indicated that the “marina” at La Digue offered shore power, which meant that if we docked there we’d be able to plug in and have overnight air conditioning. After a sweaty night in Baie Sainte Anne, that sounded quite inviting, so Irina called ahead and told them that we would be arriving at approximately 4 p.m.

We motored slowly between the breakwaters into what was essentially a 3-sided concrete box. Catamarans, fishing boats, dive boats and a small barge offloading electric golf carts occupied two of the concrete walls; the third was reserved for the inter-island ferry. A gentleman standing on shore waved to us and motioned toward a rather small-looking empty spot near the corner of the box. We first tried to go bow-first into the spot, thinking we would toss the port bow line to someone on shore to cleat it off, then use that as a pivot by putting the engines in reverse to swing the stern into place.

But the man on shore had other ideas, and said we should do a three-point turn by putting the bow into a tiny space between a catamaran and a couple fishing boats, then back stern first into our allocated spot the way one would parallel park a car. We weren’t prepared for that maneuver, so we backed away from the spot, did a couple slow circles outside the marina while getting ready, then made another attempt, this time following the approach as described by the port employee.

Takamaka is a 50’ boat, and the spot they had us docking in was about 55’ in length. With two engines, catamarans are more maneuverable than a single-engine boat, and for someone used to moving them around all day, such tight quarters might have seemed manageable. But it was a lot to ask of our skipper, and it ended up being a high-stress operation with very little margin of error. In fact, two of us had to put fenders between us and other boats already docked to prevent damage when the vessels touched as Irina shoehorned the boat into its assigned location. At one point we were stern-to against the wall, and it looked like we’d have to abort the attempt, but a lone stern line we’d manage to attach to a dock cleat was enough to salvage the situation, and after several sweaty, tense minutes, Takamaka‘s port side was securely cleated off.

It was at this time that we received the joyous news that amenities at La Digue did not include shore power, just a hose to fill our water tanks, if we so required. Some snarky comments were exchanged amongst the crew, but the indomitable spirit of the Takamakans found a way to make the best of the situation. Irina led a small contingent ashore to see what there was to see and reported back with some photos and descriptions of menus from various nearby restaurants. We settled on a high-end resort called Le Domaine de L’Orangeraie. I donned my last clean pair of shorts and a t-shirt; everyone else that had packed more put on a more elegant outfit. We walked along the dusty street in the fading light to Le Domaine, where we enjoyed a cocktail followed by a meal with free-flowing conversation and laughter.

Docking photos courtesy of Alisa

Photo courtesy of Robbi's phone and Le Domaine de L'Orangeraie staff

In theory, rafting up overnight is more secure than anchoring, and therefore should be more restful. In reality, it introduces a whole host of new noises due to docklines and fenders squeaking and groaning between the two boats. Compounded by the hot, motionless air, it wasn’t our best night of sleep aboard Takamaka, especially for the three people sleeping on the staboard side of the boat.

After breakfast, just as the sun was starting to get uncomfortably warm, we loosed ourselves from the presidential yacht whose glory days were most likely long gone and motored out of the marked channel leading in and out of Baie Sainte Anne. A moderate southeastern breeze was blowing, and once we cleared Round Island, we hoisted the main and jib for a beam reach to The Sisters, the northernmost islands The Moorings recommends visiting, and only for daytime anchoring.

Ave Maria Rock

Little Sister

We enjoyed a little over an hour of virtually perfect sailing, then doused the sails in preparation for anchoring at the little islands. The Admiralty chart of 1892 refers to the islands as West Sister and East Sister, but modern maps refer to them as Petite Soeur and Grande Soeur. We ended up anchoring between the islands, closer to Grande Soeur.

Still not feeling terribly confident about snorkeling, I swam from the boat while most of the rest of the crew headed farther afield to check out the reefs closer to shore. Several other catamarans came and went while we were on the hook, as did some small powerboats carrying divers and snorkelers.

After everyone had had enough time in the water and were back on board, we motored around to the east side of the island to look at another beach, but opted not to drop anchor and instead motored south between Félicité Island and Marianne Island and around the southern end of La Digue and back up most of the island’s western shore to a tiny marina behind the same jetty that protected the terminal for the inter-island ferry.

Irina and Colleen

Joe at the helm

Mark

Robbi

Even though the palm forest at Vallée de Mai had been shady and relatively cool, the crew was worn out and in need of food and hydration by the time we left. The minivan taxi dropped us back at the sandy boat launch where we’d come ashore in the morning. We all crowded into the little market to stock up on drinks, snacks, ice cream treats and other critical provisions, then boarded the dinghy with our loot and returned to Takamaka.

We had learned from Mr. Robert that there were bins near the boat launch where we could dispose of garbage. Taking every opportunity to remove garbage from a boat is critical, especially in the heat with a small population of cockroaches aboard, so Irina, Alisa and I decided to use the dinghy to make a garbage run as well as a visit to proper grocery store located a half-mile away via a narrow channel of water shown on modern maps as Anse L’Amour. While it had some charming houses along its shores, the water wasn’t exactly the sparkling turquoise found in most other places on the islands.

Looking inland along Anse L'Amour

Our visit to the supermarket was not as productive as we’d hoped, although we did find some Tabasco sauce and all the items necessary to eventually make a pizza. There wasn’t much breeze in the little harbor, and the boat felt as sweltering as ever when we got back on board. In spite of the heat, a gentleman spent the entire afternoon doing work on the boat that we’d rafted up to, grinding away at fiberglass repairs which sent dust into the open porthole of Mark’s cabin. He worked to a soundtrack that started out with mountain gospel music, then for some unknown reason switched abruptly to more modern praise-and-worship songs. He said that the boat had belonged to the second president of the Seychelles and that he was working on restoring it. In the long list of lost causes, this one had to be somewhere near the top, but he seemed at peace with the undertaking.

We had some late afternoon entertainment when a large vessel – more barge than boat – entered the undersized harbor and nearly hit a catamaran moored nearby when it attempted to swing into position to drop its bow onto the shore to act as a ramp for offloading its cargo of building materials. At first the catamaran tried to swing out of the way while staying tied to the mooring buoy, but when that failed, they had to move to a different spot in the harbor entirely. With the tourists out of the way, the work boat got itself positioned correctly and began the business of taking the materials it was carrying ashore.

Doing deck work in OSHA-approved flip-flops

Part of our arrangement with Mr. Robert was that he would provide dinner while we were in Baie Sainte Anne, which he would bring by the boat at approximately 6 p.m. He arrived right on time with large trays of baked fish in creole sauce, roasted beef and vegetables, a cabbage and tomato salad, and a huge bowl of basmati rice. We feasted sumptuously, and when the meal was nearly finished, Mr. Robert joined us at the table, had a bit of food himself along with a couple Seybrews. We asked him many questions about life on the island and he was happy to answer them – along with many details about his background – in a thick creole accent. It turned out that his grandmother was originally from Pennsylvania and met his grandfather in New Orleans before they moved to the Seychelles. He had 13 children, and seemed to have a connection with pretty much anyone who’d ever set foot on a boat in the Seychelles in the last 40 years.

It was almost 10:30 by the time the conversation was over and the dishes from the meal had been cleaned up, very late by our standards. We returned the trays to Mr. Robert and teased him by telling him to thank his wife for us, who’d done a good deal of the preparation of the meal he’d delivered. He bid us “bon voyage” and puttered off into the night in his dinghy.

When asked, Mr. Robert said the locals do NOT eat the fish heads

A lovely woman named Jessie was our tour guide through the 19.5 acres of forest at Vallée de Mai National Park, a natural cathedral of cool shade composed of layers of massive palm fronds set high over the ground on thick trunks resembling some kind of alien architecture. An occasional gust of wind would move the roof of the forest, revealing glimpses of the blue sky amid a loud, papery clatter of fronds and stalks rubbing and knocking against each other. There is virtually no underbrush due to palm fronds littering the forest floor. In spite of the humidity, our guide said that the fallen fronds were still very susceptible to fire.

Seychelles is the only place in the world where the Coco de Mer grows. Among the eleven botanical records that it holds, it produces the largest wild fruit in the world. Occasional signs along the path were placed near trees that had ripe fruit – which takes 7 years – warning visitors to beware of getting conked in the head by falling fruits weighing as much as 75 pounds.

The catkin of the male tree and the seed of the fruit produced by the female tree are vividly erotic in their appearance, at least to humans (the trees could not be reached for comment). The Seychellois, who seem quite modest otherwise, have completely embraced the imagery of the Coco de Mer, and it is proudly displayed throughout the islands, especially the seed of the fruit.

Male catkin on the left, female fruit seed on the right