CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Devil's Island, French Guiana

O

n our way to Martinique, we couldn’t resist the opportunity to stop at Devil’s Island. It is a possession of France, located about ten miles off the coast of French Guiana. Known in French as the "Ile du Diable," it’s one of a trio of islands, known collectively as the Iles du Salut. Ile Royale and Ile St. Joseph are the companion islands, but in English, the single name of "Devil’s Island" stuck, and has become synonymous with the whole lot.

Devil's Island was infamous from 1854 to 1952 as one of France's most notorious prisons, or "hell on earth." Established under France’s colonial dominance, and known more commonly under the slang expression the bagne, or penal colony, banishment to these islands was an implicit death sentence. It was mosquito and insect-infested, and prisoners easily fell prey to illness, disease, and the ravages of the equatorial heat. Bodies were habitually thrown into the sea and sharks became accustomed to the regular food supply, thus ensuring their roving presence around the islands. Escape by swimming to the mainland was nearly impossible.

The island became world famous when the book Papillon, by former inmate Henri Charrière, was published in 1970. It depicted the isolation and rampant mistreatment of prisoners in this equatorial prison. "Papillon" was Charrière's prison pseudonym, and he claims to have escaped the prison by braving the shark-infested waters and riding the tide to shore via a makeshift raft of coconut bags. Years later, he resurfaced as a Venezuelan citizen.

It was a short day-sail from Cayenne to Devil's Island, where we anchored in the calm harbor of Ile Royale—the main island. From the highest point on this island, there was a commanding view of the anchorage and its neighbors. There was also a small hotel, restaurant, and a dock that accommodated a rudimentary tourist shuttle boat from Kourou. Ruins of the prison hospital and many of the former prison administration facilities also dotted Ile Royale.

Devil’s Island itself was difficult to access since there wasn’t a protected spot to anchor a boat, and the rapid current between the islands was too dangerous to navigate with a small dinghy, let alone dock one. Nevertheless, Michel ventured over by himself, making a tenuous dinghy landing on a rocky outcrop, and tied up for a short solo exploration. From our vantage viewpoint, while exploring Ile St. Joseph, we could see that he arrived safely.

As notorious as the place itself were the political prisoners Devil’s Island held—notably the French military officer Alfred Dreyfus, who was sent there after his unjust conviction for treason in 1895. Prisoners deemed less dangerous were housed in individually isolated huts as opposed to the many cellblocks that we wandered amongst on Ile St. Joseph.

We spent most of our time exploring Ile St. Joseph, where the bulk of the actual prison cells were located. Buried and hidden in the deep tropical jungle foliage, rows and rows of abandoned cellblocks with tiny barred window openings, and brick cubicles were scattered across the island. We hacked our way through the dense foliage with a machete in the overgrown jungle that seemed to be growing before our eyes. The thick palm and coconut tree canopy provided us welcomed shade in the heat, and long, crawling vines curled around the window bars. There were countless prisoners’ drawings on the walls throughout the complex, depicting their lives, their torture, and their despair. Many of the cellblocks had no ceilings, just barred overhead openings from wall to wall, affording no privacy from the guards who paced above.

It was haunting, walking in the footsteps of these prisoners. It almost seemed as if they had just left recently and in a hurry, as there were still cots, dirty mattresses, and chamber pots strewn about in abundance. We poked around for a long time trying to imagine such a hell on such an island paradise, but with no reference points to compare to our own life experiences up to this point, we were lost in time and our frame of minds. During their tenure, the prisoners were condemned to hard labor, tediously building miles and miles of cobblestone paths and low-lying stone walls throughout the islands. It rendered our walk-in paradise these many years later a peaceful, calm experience. The irony was not lost on us.

As we entered one huge hangar-type building, it seemed as if we had entered a living natural history museum exhibit. There were still leg and wrist chains hanging from the walls. Long, Tarzan-like vines dangled down two stories from rooftop holes, framed in eerie, veiled sunlight. There was a small, protected beach with shallow wading pools that we returned to frequently. The boys loved it. Being the only ones there, they could play and frolic in complete safety.

Numerous curious little creatures known as agoutis were scattered about the islands, and they were very cute, resembling something like a cross between a squirrel and a rabbit. Officially classified as rodents and related to the guinea pig, agoutis are the size of jack rabbits with a "squirrelish" face. They wandered about the island with their big hind legs, always catching Brendan’s rapt attention. He would stop dead in his tracks, so taken with this little animal, and excitedly wave his little finger at them.

We spent ten days wrapped in the time warp of the Iles du Salut. Today more tourist facilities have been established, and thus the islands aren’t quite as isolated as when we discovered them. But we have our unique memories and photos, and the assurance that very few people will know them as we did.