11 2024 Guyane française Cayenne, Cacao, Îles du Salut
The air is damp and warm, 34 C. In this former penal colony 90% of the convicts died of malaria. I can clearly imagine the terror they experienced trapped in an unforgiving jungle. The coast is muddy and the climate is relentless. Time is suspended. Walking around is done in some slow motion way. But they have croissants here as it is French territory. The most popular food is Pho, the Vietnamese noodle soup. 95% of the land is an endless sea of dense untamed jungle. I read somewhere most inhabitants of this EU enclave in South America originally did not want to live here.
Santo Domingo
I don’t have to search for the frayed edges of society here—they find me. Just around the corner from my apartment, a man with gold earrings and a cheerful laugh approaches me. “Need a haircut?” he asks. Coincidentally, I had been planning to get one—but how does he know?
Turns out, he’s familiar with me from my frequent walks past his tiny barbershop, a cramped 3-by-6-meter space. In one corner, a young girl sits playing, partially hidden behind a screen. Occasionally, I hear a woman’s voice, though I never see her. My conclusion? They live in the shop.
He’s from Santo Domingo and knows how to shave, but little else. Not that it matters. Like many here, he refuses to have his photo taken—whether out of superstition or shame. So I have him take mine.
Roasted iguana
In the afternoon, I try to catch a glimpse of the sea, but it isn’t easy. Beyond the last accessible stretch of land, there’s first a mangrove forest, then a swamp. Only after that does the sea appear—muddy brown and distant.
At the tip of the land, there was once a migrant camp, much like those in Calais. Now, nothing remains. Yet, the scent lingers—the same one I once encountered in Paris, at a refugee camp just like this one was.
Following the mangrove shoreline I hear a voice: “hey brother, come and sit down and relax, enjoy the tranquility here”. Two men have found a quiet spot to smoke crack, the poor man’s drug, in peace. Eric does not object if I take his picture. He tells me he is part Chinese, part African and part Amerindian. He appreciates the peace here and can recommend roasted iguana. “You can catch them here in the bushes they make great BBQ”. He inhales. it is sad to see this self-destruction in progress but still, Eric is one of the friendly persons I met this journey.
The population is diverse and there is a clear division. French officials and supportive staff are one group – mainly working at the space centre health and education. And then there is everyone else. Some original Amerindian inhabitants remain (most have been more or less wiped out by the imported European diseases). Chinese mostly come from Vietnam and do their Chinese thing (trade); of course the majority is of African background (Creole).
Also a lot of immigrant workers are attracted by the relative wealth of this little piece or Europe; from Surinam, Colombia, Dominican Republic (my barber), Brazil. One remarkable other minority from Laos is not what one would expect.
Hmong, the unknown diaspora
This is Messi, she fled her home country Laos when she was 7 years old. The Hmong had fought for the French and Americans. This did not go down well with the new regimes in Vietnam and the surrounding area. Via France she ended up in French Guyana, in a remote village with only Hmong people named Cacao. They cleared the jungle and are now the most successful agricultural producers of this little piece of France in South America.
She tells me her whole story because I am the only tourist today and she was just pruning the jasmine bush. I get tea of jasmine, lemon balm and something else. We show eachother pictures of he children and agree it is very important they end up in a good place. In Messi’s opinion Guyane française does not qualify.
Îles du Salut
The old penal camp on the three remote islands off the coast has become a grim tourist attraction. Alfred Dreyfus was wrongfully imprisoned here due to falsified evidence. He was confined to special little building on an island linked to the main island only with a cable. The five years in harsh conditions broke his health, a cruel punishment for a crime he never committed.
Last night in Cayenne
At 5:30 PM, darkness falls abruptly as the sun sets quickly. The evening atmosphere is vibrant—food trucks line the streets, calypso music fills the air, and life unfolds openly, at least in the poorer neighborhoods.
If this weren’t France, I wouldn’t walk around after dark. Police patrols pass by regularly, which is reassuring, though their presence likely isn’t without reason—just like the hefty security guards stationed outside many shops.
Sometimes, what you don’t see is just as telling. There are no stray dogs or cats in sight. There must be a reason for that—I can think of a few.
