Rodriguan Adventures

Rodrigues airport is so small that passengers walk from the aircraft straight to the terminal. Its location is no accident: Plaine Corail is flat and spacious enough to accommodate a runway — a rarity on an otherwise hilly island.

The small terminal building, designed by the Mauritian architect Gaëtan Siew, was completed in 2003. Yet aviation arrived on Rodrigues long before this modest structure existed: the first regular scheduled flight reached the island as early as September 1972, carried by a Piper Navajo PA-31

At the beginning, the path was straightforward: wide and flat, pleasantly shaded by filao trees, which—just as on Mauritius—grow along the coast (photo by Noreen).

Along the path, grazing cows, goats, and sheep are everywhere, as well as chickens moving about with their chicks. This is typical of Rodrigues, whose population originally consisted largely of two groups: farmers and fishermen. The sight of freely roaming animals is not only beautiful, but also calming — industrial livestock farming does not (yet) exist on the island.

I’m on a narrow dirt path cutting through a slope of dark volcanic rocks. With little experience in multi-day hiking with a tent, I had seriously overestimated myself while packing and ended up carrying more than 20 kilos (photo by Noreen).

Noreen and Sophie, seasoned hikers, move ahead at an easy pace, chatting as they go. Every now and then they turn back to ask if I’m still okay. Their concerned looks say more than the question itself 😅

First Sophie together with Noreen. I took the photo while they stood close together at the edge of the cliff, calm and completely at ease, their large backpacks still on their shoulders. The beach lay below them, some 30 meters down. Just looking made me feel slightly dizzy.

Then Noreen and I, keeping a respectful distance from the edge of the cliff — a decision I feel much more comfortable with (Photo by Sophie).

As we were about to continue, we were caught up by Blanche, also coming from Gravier. She is from La Réunion and had met Noreen and Sophie two days earlier during a diving trip. She is on Rodrigues to train for a trail race on La Réunion.

Blanche and Noreen look back once more in the direction we have come from.

In the upper part of the image, distinctive rock formations can be seen, typical of a so-called shield volcano. Rodrigues, like the other islands of the Mascarene archipelago, is of volcanic origin and was formed around 1.5 million years ago.

Shield volcanoes are characterized by their relatively gentle slopes and broad shape. Their lava is not expelled explosively like a fountain, but instead flows steadily out of the volcano — comparable to water seeping from a perforated pipe — spreading in thin layers over large areas. The slanted, layered rock formations visible today are remnants of these ancient lava flows.

Sophie crosses the wooden footbridge and keeps going without stopping, determined not to lose her momentum. No sooner is the bridge behind us than the path climbs again — and my backpack makes it clear what starting out with it really means.

Noreen and Blanche follow us. With a large backpack on her shoulders, navigating rocky ground and chatting with Blanche, Noreen somehow still manages to stay in touch with the outside world via WhatsApp — a level of multitasking I admire from a safe distance 😅. She crosses the footbridge with particular focus: one wrong step, and the phone could disappear between the planks, never to be seen again.

We make it to Trou d’Argent. Noreen and Sophie set up their tent with enviable ease — it is immediately clear that this is not their first time. For me, by contrast, the real exploration is only just beginning: which side is up, which is down? How does the flysheet attach? And why are the guy lines different colors? A true trial-and-error process.

Rest will have to wait. We continue on to Saint-François, where, according to what we had heard in Gravier, there should be a small snack bar offering food and beer — exactly what we need. The backpacks remain in the tents (nothing gets stolen on Rodrigues), and we move on unburdened. I savor the sudden lightness — my tormentor, the backpack, stays behind 😂. Along the way, Jeff, a friend of Noreen’s, joins us.

On some sections, like this one, the trail is well reinforced. This helps slow down erosion caused by foot traffic and at the same time makes the path more accessible for hikers with less experience or physical strength.

After the descent and the subsequent climb, we reach Anse Philibert. The beach here is broader than at Trou d’Argent, and there is a viewpoint from which the eye can wander across sea and rock — at a place that lies geographically at the easternmost edge of the Mascarene Islands

We are almost in Saint-François, and the relief is clearly visible on the faces of our small group.

It is 7 p.m. We finally reach the summit at just the right moment to admire the sunset over Saint-François. Sophie looks out for a snack bar — only to discover that it lies in exactly the opposite direction and turns out to be a small restaurant, “Chez Dana”, with a beautiful, spacious terrace. Its roof and sunshades are visible to the right along the horizon..

Suddenly, a wedge-tailed shearwater erupts from the darkness and collides with me. It now crouches motionless on the ground. The encounter is unexpected — and unwelcome — for both of us. I stay with it, watching for any sign of injury, waiting until it recovers enough to move again.

Less spectacular, but impressive in its own way, are the hermit crabs carrying their borrowed homes on their backs. I watched one of them for a long time as it hauled an oversized shell up a steep rock face — slow, strained, but persistent. It looked practiced, and oddly familiar: too much weight, no reason to hurry, and no option other than to keep moving. For the first time that day, I felt understood.

After that, I came across several more specimens of the fascinating purple land crab. Originally from the Caribbean, it lives far from the sea and can even be found at higher elevations. The crab is nocturnal and feeds as an omnivore on plant matter and carrion.

We are back at our campsite. Everyone checks that their anchors are still holding. I don’t, and I will regret that later.

Afterwards, we settle in comfortably on a few rocks and have dinner. To my great delight, the provisions I had hauled along — French cheeses, boiled eggs, dates, and nuts — are met with genuine enthusiasm from my fellow hikers. Cold beer completes the picture.

At some point we went to sleep. My small tent turned out to be surprisingly comfortable, and I fell asleep very quickly. If only the inadequate anchoring hadn’t been there…

It was shortly after midnight. I dreamed I was standing under a shower when I woke up abruptly. The dream merged seamlessly into reality: tropical rain. Two tent pegs had come loose. The wind tore the rainfly aside. Water forced its way in, lukewarm and relentless. After a brief, wordless struggle with wind, rain, and the tent, I brought the situation somewhat under control — and went back to sleep.

The map traces the line of our first day. It shows the coastal places we passed through — sometimes more than once 😅 — from Gravier via Anse Bouteille and Trou d’Argent all the way up to Saint-François.

The sun had already risen, and everything was bathed in pure gold. The spectacle did not last long, however, as the sky was quite overcast and the wind was still strong.

In daylight, I could now take a critical look at my nocturnal attempts to reinforce the tent’s anchoring (sticks, stones). It did not inspire much confidence. The small tent stood between wind-bent trees on sand and needles. The guy lines seemed more decorative than functional. That the tent had survived the night was pure luck.

I walked down to the sea with the intention of going for a short swim. The water could not possibly be cold. The view was intoxicating. I almost felt like Robinson on a deserted island. My fellow travelers were still in a deep sleep phase, and I could be sure of having the beach and the waves entirely to myself for at least another hour.

Hardly in the water, it quickly became clear that this was not an ideal day for swimming. The sea was raging. The waves — and especially the backwash — were extremely strong. Only with considerable effort did I manage to avoid being dragged into the depths between the rocks. In short: an involuntary water park. 😅

I returned to our camp and realized that I was still the only one awake. Shortly after 6 a.m., I felt the urge to do something.

I set off, passing the same places as the day before, this time in the opposite direction and without any luggage. Anse Bouteille lay there, changed by the morning light, and the path suddenly felt familiar and strange at the same time…

…past the grazing cows that were already there, and I wondered whether they, too, had spent the night on the beach.

Then, out of nowhere, two puppies appeared and began circling around me, as if they wanted to play tag. For a while they accompanied me, keeping their distance, coming closer, drifting away again. I wondered whether they had wandered too far from home — wherever that might be. After about ten minutes, they stopped. Shortly afterward, they were gone, without me noticing which direction they had taken.

At Anse Philibert, we made a brief stop. According to historical accounts, the explosion of the Indonesian volcano Krakatau was reportedly perceived here on 27 August 1883 despite a distance of around 4,800 kilometres, and was interpreted as a cannon shot from a ship. The pressure wave released by the eruption was exceptionally powerful and is known to have circled the globe approximately 3.5 times. Before continuing on our way, we took a few photographs from the viewpoint to capture the scenery.

After the substantial meal, we climbed into the car with our mountain of gear and drove north. But not far

Just beyond Saint-François and the Tekoma Hotel, Noreen and Sophie expressed the wish to go for a short snorkeling session. The water in Anse Ally was crystal clear, and we saw many different types of coral. Unfortunately, I didn’t have any fins with me, and since I’m not a particularly strong swimmer, my range of movement was quite limited.

That’s where we met her as well, and we sat down at a table on the beach to introduce ourselves and sort out the details of the hike. The catch was that we would have to leave the car, with all our gear, at Anse aux Anglais, and then somehow get back from Port Sud-Est, on the other end of the island, to Port Mathurin — and preferably not on foot! 😂

Our journey begins in Anse aux Anglais. Danie, who works at the Grande Montagne Nature Reserve, knows the island like few others and speaks with passion about nature, conservation, and history. Over the next four and a half hours, she leads us along the old paths of Rodrigues—routes that tell stories of earlier times and are now almost forgotten.

As recently as the 1970s, there was only a single paved road in Port Mathurin and a total of about 60 cars on the island, most of them owned by government officials.

In earlier times, people and goods were transported on foot, on the backs of donkeys or horses…

… or in sedan chairs (e.g. for an ill person) — along narrow paths and sentiers. These old routes, which crisscross the island, still exist today, but hardly anyone knows them anymore (except Danie 😉).

The first modern road planned and built according to today’s standards is the “Route de l’Autonomie”. It connects Port Mathurin with the airport in Plaine de Corail. Construction began in the late 1990s, and after several phases, the road was officially opened on 18 January 2004. It represents an important milestone in the development of Rodrigues’ transport infrastructure.

As we left the streets of Anse aux Anglais behind us, the path was clearly visible, indicating that it is still used regularly.

After about twenty minutes, we would probably have come to a halt without Danie and struggled to continue following the trail.

Again and again, we reached small viewpoints where the landscape opened up—sometimes looking back over the ground we had already covered, sometimes out towards the coast and the shimmering lagoon.

After two and a half hours, we reached the highest point of our route—and the highest point on Rodrigues: Mont Limon, at an elevation of 398 metres. The French word limon refers to a fine, fertile soil and points to the favourable soil conditions of Rodrigues’ central ridge. Such descriptive place names were common during the French colonial period. From the viewing platform, the landscape opens up in all directions, revealing Rodrigues in its full breadth. It is also a place that naturally invites you to capture memories in photographs of every kind.

After that, the trail led us through densely overgrown sections where hungry mosquitoes were already waiting for us, alternating with patches of Pikan-loulou bushes. The latter — Acacia nilotica — is an invasive species with long thorns and a strong sense of territorial dominance: wherever it grows, nothing else does. No wonder that every effort is made to get rid of it (photo by Noreen).

Forty-five minutes later, we stood at the viewpoint above the Victoire Waterfall. The path leading there had taken us through open countryside and lovingly maintained private gardens, for which Danie had obtained the owners’ permission in advance.
As usual, Noreen was standing so close to the edge that I didn’t even dare to call out and ask the ladies to turn towards me for a photo.

Fortunately, Danie understood my intention without a word being spoken; everyone turned around, and I was finally able to take a group photo.

Another hour later, we reached Port Sud-Est. The “Traversée de l’île” had taken four and a half hours in total—covering 11.5 kilometres and 640 metres of elevation gain.