Marché aux paniers, 2025

Stéphane Foucaud   New & remarkable Artists

The mangrove forest stretched out before the market, advancing like hair with unpredictable regrowth. The growth of small mushrooms on the reef flat had become the indicator of time spent with my adoptive mother. Our stall of woven baskets, besieged by bewildered onlookers, was nestled between Grandpa "Eight Nine"'s mangoes (he always fell asleep at Mass during chapter eight, verse nine of the Bible) and Mrs. "Yelling"'s smoked fish (she was used to berating her husband in front of everyone). My mother's dexterity and speed in crafting her containers amazed many, and she did so with different kinds of foliage. Some were transformed into elongated backpacks to hold a fishing rod, others were sized to hold a Mac (Apple computer), or calibrated to cradle the ogive-shaped yams typical of the region.

Aside from the Saturday hustle and bustle, I would rummage through the mangroves on Sundays, after church services, and even during the week after classes, sometimes bringing back a few crabs. I was born there on a mound of alluvial deposits that emerged even at high tide. This refuge for fishermen without boats was a treasure trove of found objects: rusty fishhooks, pâté tin lids, tangled fishing lines… and myself. I had been a godsend for Rosy that day: she had brought back in her basket, specially designed for crabs, another animal specimen whose umbilical cord was teeming with hungry little crustaceans. My adoptive mother, being barren, had not benefited from the traditional offering of a child. This practice was becoming less and less common in Kanak culture. However, she was able to register me in her name with the customary law civil authorities which set the rules and responsibilities of Kanak society.

The story of my abandonment at birth in the mangroves was constantly replayed by the school nurse, who tirelessly reprimanded those using the morning-after pill or those who were always absent from sex education classes. When word reached "Pittaya," our clinic nurse addicted to dragon fruit, that a new baby had been abandoned on the steps of the chapel (another popular spot for leaving the results of unwanted pregnancies), she would grumble, "Good Lord! It's not like the condoms cost extra!" Jokes about the priest's potential paternity were rife. Disheartened by the uninhibited youth of our community, the clergyman never stopped quoting passages from the Bible that referred to lust. For their part, the tribes regularly cancelled their annual ball, which was too tainted by black market alcohol and the surprises of the 9th month after the festivities had taken place.

Our frequent visits to the mangrove led us to rescue one or two infants a year. Little by little, with Pittaya's help in providing initial care to the tiny being, swaddled and wrapped in a woven cocoon, a clandestine adoption network developed, relying on word of mouth. This practice was limited to local communities, facilitated by customary practices that greatly simplified the process of recognizing a child within a family. Babies discovered by the diocese were placed in the care of Child Welfare Services (ASE), which rigorously applied the complex adoption procedures, discouraging many prospective adoptive parents. Our "organized gang" certainly didn't expect a European couple of sailors to reveal to Rosy, during the market, the secret code for being put on the waiting list: "A pink basket, please!" Our crime would become more serious on an international scale. We also wouldn't be able to monitor the quality of the child's emotional and material care off the island. Indeed, the "mangrove adoptees" naturally returned with their families two or three times a year to visit the team of "child smugglers." To cover prenatal expenses and ensure the foster family's financial stability, the recent payment demanded by our trio also reclassified our "empathic offense" as human trafficking.

An emergency meeting was called, during which Mother shared her concerns about the possible denunciation of the European couple, whose application had just been rejected. Pittaya also lamented the perverse effects of our increasingly well-known actions, which were increasing the frequency of newborns being abandoned under the mangroves. For my part, I didn't reveal my fear of being located by the woman who had given birth to me. I wasn't even able to imagine the scene of our reunion. Should I dwell on her reprehensible act? Would forgiveness alleviate my doubts? One day, a young mother from the Gatope tribe made a difficult journey to reach us. Overwhelmed by unspeakable guilt, she uttered the secret words to question us about that terrible day when she lacked the courage to turn back. It was impossible for us, or for her, to forget that precise date. We made no judgments, not knowing what constraints this teenager was under at the time. However, we needed the approval of the child's adoptive family, once she turned three, before revealing to the biological mothers where she could meet him.

The outcome of our meeting was the immediate cessation of our activities, and we then claimed to have recently discovered a new open-air birthing area with the Child Welfare Services (ASE). "Just a fisherman's tale, really!" exclaimed the manager, already embarrassed by the babies being left in front of the lord's house. This adventure left its mark on my life much later: I ended up managing the children's home in Nouméa, the island's capital. And of course, walks with my children ended in the mangroves, their extensions above the water, bouncing inexorably on the surface, as if, like me, they couldn't take root.