Silence of the Chagos

by Shenaz Patel

  He was right behind her. He stretched his hand out, she turned around suddenly. He was stupefied by the force of her two unreflecting eyes, brimming with a blue and green light flowing toward infinity.

  The object of the exercise was to get some rocks which will remain ours; there will be no indigenous population except seagulls who have not yet got a Committee (the Status of Women Committee does not cover the rights of Birds).

  Unfortunately along with the Birds go some few Tarzans or Men Fridays whose origins are obscure, and who are being hopefully wished on to Mauritius etc.

  —Portion of a diplomatic cable sent in August 1966 by the Colonial Office in London to the British Delegation at the United Nations.

  ‌Diego Garcia, 1963

  The brass bell’s echoes reverberated for a long while, lingering in the early morning heat, before fading away with one final toll. It was five o’clock, Charlesia stepped down from bed, walked somewhat sleepily toward the shack’s door, which she opened just enough to slip outside. The darkness hadn’t lifted from the damp land yet. But she didn’t need light to get to the adjoining kitchen, her bare feet guiding her the right way despite her closed eyes, four steps before her outstretched hand reached and pushed the metal panel ever so slightly open. The box of matches was in its usual spot, on the shelf above her head. She grabbed it, pulled one match out, touching her finger to the sulfurous end. The flame’s sudden glow made her blink. She set a pot full of water on the fire. Wait, the box had almost no straw tea left in it, there was just enough for this morning, she knew she’d forgotten something after going to the store yesterday. It wouldn’t be open today, but Clémence or Aurélie could give her some to tide her over until Friday.

  The infusion was paler than usual, but it was hot and sweetened the way she liked. She drank it in a single gulp, then handed a cup to her husband, who had just come in.

  She put on a dress lying on a chair by the bed, took her hat from the table. In the room next to hers she could hear the children’s even breathing. Mimose let out a chuckle. Even in her sleep, she kept on laughing! She had been born exactly eight days after her great-grandmother had died. All their relatives kept saying that she’d inherited the old woman’s good humor. Charlesia leaned down, took in the smell of the sleepy, warm cheek, ran her hand over the child’s hair, then stepped out to find her husband waiting for her with a lantern in his hand. Their neighbor Noëline would come a bit later, around seven thirty, to wake the children and take them to school along with her own.

  Charlesia and her husband hurried to catch up with the other lanterns swaying back and forth along the path toward the center of the island. Every so often, as a lamp’s light revealed the presence of newcomers, people would say hello and ask how they were doing:

  “Alo, Charlesia, Serge, ki manyer?”

  “Korek Rita, twa?”

  The flames’ dance and their chatter slowly died down, replaced by the wan light rising over the horizon and the birds chirruping in the tall coconut palms.

  At five thirty, the usual small crowd clustered around the administrator’s office. He showed up right on time, in knee-length shorts and thick calf-length socks, and a helmetlike hat under his arm. More pleasantries were exchanged. The two deputies divided everybody up for the thirty-six types of work on the island. Some were sent to the administrator’s house, where his wife would decide whether they’d help with cleaning or with cooking; others would do upkeep in particular parts of the island; a few others would go to plant seeds or feed animals. But most of them were assigned to the coconut plantations, to the drying work, or to the convectors.

  Along with fifty other women, Charlesia was sent to help with drying. The day before, they had gathered and piled up hundreds of coconuts, which they now had to husk.

  “Ale bann madam, travay large.”

  They began their well-practiced work. Charlesia took a huge green coconut, raised it high above her head, smashed it swiftly against the cement platform to break it, poured out the water which then flowed down the slope to the sea, wedged her fingers into the crack, forced the hull open even as its fibers resisted before giving way, and set it down with its innards facing up to dry out. Movement after movement. Coconut upon coconut.

  “E Charlesia, tann dir toi ki pou fer sega sa samdi la?”

  Charlesia looked up. The other women around her had stopped, eagerly waiting for her answer. Yes, she’d like to host the Saturday sega at her place this week. But she isn’t sure she can. Her belly is starting to get heavier. She has to take care not to wear herself out. And Serge might have to take on a few extra shifts at the harbor if a new supply shipment does arrive.

  The women went back to what they had been doing. The air gradually filled with the green, slightly sweet smell of juicy coconuts as the water evaporated under the sun.

  Charlesia reached for one last coconut that had rolled off to the side and cracked it with a firm blow. She exhaled, positioned her feet under her thighs, and pushed herself up from the ground with one hand while dusting off her skirt with the other. She had to take care of several things.

  First, she had to go see Serge. She headed toward the convector, following the strong smell of burning coconut fibers. Around the huge, narrow kiln, the men were slaving away in skin-melting, eye-watering heat. Some were endlessly stuffing the huge maw with dried straw, feeding the fire that roasted the nuts to extract its essence, the copra that had given the Chagos their nickname of “oil islands.”

  Charlesia saw Serge on the other side, his shape blurred by the hazy smoke rising from the kiln.

  “Serge, ki to panse si nou fer sega lakaz sa samdi la?”

  He pondered. He’s always happy to host the sega, but she might do well not to wear herself out too much. And they might not have enough baka and kalou to drink, the shortened fermentation time meant neither would be very strong. Charlesia decided to wait and talk to him again later. She headed back to her shack to get her fishing rod. She had promised her children a nice fish seraz tonight. As she walked past the school, she heard them reciting the alphabet in unison with Miss Léonide leading them sternly. She stopped at the window, but Mimose wasn’t there. She’d fought against going lately, had claimed that she was too old, that she was bored in this class with children of all ages grouped together, she’d rather be roaming the island. But the administrator had been clear: all children needed to be at school during daytime. Mimose must have made up a story in order to leave, claiming she’d forgotten to bring a small chalkboard or something else.

  In any case, she wasn’t at school or at the shack. Charlesia looked around, pulled her fishing pole off the wall, thought again, and decided to come in and have a glass of water. She put away a few things the children had left out, then got ready to leave.

  She checked every spot she could think of but still couldn’t find her hat. She was sure she’d set it in its usual spot when she came in, on the back of the chair by the wall closest to the door. There was no question she’d had it on her head when she left work. It ought to be here.

  She asked out loud: “Kot mo sapo?”

  A chuckle came from behind the door, it had to be Mimose’s, there was no mistaking her playful laugh. And sure enough, she’d taken Charlesia’s hat to parade around on the beach with her group. Charlesia decided it was time to weave one just for Mimose, with a wide brim and a pretty ribbon to tie around her neck. She peeked out the window. Mimose was already running off, her hand keeping the too-large hat bouncing on her frizzy head. Charlesia smiled, took the red headscarf that was still on the table, and deftly knotted it over her hair before going out.

  On the beach, she set her fishing pole down so she could hike her skirt up a bit. White foam lapped at her ankles. She waded into the warm sea up to her thighs, cast her line, and heard it whistle before hitting the water. She didn’t move, she was one with the sea, the fine sand beneath her feet, the sun warming the headscarf cloth. Beyond the green and then blue wave, another white strip cou
ld be seen with its band of coconut trees, their island, behind her, before her, a calm, reassuring backdrop. She waited.

  The fishing hook sank. She reeled in a little shoemaker spinefoot, its scales mottled gray, thrashing in the raw canvas bag slung along her shoulder. It hadn’t had time to wear itself out when it was joined by a magnificent blacktip grouper, at least two pounds, perfect for a delicious bouillabaisse with some bilimbi.

  But Charlesia wanted something else. She got out of the water, crossed the strip of earth to get to the other side. The outer waters, where the sea was deeper and the blue darker, filled with an energy from far off, from beyond the horizon, from another world.

  In just a few minutes, Charlesia caught three banana fish, her favorite owing to their white, firm meat. That ought to be enough for dinner tonight. She went back up the beach and squatted under the shade of a tacamahac tree. She reached deep into her pocket and pulled out a piece of wood studded with two nails, scraping it efficiently along the gray skin and sending the iridescent scales flying. Some of them stuck to her nails.

  Then she walked over to the trees, looking for small coconut buds. She pulled apart the fresh bark, reaching for the youngest inflorescences. Once she was back at her shack, sitting in front of her door, she peeled them, grated them carefully, added some water, crushed it all with her fist then with the flat of her hand, again, and again, like some dough that needed to be pummeled into submission.

  Her mind turned to the upcoming baptism of her sister’s youngest child. She needed to ask the administrator when the priest was supposed to come from Mauritius. It had been almost a year since his last visit. He ought to be back soon.

  The milky juice coated her fingers: it was the right consistency now. She stood up again, threw a few twigs and branches into the space between the four flat stones of the hearth, and struck a match. She waited until she had a proper fire going before setting her round-bottomed karay on it. Flames licked the black cast-iron pot and heated it slowly. Charlesia waved her hand over it. As soon as she felt its warmth, she poured in the bowl’s contents and stirred the spoon twice. Yes, she needed to talk to her sister soon to plan the details. She still had a bit of the white-satin offcut that her cousin had brought from Mauritius. She could make a nice dress out of it for the baby’s church ceremony. There ought to be some pink ribbon at the store. Maybe her own baby would be born before the priest came. Then they could have two baptisms at the same time. The administrator would no doubt give them one of the big, tender, juicy pigs they’d been raising on seedlings and coconut fibers.

  A sizzling sound called her back to the hearth. The solids had decomposed, the cream was pooling at the bottom, the oil floated on top. She waited a few seconds, gripped the karay by its handles, and took it off the fire to pour its contents slowly through the tinplate sieve. Beneath it she collected the warm, golden, redolent oil, which she poured back into a bottle. She gave the karay three stirs of the spoon and started frying the fillets of fish, which quivered in the oil as hot bubbles burst here and there, splattering droplets over the browning meat. Then she added a bit of tender, finely grated fresh coconut meat and a few spices.

  In the distance she could hear some happy shrieks. School was out, the children hadn’t wasted any time, and all five of them came in noisily.

  “Mimose kote? Tonn trouv Mimose?”

  No, she hadn’t seen Mimose, or at least she barely had. When they asked where she was, that was sort of a secret code, a well-rehearsed ritual, because they knew the answer quite well. Charlesia tried to hold them back, but the rowdy gang headed off toward the beach. Only the youngest one hung back, walking up to her, wrapping his arms around her neck, and planting a wet kiss on her cheek before scurrying away, yelling at the others to wait for him. Charlesia watched him running off, thinking about how he was the most affectionate one. She was reminded of her other child who had died three years earlier after a horrible fever. She decided to bring a few flowers next Sunday to the church cemetery.

  The aroma of the karay brought her back to the hearth. The seraz was nearly done. She put out the fire and tidied up the bags the children had left all over the room.

  “E Charlesia, vinn get sa!”

  Serge’s voice cut through from outside. Charlesia sighed, set down the bags, stepped out the door. He was there, further down, dragging along a huge skate that he’d just caught with Rosemond and Clément. Charlesia checked to make sure the long tail wasn’t still twitching in the air, then she picked up the other fin and helped Serge drag it the rest of the way to their shack. The animal’s wingspan, once it was laid flat on the grass, was far greater than Charlesia’s outstretched arms. Its slate-gray, white-edged skin was delightfully supple. Serge touched it, squeezed it, measured it. There was enough hide for two nice drums that would reverberate under men’s hands and give a rhythm to their next sega evening, and the meat could be shared with their neighbors.

  Charlesia left Serge to his work and headed down to the beach. The children were aboard the Catalina. The stranded twin-engine plane with its pitiful nose pointed skyward. It fell there one day, she couldn’t recall when. Some claimed it had arrived during World War Two, when the British had used Diego as a relay station for telecommunications. Others insisted that the Catalina was just a personal plane that had crashed after a wrong turn. She herself had no idea, she simply believed that it had always been there, a part of the landscape, like a fallen tree that children would always climb all over, imitating the engines’ roar. Soaring high then sliding along the fuselage corroded by salt and rust.

  Charlesia sat in the sand and watched them play. They emerged from the cockpit then disappeared into some other section like a flock of screeching, joyful birds. The sea had receded, the beach unfurled with a sigh in the pinkish hue of sunset. All the children suddenly jumped down and raced off to the left, toward the tortoise cove. Charlesia got up and ran after them, yelling for them to stop. They’d gorge on the eggs and then they wouldn’t be hungry for dinner.

  Three huge tortoises were lying in the sand, unmoving. The children circled them, picked one, the plumpest one, and three of them worked to turn it over. It struggled a bit, waving its flat legs back and forth, but ended up falling on its side without any further fight. Beneath where she lay was a beautiful brood of eggs that everyone’s hands reached for. Charlesia took one, too. She hefted it, broke it, peeled back the shell, then swallowed it, letting the warm, flavorful liquid glide along the inside of her cheeks. Beside her, Mimose had already swallowed four, the shells forming a small pile beside her. Charlesia stood up, telling them it was time to go back. Serge was waiting for them.

  To the left of their shack was a long coconut-fiber twine strung between two poles. Serge had pushed together all the clothes hanging there to dry in order to make space for the skate’s hide, which now drooped like a huge gray cape. As he washed his hands at the tap, he said to Charlesia that he was hungry.

  She rekindled the fire. The aroma of fish curry mingled with the other smells of the falling night. In front of the door, Serge turned his ear toward some approaching footsteps, preceded by the swaying gleam of a lantern.

  “Alo Serge, korek?”

  The voice sounded like the deputy from that morning, and the sight of his face confirmed this. His wrinkles, lit from below by the lantern, seemed cavernous. The administrator had told him to let several men know they’d be needed early the next morning to clear the leaves from the coconut groves on the other end of the island. Serge nodded. Charlesia invited the deputy to join them for dinner. She could tell he wanted to. The smell was tempting, an invitation to partake in the karay-fried meal. But he would have to wait to eat with them another night. He needed to go tell the other men.

  Charlesia’s spoon rang out against the tin plates as she ladled the rich seraz sauce over the heaps of rice. They ate in a semicircle in front of the door, silent as they dreamed of sleep coming, slowing their movements.

  ‌Diego Garcia, 1967
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br />   The hue and cry went out very early, not long after the bell that summoned them every morning to the administrator’s office, where they would be divided up for the day’s work. The air was mild. Charlesia had barely settled in to her place in the drying room and begun to husk her portion of the coconuts when she heard the news that everyone was welcoming with shouts of happiness.

  It had been three months since the Nordvaer’s last visit, and it had just shown up, just as planned. The men stationed as lookouts in the tallest filao trees along the shore relayed the news of the boat, a minuscule blip on the straight line of the horizon.

  “Ship ahoy! Ship ahoy!”

  Their yells resounded the whole morning, punctuating the Nordvaer’s progress around the curved island to the jetty where it would drop anchor. Over the last few years the captain had come to learn the particular way of approaching the island that the Chagossians called manœuvrage. The slowness of this arrival seemed to be an acknowledgment of how long the boat had taken to come back. In this moment, everyone knew that three months had now passed, more or less, and this only mattered in terms of what was coming: a new shipment.

  The captain had been especially looking forward to reaching Diego before pushing on to Peros Banhos and Salomon, the two other main atolls of the Chagos Islands. Even his ship had seemed eager, determined to race through these seven or eight days of navigating northward, to the center of the Indian Ocean, halfway to the Mozambique Channel, and now, finally, they were in sight of the Chagos Archipelago, which rose up like a dream come true. With each trip he felt as if he were moving from one world to another, as if he were breathing differently, more easily with each nautical mile toward these islands where, if only he could, he would have loved to stay for far longer than these brief stopovers.

  He’d considered trying to find a job ashore, so he could stay there, share in the simple lifestyles of the people he’d come to befriend and admire. But he knew there was a real risk of feeling cooped up. His true home was the sea and the constant promise of land. An intense feeling overwhelmed him every time he smelled the island’s scents, a perfume of soil and salt borne by the breeze, so different from the acrid, heavy stench wafting from the continents, too unwieldy for the winds to sweep away.