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Our sailing ship docked at Fotoba. Scores
of naked black bodies were lined up, shackled
together, heads bowed, skin Shining in the trop-
ical sun. Our captain ordered the casks of rum
and boxes of guns unloaded. Then purse in
hand, he strode over to the slave trader sitting
in a mahogany chair in the shade of a huge
kapok tree.
This scene from the 18th century blurred
my vision. What I actually saw on January 20,
2006, was a stone and concrete dock, perhaps
200 yards long, completely devoid of life. No
people, no dogs, no goats, not even any birds.
What had been a port of debarkation 200 years
ago was now just a relic of a bygone era.
Our expedition team, none of whom had
ever been to FOtoba, expected, to be greeted by
the local people. None came. At the foot of the
dock was a marble plaque imbedded in tile:
CENTENAIRE DE L'ENTENTE CORDIALE,
FRANCO-BRITANNIQUE (1904,-2004) Iley de
Laos, 30Avril2O05- proof that Great Britain
had turned the islands over to France in 1004
and celebrated the act in 2004.
Behind the marker was proof that France
once ruthlessly ruled West Africa, the remains
of a prison where those who offended the colo-
nial ruler were incarcerated. It reminded me of
Devil's Island, the prison in French Guiana so
eloquently written about in Papillon.
When I visited Devil's Island in 1976, it
was being turned into a tourist resort with
cabanas and cafes. Not so at Fotoba. Just ruins,
blood stains, iron bars, and soulful graffiti.
We walked up the path thinking there
must be a village nearby. A red, white, and green
sign announced a village hydraulics project
donated by France. Behind it was a huge metal
container with hoses running from it in all
directions. A water collection and distribution
unit? Maybe. Since the islands are so small,
there is probably a shortage of fresh water.
Voices! Two little girls raced down the path
toward us shouting, "Fotd, fotd" (white men,
white men). They stared at fls, then fled into a
mud house. I realized we were in the middle of
a Christian compotmd - a church, a health cen-
ter, a parsonage, a cemetery - the Anglican
Church of St. Jean le Divin (St. John the Divine).
The girls returned with Alseni Soumah, an
old member of the congregation, and Marthd
Williams, widow of a former priest. We toured
the grounds and discovered the church was
founded in 1874 by British missionaries. There
are 100 members, 80 active.
The ill-kept cemetery contained six visible
graves. The oldest grave, no date, held the
remains of the carpenter who came to repair
the roof, fell off, and died. The Rev. Alexandre
Maddy was born in 1936 in Freetown, Sierra
Leone, and died July 20, 1991, in Conakry.
Thomas Hiller Cramar Payol, professor of phys-
ical education, was born in 1942 in Fotoba and
died February 3, 2005 in Fotoba. (Ironically,
Payol was a teacher of Bah Oury, a member of
our team.) Samuel Morgan died in !980, Isaac
Morgan in 1997, Emmanuel Williams (Marthd's
husband) in 1998.
We took a quick tour of the village, finding
only a few old women, a senile man, and a
group of small boys and girls. The men were out
The water supply of the village of Fomba is
dependent on this hydraulics project by France.
The French colonial prison, reminiscent of Devil's
Island, kept political prisoners at Fotoba.
village
The town
struggling to survive.
of Fotoba.
grave omas
Payol, professor of
physical education. - -
Dr. Mohamed Baldi stands amidst the ruins of Fotoba prison. Since the end of
the French colonial period in 1960, the jungle has reclaimed the buildings.
fishing. There were fewer than ten. homes, one
shop, and several sheds What had once been a
thriving slave trading port, then a colonial
prison town was now a tumble-down Christian
(Next week: Tamara,
fortress against time)
The Anglican Church
of St. John the Dix ae
was founded in 1874
by Britsh missionar-
ies.
By Charly MontgomeryI have effectively blocked that memory, smiled. This feeling was also short
I did manage to get my suitcase lived. As I got off the escalator. I turned
There is this amazingly cheap air- down and back up the stairs to the cor- toward the man who had just acknowl-
line that flies direct from La Rochelle, rect platform without too much trou- edged my physical incapacity to han-
France, where I was taking classes, to ble. I feltvery accomplished once I dis- die.my bag. I was certain he'dhelp me
London, where my mother's half of the mounted the train upon arrival in with the next leg of my journey, the
family resides. The only problem with Paris. This feeling was short lived, stairs. Instead, he watched me struggle
this airline is there is a strict limit on For some odd reason there are and didn't say a word as he pushed past
baggage allowance and weight. Since I not always escalators where there are me.
had spent four months on anotherstairways at Gare Montparnasse. You'd I felt, withanger, an over-
continent, I acquired a lot of stuff that think there would be since every so whelming longing for home, where
must be added to the already hefty often a train passenger will be carrying strangers smile at each other as they
amount of luggage I left home with. luggage, but that is beside the point, pass on the street, where men open
Never mind the baggage situa- After being frustrated by the doors for women and offer, unasked,
//on. I told myself. "Buy the cheap tick- poles placed in front of the escalators their aid with the lifting and carrying of
et and call Pelharlt" Pelham is a friend to ensure people don't attempt to take heavy objects.
of mine who was living in Paris in a luggage carts on them, I was even more In the South, no man would have
postage stamp sized apartment, frustrated by the impatient people who dared to comment on my situation if
Despite the size of her place, she gra- wouldn't wait the two seconds it would he wasn't going to offer his assistance.
ciously allowed me to store my excess have taken me to maneuver my suit- The French may have us beat as far as
baggage there while I visited family, case onto the stairs. I was in no mood wine and cheese go, but when I need
Problem solved I thought. I had to be trifled with by people trying to help, give me a good Southern gentle-
not thought about how I would get my scoot past me. man -- they can keep their merlot and
giant orange suitcase from my home in At this point I hear a voice from brie. I'd rather sup upon a good ole
La Rochelle to the train station. I think behind saying to me in French, "What's Beaufort stew.
I took a cab because the 45 minute a little thing like you doing with such a
walk to la gate would have been nearly large, heavy bag?" I felt a sudden rush
impossible dragging that thing behind of thankfulness that I'd been sent a
me. Perhaps I took the bus. Either way, sympathetic stranger to help me and
Charly Montgomery, a senior at The College of
Charleston, spends spring semester in La
Rochelle, France.