In the unforgiving landscape of the pre-abolition Caribbean, and even in the immediate aftermath, the homes of enslaved people were stark symbols of their struggle and resilience. Often, these dwellings were nothing more than single-room huts, meticulously crafted from the readily available materials of wattle and daub, topped with a thatched roof. Nights were spent on the unforgiving dirt floor, or, for the fortunate few, on a rudimentary mattress fashioned from coarse jute bags, generously stuffed with dried leaves from the ubiquitous sugar cane plant. Such humble abodes were the norm for countless individuals forced into brutal servitude across the islands.
Life under the yoke of slavery demanded an unimaginable level of physical endurance. Enslaved individuals were not only compelled to perform backbreaking labor – cultivating and harvesting demanding crops like tobacco, cotton, and sugar cane – but were also burdened with the monumental task of self-provisioning. This meant they were expected to feed, clothe, and house themselves and their families with minimal resources, an expectation that compounded their suffering and highlighted the extreme deprivations they faced daily.
The construction technique employed a woven lattice of wooden strips called wattle, then covered with daub. (Photo by Diane Slawych)
Survival was a constant battle against overwhelming odds. Many perished from a devastating combination of overwork, severe malnourishment, and grossly inadequate housing. The tropical climate of the Caribbean, while often perceived as warm, could present surprising challenges. Mornings and evenings, particularly during the winter months, brought a distinct chill. For West Africans, who constituted the vast majority of those forcibly transported across the Atlantic, their genetic predispositions and previous environmental adaptations meant they had relatively little natural tolerance for cold, making the poorly insulated huts a source of significant discomfort and health risk.
While the original, often flimsy, slave huts have largely faded from existence, reclaimed by time and the elements, one extraordinary individual on the French Caribbean island of Martinique has embarked on a profound mission to resurrect this crucial part of history. Gilbert Larose, driven by a deep sense of ancestral connection and cultural duty, has painstakingly recreated several authentic versions of these early structures. These historical replicas are meticulously arranged within a thoughtfully designed village setting known as La Savane des Esclaves (the Slaves’ Savannah), nestled in the picturesque region of Les Trois Ilets.
Gilbert Larose, a man who proudly acknowledges his mixed heritage of African, French, and Indian roots, dedicated five arduous years to developing this two-hectare site. Spread across a gentle, grassy slope, La Savane des Esclaves is far more than just a collection of recreated dwellings. It is a living museum, a vibrant testament to the resilience and resourcefulness of enslaved people. The site thoughtfully incorporates a traditional medicinal garden, brimming with indigenous plants and herbs; an orchard boasting a variety of tropical fruit trees; a small collection of farm animals, mirroring those that might have been kept by slaves; displays of heritage art; and a modest yet impactful museum. Visitors are also offered the invaluable opportunity to witness traditional food staples, such as cocoa sticks and manioc, being prepared, offering a tangible connection to the past. This entire project, as Larose describes it, was a profound “labour of love,” conceived with the noble purpose of keeping the memory of Martinique’s rich, albeit painful, history and its enduring traditions alive. Today, La Savane des Esclaves stands as one of the island’s most compelling and highly acclaimed attractions, drawing visitors from around the globe seeking a deeper understanding of Caribbean heritage.
The meticulously recreated slave huts form one of the most poignant highlights of La Savane des Esclaves. These structures authentically represent the type of dwellings that would have been common in the southern part of Martinique, particularly from the early 19th century leading up to and immediately following the pivotal moment of abolition. For Martinique, and indeed all French territories, this historic liberation from slavery occurred on May 22, 1848, a date etched forever into the island’s collective memory. Each hut serves as a powerful reminder of the physical realities endured by those who lived within their walls.
To provide visitors with an invaluable insight into the ingenuity of historical construction, Gilbert Larose has deliberately exposed one of the exterior walls of a recreated hut. This allows for a clear demonstration of the ‘wattle and daub’ technique, a remarkably effective and widespread method. The foundation of this technique involved weaving a sturdy lattice of thin wooden strips, known as wattle, to form the basic framework of the wall. This framework was then meticulously covered and bound together with a specialized mixture, or ‘daub,’ typically composed of wet soil, sand, cow dung (acting as a binding agent), and straw. Once dry, this natural composite created a surprisingly robust and insulative wall. Finally, the exterior would often be finished with a whitewash, not merely for aesthetic purposes, but primarily for its practical ability to reflect the intense tropical sun, helping to keep the interior of the hut remarkably cool even during the brightest and hottest parts of the day, a testament to the adaptive architectural wisdom of the time.
The interior of a recreated slave hut starkly illustrates the sparse living conditions, notably featuring a bare dirt floor. (Photo by Diane Slawych)
Stepping inside these recreated dwellings offers a stark and powerful glimpse into the extreme scarcity that defined the lives of enslaved people. Beyond a few essential wooden bowls for eating, a simple water jug for hydration, and a robust iron pot used for boiling their meager meals, most slaves possessed virtually no furniture. The interiors of the huts at La Savane des Esclaves vividly reflect this reality. One particular hut, for instance, contains an antique clothes iron, a century-old wooden table – a rare luxury – and a rudimentary bed ingeniously fashioned from a burlap bag generously stuffed with gathered leaves, offering a modicum of comfort. Outside the dwelling, a designated fire pit serves as the primary cooking area, symbolizing communal life and resourcefulness, while a broom crafted from dried palm fronds rests near the door, a tool of everyday necessity.
These early huts were remarkably tiny, typically encompassing an area of only about 12 square feet. This confined space underscored the lack of personal privacy and the communal nature of their existence. Over time, as families grew, a modest evolution occurred, with second rooms occasionally added to accommodate children, offering a small increase in living space. However, despite these additions, the huts primarily functioned as a place to sleep and find brief respite, as the vast majority of waking hours were necessarily spent outdoors, toiling in the fields or performing other labor-intensive tasks.
During an insightful guided tour of the expansive property, Gilbert Larose eloquently explains another fascinating historical detail: the “right of savannah.” This unique concession was sometimes granted to elderly slaves on a plantation, allowing them a small measure of autonomy. It permitted them to live independently on a diminutive parcel of land located adjacent to their main dwelling. This right recognized their years of service and offered a glimmer of self-sufficiency in their twilight years, a significant departure from the complete control they had previously experienced.
Such a plot of land, granted under the “right of savannah,” would invariably have featured a small garden, much like the meticulously cultivated one Larose has so carefully recreated at La Savane des Esclaves. These gardens were vital lifelines, providing essential sustenance and medicinal herbs. Larose proudly points out the diverse array of vegetables, plants, and herbs thriving in his garden: okra, corn, beans, peas, cassava (manioc), peppers, sweet potatoes, and pineapple. Beyond the ground crops, the property is also home to various fruit-bearing trees – such as breadfruit, guava, and cashew nut – which provided additional, crucial sustenance to the slave communities. Another plant of particular cultural significance is the pandanus, whose distinctive leaves were, and still are, expertly woven to create Martinique’s traditional Bakoua hat, a symbol of local craftsmanship and identity.
Sporting a locally made conical Bakoua hat, Gilbert Larose articulates his profound conviction that creating this attraction was not merely a choice, but a solemn duty. He emphasizes, with heartfelt sincerity, “It’s a history not everyone knows about, and the only way you can evolve is by knowing your history.” His words underscore the critical importance of historical memory, particularly for understanding cultural identity and fostering societal progress. La Savane des Esclaves stands as a testament to the power of remembrance, offering visitors a deeply immersive and educational experience that honors the past, celebrates resilience, and inspires a future rooted in knowledge and empathy. It is an essential pilgrimage for anyone seeking to understand the enduring legacy of slavery in the Caribbean and the unwavering spirit of those who endured it.