St Helena

Ah, St Helena. Exile to Elba wasn’t enough for Napoleon. He had to be shipped to one of the most remote locations in the world, where he died in 1821. This has been the source of many imaginings, including today’s poem. Did you know the (green) wallpaper used in his house had a high level of arsenic in it? Still, the cause of his death is disputed.

21 May is St Helena day. St Helena has actually always been a colonial place, since, when it was discovered by the Portuguese in 1502, it was uninhabited. Now it is a British overseas territory, with a population of around 6,500—primarily inhabiting S Helena, but with another permanent population on Ascension, and a very small group on Tristan da Cunha, which is the most remote archipelago in the world. All islanders on Tristan da Cunha belong to one of seven families—the surnames of islanders are Glass, Green, Repetto, Rogers, Swain, Hagan and Lavarello. Oh! And it’s important to know, of course, that there are girl guides on the island.

While the Portuguese used it as a stopping place, and left their those who were suffering from scurvy there to be picked up by the next passing ship (presumably having recovered by eating form the fruit trees and vegetable patches established by the Portuguese) if they survived. Still, the Portuguese never established a permanent settlement, though the introduction of European flora and fauna (mostly goats) altered the landscape of the island forever, as many endemic bird and plant species have disappeared from St Helena and its dependencies, Ascension Island and Tristan da Cunha.

The idea for the British first arose in 1644, and in 1657 the British East India Company were given a charter to govern the island. The first town was renamed Jamestown in 1660, with the restoration of the monarchy, sowing the seeds of the British Colony.

Sadly, the clearance of indigenous forest for development (and the all important distillation of spirits… a colony obviously requires a source of alcohol to survive) led to a shortage of wood by the 1680s—the 1680s? Sheesh. Not to mention the fact that rats and goats had reached plague proportions. We know how to ruin a natural environment, don’t we? The Great Wood (which once extended from Deadwood Plain to Prosperous Bay Plain… I love these names) was reported in 1710 to not have a single tree left standing. And we still haven’t learnt the lessons of deforestation? (Looking at postcards of St Helena I’m pleased to report that at least some trees are back.)

And then, Napoleon. Exiled, living at Longwood. In 1840 she remains were reclaimed by the French and taken back to Paris.

1981 saw all British colonies reclassified as territories. (I guess Britain had an urge to feel post-colonial, eh?) In 2002 a museum was opened on the island, and in 2004 a bank (next to the Post Office) commenced operation. There’s no airport or flights to St Helena at present (though in 2005 the British Government announced plans to construct an airport, to be completed in 2011 or 2012 most like) so I imagine mail is slow, and the tourist trade as well. Knowing that I’m probably never going to make it to St Helena—or the nearby Inaccessible Island which has a population of Rockhopper Penguins that sounds awesome—I’m tempted to find a St Helenese penpal.

Today’s poem is not by a poet from St Helena. Which is not to say the island doesn’t have any poets—in my experience there are poets everywhere. But I did have trouble trying to track any down, and in the end I was interested in the way such a remote place lived in the imagination of non-local poets. The primary association we all have is with Napoleon. This poem draws on that. George Wallace is an American poet, and this poem appeared in Jacket.

saint helena

six years later rain
was still filling the
streets of his city
men to whom he
had restored pride
with broom handles
in their hands swept
the gutters of paris
they still dreamed his
name asking each other
& to the waves of his
exile he asked it too
why the human sea
no longer reached to
his shore.

  *May 5 1821, Napoleon Bonaparte dies in a farmhouse outside
  Jamestown, on the tiny South Atlantic island of Saint Helena

—George Wallace
from Jacket