Freedom…
by Shayla Hall

Considering all the time I had to prepare for this beautiful stint aboard Khulula (1 week notice) you’d think I’d be prepared for every eventuality. However, as a true Polywog* I was most shocked not by the fact that Bryson now bakes fresh bread in the morning, nor by Hugh’s neon yellow Speedo, but sea sickness so dreadful it made me consider jumping off the back of Khulula into the equatorial ocean.

Remember the last time you had the flu? Nausea, headaches, dizziness, sweats. Sea Sickness is like that – plus a fluttery and anxious heartbeat in my case, but that may have been psychological (@$#* this boat is small. #$%$ I haven’t seen land for 6 days.)

Now imagine your flu-ridden self is pulled off the couch and dropped onto the Teacup ride at the PNE or local carnival. The cup jerks violently back and forth and you’re slammed to the left side, the right side.the left side. Don’t forget this wicked cup is bolted to an arm which swings in swooping stomach-dropping circles. You look anxiously over at the sadist operating this ride. Not to worry, Bryson tells you, it’s normal. He slams to the right and tries to keep the steering wheel left. Hugh (the skipper of this passage) casually applies sunscreen to his upper thighs. You’re getting the picture I imagine. Now add a few more elements – giant saltwater slaps to the face; equatorial sun that beats 30 degrees with 75% humidity; chores like cooking, going to the bathroom (yes this is a chore), showering** and of course night watch, and you’re beginning to see the joys of your first open water crossing.

There are indeed joys. Cold beers at sunset. The thrill of sitting high on the bow to feed the sail up the mast. Fantastic friends. A nighttime squall that showers you with delicious fresh water. Strange fish caught with beach garbage. Time and space to be free. More free than I’ve felt in a while.

Freedom is precisely the luxury that inmates on the Isle du Salut, our first stop, were not given. These three islands (Ile du Royale, Saint-Jospeh and Diable) off the coast of French Guiana served as a French penal colony or bagne from 1852 to early 1950s. Set up by Napoleon, the hard labor camps of French Guiana saw 80,000 new French bagnards a year for various offences ranging from theft to murder. The most famous interned here was the falsely accused political prisoner Alfred Dreyfus, who was released in 1899 after 5 years, and Henri Charriere, or Papillon. Papillon, accused of a murder for which he always maintained his innocence, was sentenced to life in the bagnard in 1933. He first escaped after only 6 weeks in French Guiana, traveling over 1000 miles in an open boat despite sharks, leprosy and starvation. Before he was re-captured in Columbia, he was the first known white-man to be adopted by the Guajira Indians. He spent 7 months with the Guajria, had two wives and fathered two children. During his 13 years as a prisoner he attempted to escape nine times.

Most inmates died before their sentences were complete, never returning to their families in France. Life in the bagne was a death sentence, although the punishment was considered far worse and less humane than the guillotine, as bagnards suffered years of brutal beatings and squalor conditions before they died of malnutrition, injuries from official beatings, or killed by fellow prisoners for their “plan”.

A “plan” is an aluminum tube, two and a half inches long that unscrews in the middle for prisoners to hide money. The plan (named so because it was considered necessary for a “cavale” or escape) was carried high up in the large intestine, so far up the anus that it was impossible to find even during a naked search. Admitting that one had a significant amount of cash would get a bagnard killed, but simultaneously cash was essential for survival in the bagne. The Isle du Salut had a flourishing black market where prisoners could buy items necessary for survival – coconuts to supplement the intentional “starvation diet”, a small knife for protection from other prisoners, or bribes from the guards.

Bagnards were assigned to various jobs. Some were strapped to buggies like ox and forced to haul water or rocks up from the steep shoreline. Others built roads and walls or planted palm trees in the equatorial sun. After several years of “good behavior” or for a hefty sum, a bagnard might gain a privileged job that allowed them more freedom, such as an administrator, or a gardener. Since there had been no successful escapes from the island, these privileged few could walk relatively freely around the island. This created an unofficial integration between the prisoners and guards’ families. (I should note that France was encouraging the development of these islands as a colony and therefore wives and children of guards immigrated here.) Guards’ wives kept prisoners as “house boys” to help with the laundry, the garden, and other “favors”. Although this sounds like relative freedom for bagnards, the relationship was always uneven and once false move, real or perceived, could send a bagnard back chained to a wall, or to “reclusion”. Pallpion tells of an inmate who provided sexual favors for a guard’s wife as a part of his house-boy duties. The guard came home unexpectedly one afternoon; the wife tore her clothes and cried rape. The bagnard was sentenced to death.

With no admission fee, gates or tour guides, we were alone in our curious exploration of these deserted islands. The history here is so recent you can feel it.The old hospital where Papillon’s friend Clousiot died after 2 years in reclusion; the insane asylum where Papillon faked madness in order to attempt and escape (FYI the first signs of insanity are buzzing sounds in the ears and nervousness. I’m watching the boys closely); the church bell that was rung before the corpse of a prisoner was thrown into the boiling sea. It was said that this bell acted like Pavlov’s bell, its vibrations summoning sharks to the point to fight for a piece of the body. Our most gruesome discovery was etched into an archway in block letters – “Reclusion.” The roof and doors had fallen due to rust and rot, but the cement skeleton told the story. 150 cells, 4 meters squared, stacked side by side down long narrow corridors. The cells had no roof. Instead, nine feet above a metal grate with a handrail ran the length of the cell block. This was for the guards to patrol, ensuring the reclusionnaires didn’t lie down when they weren’t supposed to, or attempt to tap messages to silent neighbors. The cells once contained a wooden bunk, a wooden pillow, a blanket, and a pail. No windows. The absolute darkness and silence was intended to break the inmates, as the French believed in punishment, not rehabilitation. Reclusion was a death sentence for most. Many died of malnutrition, a few managed to kill themselves, most lost their minds in the silence, literally. Papillon spent over 3 years here. He stayed sane by following a simple yet strict routine – pacing the length of the cell, and dreaming from self-induced asphyxiation. Unlike most, he avoided death by starvation because his friends bribed a guard to slip him coconut pulp.

We counted the cells to find #234, where he was enslaved.

I wonder how many more centuries this old French relic will remain standing. The ropy green jungle seems deadest on taking back this hilltop monstrosity. We were awestruck at the tenacity of a giant buttress-rooted tree, 4 feet in diameter and 40 feet high, growing straight through the doorway of cell #1. Its roots slinked over 30 feet in either direction, like a giant snake navigating through the dungeon hallways. Little ferns and plants sprout in cracks in the cement, vines travel laterally with the mortar between the bricks. The jungle grows downward too. Slinky strings drop down from a cob-web canopy high above. Mold, moss, and jungle film form a striking splatter paint on the walls.

The jungle has a chokehold.

I hesitate to call this place beautiful because of all the torture and suffering that took place here only 60 years ago. But as the earth creeps her way through the rusty bars I see a sort of reclamation that feels like beauty. A sort of natural justice maybe. With the help of time and the elements, I hope some healing or peace might wash ashore this stunning tropical island.

In 1945 Papillon tied himself to a sack of coconuts, jumped off Isle du Diable into a 20 foot swell and drifted 60 hours through the shark-filled Atlantic. It was his ninth attempt at freedom. He risked his life to be free.

I’m grateful for this new perspective as we pull up anchor and the Isle du Salut disappears into the horizon.

*[Defn: Polywog] Green, newbie offshore sailor that hasn’t crossed the equator yet. Wendy and I are a kind of big deal now because we have been officially promoted to Scallywags.

**[Defn: Showering] White knuckled, hold onto the railing at the bow of the boat as it swings widely through the sea. Call out “naked guy” so that the crew knows to look away. Dip the poo bucket (yes, the bucket used to clean the toilet) into the ocean. Dump satly water on your head. Shampoo. Rinse. Repeat.