“House of Slaves”
by Larry Hogan Jr.
University of Arizona
This piece is about my trip to Maison des Esclaves (Slave House) which is located on Gorée Island just off the coast of Senegal.
It was an ordinary white ferry boat. Towards the back of the lower deck, there was seating for passengers; it was open, no doors or windows, but covered by a hard canopy that provided relief from the sun. It was an ordinary white ferry boat bound for Gorée Island, a very un-ordinary place located off the west coast of Senegal.
Instead of sitting with the local passengers and chatty tourist, I sought out the solitude of the upper deck. There in the front, just outside the control room window was a narrow three foot walkway. I sat there for the entire 20-minute trip, my back resting flush against the ship and my legs dangling over the guard rail. The gentle vibrations of the pistons, drive shaft and propeller along with the therapeutic rise and fall of the tide and the warm benevolent sun on my face sedated me into a meditative trance. Gorée Island is home to the Maison des Esclaves (House of Slaves), which became an infamous port of departure for a number of Africans, when the Atlantic slave trade was in full operation some 300 years ago. What were the thoughts of the thousands who made this same journey before me, the ones who did not want to go, the ones who did not have to pay? Were they oblivious to what was in store for them? Or did they understand this to be a microcosm of a much longer journey that would change their lives forever?
The closer I got to the island, the more it seemed I went back in time. The chaotic mass of discordant sounds ̶ taxis jockeying for fares, shoppers negotiating the best price, children yelling and playing in the streets ̶ all tapered off and yielded to the peace and tranquility of Gorée. The island itself is small, only about 3,000 feet in length and 1,000 feet in width. Its modest harbor was filled with traditional Senegalese fishing boats; long planked, bright, multi-colored pirogues. When the ferry docked alongside the jetty, a group of children resembling a school of fish swam over and beckoned the tourists to pitch in coins for them to retrieve from the shallow waters. Pastel colored houses with louvered windows and quaint rooftops adorned the coastline like ornamental appliqués. My initial thought was, “What a delightful place.” The façade of old-world charm had a deceitfully disarming effect.
There were no cars on Gorée Island. There were no roads, just crisscrossing walkways. A few were loosely paved with stone tiles but most were not. The soft, fine sand covering the footpaths was similar to sand at the beach. With each step, my foot sank into the ground, enveloped by the sand. There was no sense in walking fast. I would use up twice the energy and cover the same amount of ground. So, I meandered southward. Everyone there meandered. No one was in a hurry. Time didn’t exist, no clocks, no calendars or schedules. Like a curious window shopper, I paused along the way to examine the rustic wooden buildings painted in light pinks, gentle reds, and delicate yellows.
I eventually arrived at the slave house. At first glance, the architecture was so impressive. It was a two story concrete structure, painted in soft two-toned yellow and mauve pastels. Six square pillars were stationed along the full length of the upper level, they stood like sentries rising to a height of about 10 feet and crowned with a simple yet elegant bi-level capitol. The two sets of steps leading up to the landing were made of stone and curved in a semi-circle, resembling two cupped hands lying side by side, as if extending a warm welcome to privileged visitors. Behind the columns were four large doors, framed with charming French shutters, and painted in a soft turquoise tone. The building was old but stood proudly with a sense of stately grandeur, and why not? The upper level was reserved for the owner’s residence. They were afforded every comfort and refinery possible at the time.
The first level, however, was not so stately or grand, there was no comfort, there was no refinery; it was reserved for the slaves. As I walked through this lower level, I immediately grasped the evil intent behind the architectural design. Before the helpless captives were loaded onto a slaver that transported them to the Americas, they were stored in this ignominious place designed to break the spirit and weaken the mind. The lower level contained a labyrinth of dank, dark, dirty holding cells for the human cargo. There was a section for men, a section for women and a section for children. Because these spaces were devised to physically, emotionally and psychologically prepare the captives for the harsh, inhumane conditions in the ship’s cargo bay, they were purposefully designed to be cramped in space, barely tolerable in comfort with very little to no light. At the rear of the house, there was a single, sinister door of ominous foreboding. Those going through this portal knew it to be their last in Africa. No one who passed through this door returned to their homeland, hence the proverbial name – The door of no return.
Wanting to explore the awful reality of a young captive child, I sat in the deepest, darkest corner of the infant’s section. The dirt floor was hard as stone and surprisingly cold. As I sat with my back against the wall, arms spread wide; I could almost touch both side walls at the same time. I closed my eyes and laid my head back against the jagged surface of the red inhospitable bricks. My imagination projected my thoughts into the mind of a young terrified African child – violently ripped from his mother, thrown shoulder to shoulder, back to back, face to face with other horrified children screaming for their parents. My hunger pains increase with each passing night almost to the point of torture. No one responds to my desperate cries, because nowhere near is a sympathetic ear. When I look around, all I see in the weak, diffused light are intermittent images of sad, sorrowful and tearful eyes reflecting my own anguish and painful emotions. Where are my beloved parents? Why is this happening to me? When will this wretched nightmare end?
RateYourStudyAbroad.com is an independent website for students to research and review study abroad programs, with over 4,000 programs and reviews added by thousands of students. It was founded by two study abroad students in 2008.
Rudy Maxa and Allan Comport judged the RateYourStudyAbroad.com Fall 2010 Travel Writing & Photography Contest. Rudy Maxa is the host of PBS‘s RudyMaxa’s World, a former Washington Post reporter and the former host of NPR‘s The Savvy Traveler. Allan Comport is a professor of art at the Maryland Institute College of Art (MICA).
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