Une Petite Piece de la France (Nereid’s Rally III)

Our sail to French Guiana, like our previous southerly voyages on the Nereid’s Rally was a challenge of the perpendicular kind….there being few occasions where we were at a comfortable angle. Saying fond farewells in Waterland to Noel and his fantastic team, we motored to the mouth of the Surinam River where we anchored overnight safely tucked in amongst all the fishing sticks and withies. Early next morning we headed out to the fairway buoy and turned to starboard into the wind, parallel with the coast.  We scooted along close hauled in generally a NE Force 4-5 (becoming 6 in the few squalls), dodging fishing boats and their nets, finding ourselves after about 24 hours at the Maroni river entrance, French Guiana.  We had been warned that the buoys in the entrance channel could not be trusted as apparently the fishermen used them, helpfully, to hang their massive seine nets causing them to drag, so it was with much caution, watching the depth and sticking strictly to our pre-programmed waypoints, that we proceeded gingerly up the river.  Having already experienced two such river entrances we found ourselves becoming a little blasé this time.  Once more the banks were low and mangrove-lined and the water dun-coloured and opaque.  Unlike with the vast, wide Essequibo entrance, both banks of the Maroni could soon be clearly seen and a sense of proportion was restored.  The Maroni marks the border between Surinam and French Guiana.  There were small villages visible on the Surinam side and long, thin pirogues dashing up, down and across the river.  We had agreed to meet up with the other Rally boats in a creek inlet a little way up-river.  Sure enough as we rounded the final bend, there they already were.  As we were welcoming into the fold once more, we gratefully put down our anchor and focused on getting some sleep.

The town of St. Laurent, our final destination on the rally is about 15 miles up the Maroni. The organiser of our rally, David calls St. Laurent his home (although born in Australia and raised in Europe) and it is here that he is currently project managing the construction of a marina.  As yachts are still such a rare visitor to the area, this is hailed as a wonderfully innovative project.  Thus David is a local hero and his rally bringing said yachts to his soon-to-be-realised marina is occasioned with superstardom and celebration each year.  Which was why, the next day, suitably refreshed, with our boats dressed with flags and bunting we processed up river and were met with music, fanfares, flares and a huge welcoming committee ashore.  We had been told to accept the proffered adulation by doing a loop around Edith Cavell (more about her later), drop our anchors and dinghy ashore in swift time in order not to hold up the official welcome proceedings ashore.  This for us was where it all started to go peek-tong:  could we get the anchor to find purchase?….no.  Our neighbours were all scrambling into their dinghies and we could not get the anchor to bite.  On the VHF radio we were being hectored to come ashore “tres vite” but we obviously could not leave the boat without ensuring she was going to stay put on her anchor amongst lots of other boats and in a fast-flowing current.  The public address system ashore was loud enough for us to hear that the official proceedings had indeed begun and a long, French bienvenue was being rendered.  Eventually, marginally satisfied that the anchor was safely embedded we got ourselves into our glad-rags and got in the dinghy…but….it would not start no matter how many times and how aggressively the pull cord was tugged!  Further investigation poured petrol all over the newly groomed skipper….something was definitely not right with the outboard.  Meanwhile ashore we could hear our colleagues being feted and interviewed.  We realised it was no good getting on the VHF and asking for a tow or lift ashore as all-and-sundry were pre-occupied at the welcome festivities.  Petrol-soaked Skipper therefore set-to to repair said outboard…..replacing the fuel line which looked as if it may have perished.  Gilly, passing Skipper tools like the operating theatre sister she never was, fizzing with pent-up anger at the situation which had caused her to miss (yet again!) the main event.  Another stage debut and reward for all this hard sailing thwarted! Unbelievable!

Eventually, outboard decided it was just about being fed enough fuel through its new tubing to putter uncertainly ashore. We joined the happy throng explaining our plight.  Feeling so fraught we were relieved to learn that the speeches and on-stage interviews were over and the reception for the chosen few had begun in a shady courtyard behind some official looking buildings.  This being France the eats were of course canapés – bite-size pretty little morsels the like of which we have not seen since leaving Lille.  We felt rather mis-matched in such genteel company as we were rather grubby and reeking of petrol.  One nearby cigarette would have sent us to Kingdom Come!  Our fellow Ralliers sympathised with our trials and tribulations and blamed themselves for not being on hand to help as we all tried to be for each other……but we actually learnt that they had had an ordeal of another kind….being feted and interviewed in turn on stage was cringe-worthy in the extreme to some of them who thus viewed our mishaps as nothing more than a lucky escape!

Poor St Laurent is infamous rather than famous. Its claim to infamy is its vast, ugly penitentiary – or, more correctly, Transportation Camp.  One soon gets the impression this is something that it would rather play down as it represents a dire part of French history.  Much to their chagrin there is no hiding place as a chap called Henri Charriere successfully resurrected its notoriety by writing a book about his time there which was turned into the famous film starring Steve McQueen and Dustin Hoffman no less.  He was nicknamed ‘Papillon’ as the one and only prisoner to have escaped from the camp and his book and the film are so entitled.  We were ‘treated’ to a tour of the place and what a gruesome story it has to tell….if it must.  During the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries prisoners were transported to the camp from France and thence onto other prisons situated on various French Guianan islands round about.  Needless to say the regime was brutal and cruel in the extreme to the extent that the oft-used guillotine could have been considered a welcome escape from the place.  Our tour guide, in his very rather broken English, explained every sordid detail of the prisoners’ existence in the Camp.  What seemed most cruel was that after their sentence had been served the convicts were not free to return to France but had to stay in St Laurent to try to earn their ticket home which was of course impossibly expensive.  The last convicts did not leave the prison until the 1950’s.

Our time in St. Laurent was not all gloom and doom however. We were treated to a day trip up the river in genuine long, wooden, dug-out, leaky pirogues to a delightful eco-resort run by an amazing Brazilian fellow who adored socialising and entertaining us all.  We swam in the river pool, ate a huge outdoor lunch along al-fresco trestle table, washed down with some of the finest French wines we have tasted in a long time.  We then played boule and relaxed in hammocks, enjoying the riverside views.  Singing along loudly to U2 in the minibus which took us back to St. Laurent that evening it was obvious that a good time was had by all.

Having suddenly found itself an important place when the Transportation Camp was built in the mid 1800’s, there had to be of course much important bureaucratic infrastructure around about to support it. Nobody does ‘important bureaucratic infrastructure’ better than the French.  In what would be a diminutive little town there are edifices and architecture worthy of any grand French town housing the Sous-Prefecture, the Palais de Justice and of course the Mairie – all still in use.  Other grand buildings- intact but now put to other use – had housed the banks which grew up to service the salaries of the prison officers and guards and apparently even the former convicts themselves as they squirreled away their francs in the vain hope that they may save enough francs to return home to France.  The rows of prison officers’ houses were still in use lining the main street making it very easy to imagine how it must have been a century and more ago in this proud French outpost.

By the way, I mentioned Edith Cavell earlier and promised an explanation of her attachment to St. Laurent. She is in fact a wrecked British steam ship who sits rather proudly smack bang in the middle of the harbour.  She apparently went aground in 1924 and before help could come to her aid broke in two and there she remains – now a rusty hulk covered in trees which are slowly turning her in to an island.  Poor Edith came to a sticky end much like her brave namesake.

As in every French town, the market place is the centre of commercial life and so it is in St. Laurent du Maroni. Each Wednesday and Saturday the market place buzzes with colourful life and energy and displays the true nature and resources of the area.  The stall holders are many and varied:  Chinese, Afro-Caribbean, Indonesian and South American, but many of the customers were white Europeans complete with their typical French shopping baskets – who live and work in French Guiana – forming ,just as in colonial times, the backbone of the administration so far away from home.  The fresh fruit and vegetables on display were second to none and we soon became engrossed with buying more than we could probably eat before they succumbed to the heat and humidity:  pineapples, oranges (with the green-tinged skins with which we are now accustomed) , bananas (also green-skinned), papaya and vegetables galore – long stringy green beans, pak choi, and of course, tomatoes!  At the centre of the market place was a building set up with long tables where traders and customers alike were tucking in to huge bowls of Chinese soup or plates of noodles….rather a bizarre sight and smell once attuned to the typical French marketplace and a swift reminder that despite the euros we were paying in, this was only thinly disguised France.

The supermarkets too did not fail to disappoint our solidly European appetites for cheese, wine and baguettes. The massive ‘Super U’ just outside town had been plucked straight from Europe and everything was main-stream French …but not cheap.  It was also very exclusive as we learnt there was no public transport to bring people here, in fact no bus and taxi service at all in St. Laurent except a bus which left daily for the next big town…providing it had enough passengers to make it viable.  To shop outside town one had to have a car which in itself maintained a certain class of clientele.  David had provided us with mini-bus transport to ensure we had our fill of Super U whilst we were there…for which we were very grateful.

I should explain that French Guiana and particularly the town further along the coast called Kourou is very important to the French as it houses the European Space Centre from which, every month or so there is a launch of an Ariane rocket taking yet another satellite into space. It would have been a wonderful thing to witness but unfortunately we had just missed a launch and anyway the procedure to glimpse one – being French – involved writing several weeks beforehand to obtain the necessary pass.  Despite this, several of our fellow Ralliers did manage to get a pass to see the October launch somehow managing to circumvent the system and staying on the St Laurent anchorage an extra week.  It would have been tempting to do the same, but we were anxious to head back to British Guyana, especially to the Baganara resort which had given us such a warm welcome when we briefly visited several weeks beforehand.  Additionally, we had been invited to the 50^th birthday party of one of our new-found friends which was organised as a surprise at Baganara which it would have been a shame to miss.  Thus we decided to forego the possible chance to see the rocket launch and head off down river again…leaving this obscure corner of the French Republic.  The end of the

Our procession into St. Laurent.

Statue of a forlorn convict outside Transportation Camp, St. Laurent.

The Transportation Camp, St. Laurent.

final chapter of Nereid’s Rally.

Close Encounters (Nereid’s Rally II)

I suppose had Surinam kept its name as Dutch Guiana (as it was until 1954) it would not have seemed such an exciting place in which to find ourselves. Surinam sounds so exotic and other-worldly and does not betray its European roots, which, to us fellow Europeans at least, adds a little lack-lustre to our expectations.  We were certainly feeling deserving of a little reward for our pretty diabolical sail from British Guyana.  It was not the distance (although 2-3 days does not give one much opportunity to adjust to the watch system and only serves to render one desperately tired) but the state of the seas (lumpy); wind (firmly on the nose) and current (against us) which determined that the voyage was far from pleasurable.

The detail is worth recording. We exited the Essequibo River via the Eastern passage this time, past the bustling town of Parika which, if local global warming predictions can be believed, will be the next capital of British Guyana when vulnerable low-lying Georgetown gets eventually overwhelmed by the ocean.  Despite all the hustle and bustle and quite substantial shipping going hither and thither the main obstructions in the broad river entrance are the small withy sticks – helpfully marking the mud banks I suppose, but also making it a game of dodgems to find our way out to sea again.  We were relieved to see the back of them and have the ocean ahead of us again….initially still tinged with the browny river waters and slowly turning into the blue we have come to expect as our right in these parts.  Initially the wind and current had been quite kind to us and we made fair progress but as we neared the mouth of the Surinam River the wind decided to gust up to 20-25 knots and come directly from the east which was exactly where we wanted to be.  The waves and swell also got excited by the windy conditions and we soon found ourselves reefed down and motor-sailing slowly into it all.  We had maintained contact with a small group of our fellow Nereid’s participants so as dawn broke after our second night a radio committee formed to try to work out the best strategy for Getting There….and, needless to say we eventually did!

The Surinam River is narrower than the Essequibo and instead of little withy sticks we felt over-indulged by a green and red buoyed channel. We soon came to realise though that this channel was not just for the likes of us as other barges and largish cargo ships passed us.  As with the Essequibo the banks are deep-greenly mangroved and the land is flat.  A perfect former Dutch territory then….grossly, bicyclably flat!  Our assigned anchorage was off the capital Paramaribo –just off the very posh-looking Torarico Hotel.  As our little huddle of rally boats expanded as more relieved yachts and their yachties dropped their weary anchors we began to feel a little uneasy as we seemed to be in the way.  As the sun went down on our first Surinam day we saw search lights from astounded vessels illuminate us and the other boats.  This was supposedly a safe place to anchor; the rally organiser had assured us that he had permission for us all to be there (although as he was in the smallest boat and he had not yet arrived!).  With all such assurances resounding in our heads we were able to sleep soundly for the first time in 3 days.

The next day found us much more lively but we were faced with a second difficulty: getting ashore.  Again, assurances had been given that we would be able to use a dinghy dock a little way from our anchorage but this turned out to be unavailable to us after all.  Problem.  The adventurous amongst us found a way by mooring up against the guest boat owned by the hotel and clambering across it and up over the balustrade to the safety of the hotel pontoon.  Desperate for a cold beer many tried that route too but Gilly for one found it a tough clamber.  No amount of Thinking Gazelle afforded her the agility to make the ascent with any dignity intact.  This was not the expected welcome we had presumed awaited us. We had high hopes that when the rally organiser eventually arrived, this would be sorted out.  Certainly we remembered that he had said there was a plan for clearing us in en masse through an agent and until then we should not venture further than the hotel bar.  Once ensconced at the aforementioned pool-side bar this restriction proved to be no problem at all as the celebratory drinks for our arrival easily slipped down and massaged any reservations we had held.  We were soon joined by our rally leader and were able to put to him our reservations about the place which he duly noted and promised to try to sort out once he had had some sleep.  It was the Rally’s first time in Surinam so nothing was tried and tested…we were the guinea pigs.

The loud shout came on the radio at 2a.m. It woke us immediately and Colin looked out to see what was causing the commotion.  A huge barge was in our midst and had missed Resolute by a few feet.  On the radio we heard more shouts and learned that the barge had actually hit two of our fellow rally boats:  a catamaran with two children on board and another yacht sailed by our two Swiss friends.  The barge was soon nowhere to be seen. Thankfully no-one had been hurt and all vessels were still afloat but obviously everyone was rather shaken by the incident.  What had made matters worse was that the Harbour Authorities took 20 minutes to acknowledge our situation and only responded once we reported the barge clear.  Following the incident the committee set an anchor watch for the rest of the night.  In the morning Colin informed the rally leader that he did not consider the anchorage safe – even with the best will in the world there is a huge difference, in a river not used to yachts, between having permission to anchor somewhere and being in a safe location.  During the morning written statements were requested and made – serving to re-live the whole experience without contributing one jot to identifying the perpetrator and there seemed to be one delay after another in clearing us in.  In reality all we wanted to do was move on.  We had heard there was a resort with a small marina about 16 miles further up the river and mid-afternoon, formalities nearly complete, we along with the catamaran departed.  As dusk descended on what had been a pretty difficult day we arrived in Waterland.  Noel, the Dutch Proprietor, was there to take our lines and invited us all to the bar where we found him preparing a free supper for us with cold wine and beers on tap to soothe our frayed nerves.  We felt safe, secure, valued, fed and well-watered – all of which ensured we had a wonderful night’s sleep.

Waterland, we discovered is an isolated, peaceful but very comfortable marina and resort. The owner Noel is constantly improving and augmenting what is already a wonderfully tranquil riverside haven.  We soon found that hiring a car was a pre-requisite but that was easily done through Noel and our old but serviceable Nissan was delivered to us with a 10 Euro/day price tag. Bargain!  Noel kindly took us all on an exploration of the surrounding villages in his van so we were able to explore the area with some idea of the lie of the land.  This was the true Surinam.  To get out of the resort we bumped through a criss-cross of un-made- up and very bumpy roads through the rain-forest.  Noel had told us to keep an eye open for monkeys but they remained elusive – sometimes teasing us as we glimpsed the shake of some high branches or heard their characteristic nearby howls.  Sloths apparently also ‘hang out’ in the forests too…but, much to the dismay of the children especially, remained hidden to us.  Once free of the side roads we hit the main highways.  Along the roadside were large drainage dikes (so very Dutch) filled with lotus flowers and water lilies (not so Dutch).  Quite large, low houses lined the road – some with river-frontages and fabulous views. .. Many shops and businesses including some massive supermarkets were predominantly Chinese.  Facial features showed an amazing mix of Indonesian, Chinese, Afro-Caribbean, native South American and a spattering of white European.  What an unusual and unique place!  As we neared the city, roadside stalls selling water-melons, lychees and pineapples began to appear and then another row selling wriggling hanging bundles of what at first glimpse appeared like some massive crawling reptile but actually turned out to be strings of small crabs.

Noel suggested we took a walking tour of Paramaribo city. Thus our trusty Nissan took us in to the heart of the city early one morning to meet up with our Dutch guide Peta.  We had wondered how come Paramaribo had such a diverse population and he explained its history:  after the abolition of slavery in 1873 the Dutch bought in contract labourers for the flourishing plantations from the Dutch East Indies (Indonesia); India (through an agreement with the British), China and the Middle East.  Surinam remains one of the most ethnically and culturally diverse countries in the world.  Many of the beautiful river-side harbour buildings, owned by rich merchants, have been restored making imaginings of how the busy Paramaribo Harbour looked over a century ago so much easier.  These fine residences with their twin steep, symmetrical staircases leading to the portico could have been plucked straight from an Amsterdam canal-side.  The early government buildings have not fared so well however.  Once the Dutch gave Surinam independence in 1975 there was a period of lack of meaningful government when many Surinamese people headed to the Netherlands.  This concluded in a military coup in 1980 during which many of the government buildings were (perhaps deliberately – in order to destroy sensitive records) burnt to the ground.  The old Police Station was shelled from a ship on the river and only the thick white pillars remaining alongside a monument to that day in February 1980 when Surinam  ‘found its freedom’ once more.  Since the military coup during which 15 dissenters of the new regime were assassinated in the Zeelandia Fortress, relations with the Netherlands have been strained to say the least.  Nonetheless there are memorials to fallen Dutch soldiers in the World Wars and the Korean War in Paramaribo which left us in no doubt where its roots were to be found – not many moons ago.  Peta was not so keen on the Basilica – until recently called the Cathedral but rather grandly re-categorised as a Basilica apparently because Popes only visit Basilicas.  I suppose with Pope Benedict hailing from South America they live in hope that he may pay a visit to Paramaribo at any time.  Peta also disliked the recent change in dress code to enter the Basilica which rendered us seriously under-dressed.  That said it was a remarkable wooden building, especially with its newly painted frontage.  The Dutch Reformed Church however was more to all of our liking in its simplicity and accessibility.  Its floor was lined with 18^th Century tombstones which had been rescued from the adjacent graveyard of the great and the good in Colonial Dutch society.  For a city with such a chequered history Paramaribo seemed a fine place indeed mixing former grandeur with modern mischief caught up in an enormous energetic buzz of present day prosperity in the businesses, colourful market places, restaurants and hotels…whilst the back-drop of the wide river flowed on as it had through all those long centuries.

After making several runs to various supermarkets and markets with our fellow ralliers (we had now been joined by another rally boat to at Waterland) in our trusty, decrepit Nissan, it was time to sail back down the river, past the now infamous anchorage off the Torarica Hotel. After a night at anchor well tucked in to the bank at the outer reaches of the

On passage to Surinam (the Trinidadian wooden stern boxes proving their worth).

The infamous river barges of the Surinam River.

The Basilica Paramaribo

The 1980 Freedom Monument (the former Police Station), Paramaribo.

War memorial, Paramaribo.

Restored Colonial riverside houses.

Former Government building – burnt down in 1980 coup but soon to be restored.

Surinam river estuary, our little convoy made its way back out into the Atlantic for the final push to windward…..100 miles to French Guiana.