Guadeloupe - The Traveller's Tree: A Journey Through the Caribbean Islands - page 13

A queer, cool tale, but apocryphal. I was never able to discover what, if any, is the origin of this piece
of Negro folk lore, or if it was fabricated in order to foist unhappy beginnings comparable to their own on
the history of these Caribbean East Indians; out of jealousy, perhaps, at their superior skill in commerce.
I had to wait until we reached Martinique and Trinidad to learn the true history of Indian indentured la-
bourers. Meanwhile, these small graves and the occasional Indians we saw in the streets acquired a spe-
cial significance.
Pointe-à-Pitre was still in darkness, and Costa and I fumbled our way through the streets to call on Ma-
dame Eboué. The late M. Eboué, whose white hair and distinguished African features became familiar
through their presence on the stamps of the Antilles, originated in French Guiana, and acquired consider-
able and deserved fame during the war when he was governor of the Chad, by being the first governor of
a French colony to rally to the cause of the Free French. Madame Eboué, a Paris acquaintance of Costa's,
was the M.R.P. deputy for her native island of Marie Galante, and was standing again at the impending
elections. She was plainly a woman of great energy and acumen. Her glittering spectacles, massive figure
and downright, no-nonsense way of talking, combined to present a dark replica of any of the few women
M.P.'s I have ever met.
But our conversation was obviously not going too well. She seemed a little distraught, and anxious,
I thought, for our visit to end; so after a civil period we said good-bye, and left. Once in the street we
discovered the source of a noise that both of us had heard in a vague way all through our visit, and which,
we understood at once, must have been the reason for our hostess's slight distraction. An elderly dandy
in a high collar and a boater was striding up and down outside the house shouting and waving a malacca
cane. ' Tout le monde ,' his message went, ' doit voter communiste. Vous n'avez pas honte, Madame, de
demander nos suffrages? ' We felt disturbed lest our visit should in any way have impaired her election
chances, for colour questions ( à bas les blancs! ) are vigorously exploited by the Antillean left wing. It
seemed curiously inappropriate, however, to hear these particular sentiments coming from such a heavy
swell. The mystery was never explained. ' Vous n'avez pas honte, Madame ….' As we turned the street
corner, we could still hear his elegant peripatetic diatribe.
Rumours were abroad that the electricity strike had been specially engineered by the left. Most of the
polling, and all of the count, takes place after sunset, and it was thought that total darkness or candle light
might be more propitious to funny business than if the electric lights were functioning; a precaution that
seemed redundant, as it is quite a normal manoeuvre to organize the smashing of the ballot urns and the
consequent nullity of the poll. The post-war Antillean vote had been overwhelmingly left. But the islands
follow the political trends of the Metropolis with a curious fidelity, and the recent swing to the right in
France was causing concern.
We promenaded once round the Place de la Victoire on our way home. This island forum had been
the theatre, the year before, of an awe-inspiring event. A quarrel had sprung up between a white bar pro-
prietor and a coloured client which had resulted in the ejection of the Negro on the grounds that he was
drunk. After a time he reappeared at the bar, accompanied by a large number of cronies. The proprietor
was hauled into the square and literally torn limb from limb and then cut to bits with cutlasses. The par-
ticipants, after this outburst, sank back again into normal life. They are all at large still, and the whole
affair passed off like an inside-out lynching scene in the deep South.