2nd February 2020

Most passengers now seem to have settled into a ship’s routine based on their interests and preferences. Plenty is happening on board to entertain those who prefer not just to sunbathe, eat, listen to music in the bars, or simply wait for the next port to provide a fresh distraction. The more active among us have access to the gym, keep-fit classes (both in and out of the pool), dance classes, table tennis, and the ‘Walk a Mile’ club. The more intellectually inclined can enjoy lectures, regular quizzes, chess, Bridge, and an extensive library. Then there’s the evening show, casino, karaoke, deck shuffleboard, a whole host of light-hearted games, Interdenominational Fellowship meetings, solo traveller clubs, craft-making sessions, and a book club, not to mention several on-board shops for those who enjoy a little retail therapy. For those in need of pampering, the spa offers facials, massages, and an array of unusual beauty treatments.

Each evening, the ship’s magazine, The Explorer, arrives in the cabin, detailing the following day’s activities and their timings. It also includes information on any special events and what’s happening in the Show Time Theatre. Additionally, it provides details on our location, whether in port or at sea, the predicted weather and sea conditions, and a variety of cruise facts to satisfy the statisticians among us. Meal times, restaurant openings, and, most importantly, the required dress code for dinner, casual, informal, or formal, are all listed. This little gem of a magazine essentially dictates our daily routine. Sue and I generally follow our own interests, though our plans occasionally align. However, we always arrange to eat together, usually meeting back in the cabin just before mealtimes, where we make a quick decision on where to dine based on how we feel.

When is a spicy chicken wrap not a chicken wrap? During lunch today, both Sue and I ordered one as our main course. I found mine delicious; Sue, however, thought hers was rather dry. Since there were two wraps on each plate, she kindly offered me one of hers. I gratefully accepted, thanking her for her generosity. But just as she was handing it over, she deftly extracted the chicken filling and placed the now hollow wrap onto my plate. Yes, I did eat the dispossessed wrap, what little remained of its spicy contents, and I did, to some extent, enjoy it. But a valuable lesson was learnt: never trust those bearing empty gifts!

The Magellan dropped anchor off the Salvation Islands: Devil’s Island, Royale Island, and Saint Joseph Island. Just after breakfast, we took the short, tender boat ride to the tiny pier on Royale Island. The Salvation Islands earned their name from missionaries who fled there to escape the plague that was rampant on the mainland of French Guiana, just under nine miles away. From 1852, the islands became part of a notorious French penal colony, made famous in the film Papillon. The French army officer Alfred Dreyfus was imprisoned there due to his involvement in a political scandal, though he was eventually pardoned. Today, the islands serve as a tourist attraction, with a small hotel and restaurant.

From the sea, the three little islands appear idyllic, a picture-postcard vision of tropical paradise. However, they conceal a dark history of cruelty and suffering. Harsh conditions, disease, heat, and humidity took their toll on all who lived there, prisoners and warders alike, but the incarcerated endured the worst. The most dangerous criminals and those who contracted leprosy were transported to Devil’s Island, which, unlike the other two, had no buildings for shelter. Though prisoners were technically free to roam, the shark-infested waters and treacherous currents ensured they remained trapped, most often until death. Rather gruesomely, dead prisoners were fed to the sharks; only the warders and their families were buried.

It was a hot start to the day, with bright sunshine and a welcoming breeze, but in areas untouched by the cooling air, the temperature soared into the high 30s. We began our exploration of the island by following one of the many paths leading up to the prison compound. Along the way, we were treated to breath-taking views of the sea and neighbouring islands, with even the mainland visible through the shimmering heat haze. Thankfully, the island, once stripped of its trees by prisoners long ago, had since recovered, offering ample shade and sanctuary from the relentless sun.

Part of the prison complex has now been transformed into a small hotel, shop, and restaurant, with many of the former warders’ family quarters repurposed to accommodate tourists. It would make for a peaceful retreat, unless, of course, 1,500 cruise ship passengers happen to descend upon it at once!

The cell blocks, though now in various stages of ruin, remain accessible, allowing visitors to step inside and imagine the brutal conditions endured by the inmates. France’s most notorious criminals were sent here, so one could argue they got what they deserved. However, like Dreyfus, some were political prisoners, conveniently exiled to be forgotten. It is certain that only the toughest survived the appalling conditions, and few did.

Today, the island is home to hundreds of sweet-looking little coatis scampering through the ruins in search of fallen fruit, competing with small troops of capuchin monkeys that swing down from the canopy whenever food is within reach. Neither species seems remotely bothered by the presence of so many humans. When I pulled two small bananas from my rucksack, a monkey immediately appeared at my side, arm outstretched, squeaking his plea. As I lowered the first banana, he delicately took it, devouring it in an instant before pleading for the second. Too soft-hearted to refuse, I handed it over, only to be met with indignant screeches from the rest of his troop watching from the trees. I had to admit, he had well and truly made a monkey out of me!

We took our time exploring the surprisingly large complex of buildings, some of which featured informative boards, unusually, in both French and English, explaining their former purpose. Certain structures had been fully restored, such as the church and lighthouse, while others had fallen into disrepair. The once-grand hospital, though looking quite dilapidated, still seemed salvageable if the effort were made.

One of the saddest discoveries was a small cemetery dedicated to the warders’ children, who must have succumbed to the brutal conditions of 17th- and 18th-century life on the island. Standing there, surrounded by lush tropical growth, with a cruise ship anchored offshore, I found myself gazing at the little crosses in an overgrown and neglected graveyard, torn over whether to take a photograph. It was a wretched place, yet now at peace. I realised it would be one of the most poignant images I would ever capture. As the shutter clicked, I thought: they deserve to be remembered.

Now thoroughly sweating and beginning to feel the exhaustion from our efforts, we retreated to the island’s restaurant, where we sat on the veranda, sipping beer and orangeade in the welcome cooling breeze. Below us, the view of nearby Devil’s Island was as perfect an advert for some new tropical cocktail as one could imagine, an invitation to dive into the shimmering blue sea, cocktail glass in hand, and drift towards that idyllic, palm-fringed atoll. A shame that the sharks don’t share our taste for cocktails; once accustomed to feasting on lean prisoners, they would likely find a plump tourist a rather appealing alternative!

Refreshed and suitably cooled, we descended the hill and set off along a narrow, winding path that hugged the shoreline, circumnavigating the island. Our eyes were peeled for sea turtles, and sure enough, they were there, close to the rocks, feeding in the surf. Annoyingly (as ever), by the time my camera clicked, they had dived. It was maddening, particularly as they continued to resurface at random all along our route. Nowhere near as quick as dolphins, yet somehow just as skilled at appearing precisely where my camera wasn’t pointing!

We rested for a while beside a small man-made lagoon, where a couple of fellow cruisers were enjoying a swim, and took a few snaps. Sitting there, admiring the view, neither of us even contemplated joining them; it was far too hot to wrestle with tops that now seemed permanently glued to our skin with sweat as if fused by super glue.

As we continued along the path, we passed a large group of crew members, most likely making their way to the lagoon, enjoying a rare afternoon off in this idyllic anchorage. I kept an eye out for our cabin steward, Margarita, who had told us earlier that she was among the fortunate few granted shore leave. She certainly deserved a chance to relax and unwind, but we didn’t catch sight of her.

As we returned on the tender boat and I looked back towards our ‘Salvation Island’ for the day, I could understand why some of our fellow passengers who had previously been here had described it as being one of the nicest places that they had been to. Given the opportunity and with nothing in particular to do other than enjoy the solitude and scenery with a good stack of books, I would come back and stay for longer. However, I would first check to make sure there would be no cruise ship arrivals to spoil my peace!