If you’re a “been there, done that” kind of person, you’ll grasp the impulse that took me to one of the eeriest and furthest-flung spots in the Caribbean region. If you have a sadist’s humour, or the slightest taste for irony, the name of the place should appeal: the Islands of Salvation. These three outcrops of black volcanic rock, lying a few miles off the coast of French Guiana, are better known collectively as Devil’s Island, the real location for Dustin “Is it safe?” Hoffman’s starring role in Papillon.
During the 19th century, Ile Royale, Ile St Joseph, and Ile du Diable acquired a dubious reputation as France’s premier penal colony, reserved for the most desperate criminals.
I think it was the “hell in paradise” tag that got me going. I’d surfeited on white sand beaches, dazzling coral reefs, and pristine rainforests; suffered architectural indigestion in the oldest city in the New World; climbed Martinique’s sleeping Mt Pelée, and braved the lower slopes of Montserrat’s active Soufrière Hills volcano. True, I hadn’t yet met a manatee, or even Fidel, but paradise was beginning to pall. It was definitely time to check out hell.
Before travelling, the right frame of mind was encouraged by a life-threatening experience. Aptly enough, I got into a furious argument with my good French pal as we circumnavigated the world’s largest roundabout, the Queen’s Park Savannah in Port of Spain. Returning from a lengthy session in St James, the rumshop district that never closes, we were happily at each other’s throats when we slammed into some late-night lovers’ car, parked unsuspectingly on the inside lane.
I left my French pal to continue the argument with the police when I noticed blood pumping from the artery in my ring finger. Some friendly vendors scooped me up when I passed out en route to the general hospital. Installed in the accident and emergency ward, I whiled away the wee hours in small talk with broken collarbones, stab wounds, and weedkiller tipplers. Waking on the operating table in broad daylight, I found the young doctor halfway through stitching my finger and busily flirting with a nurse, while my life-blood seeped in an ever-widening pool towards the door. Politely yet firmly, I interrupted the love lyrics long enough to get stitched up and discharged.
If ever I needed a portent, this was it. It was high time to escape to Devil’s Island, before I got all washed up in paradise.
Within the week I was in Cayenne, French Guiana, where I was to fine-tune my escape plans. I stayed with another friend of the volatile Frenchman, but fortunately this bon viveur had a dove’s disposition, and his girlfriend was a nurse who promised to take charge of physiotherapy for my finger.
Monsieur et Mademoiselle Dove thought the best therapy was a night on the town. We visited an English-style pub which served the strongest European beers, all of which I was obliged to sample, while listening to the proprietor’s extensive jazz collection. The sampling or the jazz was so uplifting that by the time we reached the Brazilian nightclub I was inspired to improvise.
I was probably catching some vibes from the nearby Kourou rocket launch station when, instead of entering by the door, I flew in through an open window, sailed over the pianist below, and landed (to no small applause) on the dance floor. Unfortunately, at this point my improvisational skills gave out. A Brazilian chiquita who felt I could dance as well as I flew was quickly corrected by my obstinately errant feet. While she insisted she could teach me, I silently reminded myself that escape was only a few hours away.
I caught the Kourou ferry much the worse for wear, and docked at Ile Royale totally dehydrated. Never mind, I told myself, Papillon had it much harder than this. A leathery foreign legionnaire offered me a dinghy ride over to St Joseph, where I’d be able to view the infamous cachots, the tomb-like solitary confinement cells where constant offenders and failed escapees were banged up.
I wandered the jungle-infested corridors of the cells, stumbling over massive tree roots, ignored by translucent three-foot-long iguanas, conversing with the spirits of long departed murderers and assorted desperadoes. Now I was getting somewhere.
This was nothing like paradise, but it was certainly as hot as hell. I toured the small cemetery with its sad tombstone inscriptions, and then took the short boat trip back to Ile Royale, where a lugubrious guide pointed out the almond tree under which the guillotine used to stand. “How many heads has that tree seen roll?” he intoned, like a gothic stooge.
I looked through the palms across the narrow strait to Ile du Diable, Devil’s Island itself, the smallest island of the archipelago, where political prisoners — including the wrongfully accused Alfred Dreyfus — had been held. It was off-limits, the guide told me.
“Too bad — I’ll just have to swim,” I replied, undaunted.
“Ah, but the sharks . . .”
Graciously, I conceded that, although there is indeed hell in paradise, I would not be escaping to Devil’s Island.
