We Dig La Digue

Often, visiting a place I’ve imagined and dreamt of is not as magical as arriving in one where I have no preconceived notions. I’ve wanted to come to the Seychelles for a very long time. I’d heard from a handful of people who had visited about their boulder strewn, white sand beaches and conservation of the coral reefs. I’d imagined diving amongst staghorn and giant fan corals, brightly colored fishes and eels. The magic escaped us for our first several days we spent on the main island of Mahe, but it waited for us on La Digue.

La Digue is a small island with about 2000 residents. The fact that nobody is allowed to own a private car keeps traffic down to a few taxis and work trucks, some ox carts, and many bicycles. Before we had checked into our rooms, bikes were arriving for our family. Perfect island bikes: in decent shape with working brakes and gears, but not so nice as to need to be worried about leaving them leaning against a palm tree near the beach.

The locals gather at night in the street of La Passe, the little town where the ferry arrives, standing in groups or chatting while cruising together on their bikes. Laughing and eating and sharing beers in the warm darkness as we ride past on our way home after dinner. The island is dotted with guest houses and small, thatched roadside stands selling fresh juice, fruits, and sandwiches. The beaches are stunning, everything I imagined. Sadly, the reefs of the inner islands suffered a large scale die-off a few years back, and those we have snorkeled so far have not compared to the colors of the Mayan Reef or some of those we have seen around Hawaii. We’ve opted not to scuba dive.

At one roadside stand, they had a bat; a young flying fox that had fallen to the ground as a pup and was adopted by humans. We took turns holding Yoyo, or rather allowing him to climb on our clothing. I had not washed the ocean water off me after our last swim, and he liked the salt. A tiny tongue, rough like a cat’s, licked my arm. We’d seen them flying about, particularly at dusk: large fruit bats. As with every animal we see, from the snake she held at in Kasane to the geckos on the wall of our guest house, Marlie wants one: her own fruit bat. I said “no.”