This weekend it was a rumble that roused me. I opened my eyes and saw a 100 pound panacle of coconuts menacing me from above, Democlean Sword-like. Apparently I was in a hammock. I poked my head over the side and saw the source of the rumble. A wall of water was headed my way. The question that took shape in my mind was simply “what the fuck!?”. And then the rest came to me.
My collegues and I had arrived a few hours earlier by catamaran and I was taking a little sieste. We were on Ilse Royal - one of three islands that make up Les Isles de Salut, the infamous French penal colony. Just beyond my toes I could Isle de Diable which housed political prisoners and a few c.f.b.j.’s – Convicted for Being Jewish.
I’d slung my hammock between two coconut palms that projected from the side of the cemetery wall. I think the cemetery was reserved for wardens and family - convicts got the heave ho and became chum. Coconut trees are everywhere on the island. Everywhere. And coconuts are too. Much of the island is undulating mounds of coconut. I’ve never seen anything like it. And this saturated-fat landscape supports a colony of rats that would raise the eyebrows of any New Yorker. They are a smaller and cuter forest variety, but intensely numerous. The population is so dense that it’s difficult to find a coconut that hasn’t been bored into and eviscerated. Living along side the rats are their larger cousins, Agoutis interspersed with feral chickens.
Coarse shell makes up the beach’s substratum. There is no mineral sand to be found, just the remains of billions and billions of creatures. Supported by creatures-past is a knobby field of smooth black rocks that range in size from basketball to Volkswagen. You don’t get into the ocean as much as clamber into it and if it’s low tide, you take a beating. The serf batters the rocks and mists. The mist is so thick that looking west after waking up from my nap I thought that other parties had fires going.
One arrives on the Isles by way of a tranquil 45 minute boat ride. The catamaran makes its first stop at Isle Royale, former home to low security prisoners and the administrative center. One of the larger buildings has been converted into a fairly posh hotel. The church – painted back in the day by an inmate convicted of forgery – has been restored to its former glory. A diesel engine that probably runs ‘round the clock keeps the hotel a/c running and powers water desalination. The opposite side of the island (maybe 300 feet away) houses three large dumpsters sopping with the detritus of fanciness. It’s also where I came across two types of monkeys splatted on branches, waiting for the heat to subside.
After a few hours, a smaller boat scoots over to Isle de Saint Joseph. The boat returns to the mainland but you can sling a hammock and make the return another day. I.S.J. housed prisoners that were thought to warrant tougher love, ie years of solitary confinement in cells exposed to sun and rain, whipping, beheading and the like.
None of the publicly accessible structures on I.S.J. have been restored. Stone construction befitting Goldsworthy frames almost the entire island. A broad sloping ramp and a steep, narrow stair (both of smooth black stone) lead to the flattened top of the island. On top is a grid of thick-walled cells separated from the sky by iron bars. It’s here that a hundred years of inmates alternately burned and froze, piled rocks, got sick and died. These days, trees gobble the walls. The paint is shedding. The walls themselves are shedding. The day when there won’t be much left seems not too distant.
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