Into the wild, 2025
Stéphane Foucaud

Bruno pulled me out of my heartbreak by way of Godfield Islet, rarely visited because it's difficult to access, even at high tide. Having been initiated by his Kanak grandmother, he first sought the blessing of "a good day" from the Sea Clan, located opposite this sparsely vegetated sandbar. In other words, we would be granted protection by the spirits by asking permission from the elders. In our conversations, the customary authorities (the local authorities) called this place "M'boa," thus evoking rituals from another era. A superb day of fishing then ensued with my brother from another world, which made me momentarily forget my recent breakup with Bérénice.

The therapy's effectiveness inspired us to prolong this blissful moment by improvising a barbecue of our fish in the setting sun. Energized by the frenzy of the flames flickering in the firebox, I placed my hand on Bruno's shoulder and said firmly, "I'm staying!" Accustomed to my recent flights of fancy, which had included plotting to kill myself, then my ex, then his new crush, and then the cat Bérénice had given me, Bruno only took me seriously when it came time to transfer all my gear onto his boat. Unemployed since the riots had erupted in our country and brought most businesses and single people to their knees, nothing was holding me back from embracing the wild life.

When he wasn't at sea, my brother was always glued to his smartphone screen. Keen to hold his attention, I often teased him with slams: "TikTok? Is anyone there?!", "He's driving on Instagram with a blood alcohol level of 0.3%!", "I bet he's got a small penis on his story!", "There's another reel where he sings like a total dork!". His influencer profile thus took advantage of my restorative adventure to boost his social media presence: he titled the Facebook page of my self-sufficient experience "The Island of Sobs." I refused to wear a camera, but I let him dock so he could film me with his phone, or with his drone, from his boat. He would come by once or twice a week to edit episodes like the first one, in which I ate purslane (a succulent plant that grows on sand), tasteless without seasoning, and smoked fish steamed over dwarf coconut leaves. Then the firewood ran out, which worked out perfectly for this "roots movie," because I was forced to eat raw fish. A voiceover would grieve over my breakup while the followers could bet on my endurance, namely my ability to last six months without cutting-edge technology, without outside food, equipped only with my fishing gear and my tent.

The comments poured in from the very first post: "I'd gladly take the young lad back after six months of abstinence. LOL. Granny Cocoye," "With his Tim Tam-addicted belly (Australian biscuits filled and covered in chocolate), I give Tarzan three days! Jojo." My withdrawal from the comforts of civilization took a good two weeks, during which I realized that burying a single funnel-shaped water container to collect rainwater wouldn't be enough. I washed myself with seawater, using a coconut soap specifically designed for that purpose. Another video revealed my "bath-bath," zooming in on the languid movement of my hand through my hair. But my erotic acting didn't garner the expected number of "likes," according to my Facebook administrator. On the other hand, the images of his dog Choupette praising me, filmed in superb high-angle shots with circular tracking shots, were a huge hit. Delighted to know that a dog was stealing the show, I asked to see the video. I was indeed stunned to discover my rather unglamorous, "Moon-Magnon" appearance after only four weeks of living in the wild.

Faced with the explosion of "likes," advertisers offered to cover the challenge. In my situation, any compensation was welcome. Even the tourist office supported our initiative, which was conducive to promoting their work, silencing a few environmentalists who were trying to sabotage our climb by claiming we were disturbing the nesting of terns (sea swallows), which were then nonexistent in the area. As the weeks went by, the doubts of internet users about achieving my goals faded. The traffic to our page reached its peak the day I, asleep outside my tent, was surrounded by a swarm of blue and black striped sweaters that formed a shimmering halo around my curled-up body. The reptile parade brought another one out of its lair. Bérénice, my ex, revealed her identity on the Facebook page, lured by a desire for popularity. She thought she'd create a buzz by praising me in her stories and other posts. But instead, a barrage of vicious comments rained down on the opportunistic Medusa. The story of my life as a self-imposed castaway then took on the air of a telenovela. Following this frenzy, a film producer contacted us to buy the script for this web-based reality show.

As the media frenzy surrounding our online saga continued to spiral out of control, I considered returning to civilization, eager to break my solitude after two months of resistance out of the six planned. Having decimated all the prickly pears on the surrounding cacti, my vitamin C and anti-inflammatory reserves were also beginning to dwindle. Choupette's accidental death hastened my return home, so I could, in turn, support Bruno, who was very attached to his dog. The flashback to the scene of the dog snatching the Tim Tam her owner offered me signaled the end of the adventure. What would remain in my memory were my conversations with the cactus community, which helped fill the emotional void of the moment, as well as the unexpected arrival, at nightfall, of young men from the tribe engaging in a collective purging ritual. Following the absorption of seawater by the entire group, I was lulled for a good part of the night by the resulting rumbling evacuation.