A Taste of Transnational Writing from the Pacific Region


A number of years ago now, I had the pleasure of translating a book of short stories, Half-Moon Lands, by New Caledonian writer Hélène Savoie. I wrote a fairly extensive introduction to the book, which you can read here.

Hélène Savoie takes the reader of Half-Moon Lands on a poetic, poignant and often fantastic journey of self-discovery as her stories traverse eras and spaces from the colonial to the postcolonial, from the New Caledonian and Hebridean bush to Noumea to Sydney, from dream to reality, from the land of the living to the land of the dead through heaven, hell and purgatory.

She uses the frameworks of both Kanak and European myth and legend and draws on personal and collective memories to highlight the great hybridity of the Oceanic spaces she inhabitants. She also traces the development of a local, yet transnational, identity among the descendants of European immigrants (both free and forced) in New Caledonia.

My introduction to and translation of Half-Moon Lands brings this francophone voice from the Pacific to the attention of English-speaking readers. My translation approach upholds the otherness of the stories by privileging their difference and local singularity, preserving the interplay between the inclusive and exclusive elements of the French text, thus putting readers from the so-called Pacific periphery at the centre.

The book is divided into two parts: “Half-Moon Lands (New Caledonia and the New Hebrides)” and  “Pacific Sky (Australia)”. I have chosen two stories from the second half of the book to share here as they demonstrate quite nicely the transnational element of Hélène’s writing. The urban hell of Sydney in the 1980s that she evokes in “Pacific Sky” stands in sharp contrast to, yet also blends with, the paradisiacal natural landscapes of her island home that she describes in the first half of the book. Yet, perhaps because I am currently living in Sydney (and was a child of the 1980s), I find this section, full of junkies, prostitutes, dirt, rubbish, rotten smells, dark alleys, smoky bars, sterile man-made fountains and ugly buildings, quite striking. I hope you enjoy “Merlin Court” and “Eucalyptus Steam Bath”…

Merlin CourtTiaré_tahiti

Let me see your beauty broken down like you would do for one you love.

Leonard Cohen

This discrete hotel is lost down a quiet alley behind the Cross, the centre for night owls, and the place where drugs and prostitution are King. Near an Indian bazaar and a joke shop, where larger than life rattlesnakes slither among the demon, Chimera and witch masks, the white façade of a building rises above its neighbours. According to the sign outside, it is called “Merlin”, the magician of the famous Arthur Pendragon, the king who founded the English dynasty.

The hotel is lost in an exotic Forest of Brocéliande whose sweet scent, given off by the tiaré flowers, bewitches the few people who pass by.

In her room that night, she listened to the tinkle of the little bells shaped like pagodas, good luck charms that she had bought that very day in a Chinatown emporium as, according to the Chinese, they have the power to ward off evil spirits.

Darkness slowly descended upon the room, taking it over completely as she stood still, contemplating Sydney Harbour lit up by the incessant traffic of ferries and the cars crossing the Harbour Bridge.

She was overtaken by an insidious torpor as she recalled the one who had disappeared. Is not death but an appearance?

The fragrance of the tiaré picked that morning was as strong as a narcotic. A presence began to take shape in the shadows. She was alive, but the question was whether he was willing to come back to this side of the river to rediscover the smell of life’s perfumes? In an instant, she believed that she had caught a glimpse of the shadow of his fleeting silhouette against the crepuscular sky, but everything faded away.

The next day, the plane trees in the street captured the bright daylight in their multitudinous leaves, reflecting it in shades of emerald. As usual, she sat at one of the tables outside “Geoffrey’s Café” when a gust of wind swept down the street, whipping up a cloud of white dust that danced for a long while in the sun before finally settling.

A thought suddenly popped into her head – he was there, somewhere, a prisoner in a wretched, squalid King’s Cross flat and they had faked his death to protect his new identity. Who had attended his funeral?

Often she thought that he had been laid to rest in the Brontë Cemetery overlooking the Pacific Ocean from its high cliff top that was constantly battered by the winds coming from the open sea. A strange cemetery shaded by palm trees, whose old graves are watched over by marble angels with open wings, evoking even more so the dark Wuthering Heights than Paul Valéry’s Cimetière marin. She liked to walk in this place of silence and tranquillity.

It was in “Geoffrey’s Café” that she wrote the first pages of her story, and that of Merlin the Enchanter, victim of an evil spell, who was imprisoned forever in this Brocéliande Forest of the antipodes:

Once upon a time there was a discrete but luxurious hotel in an alley in the Cross, near an Indian bazaar… at its windows,   little Chinese bells quietly tinkled. Merlin, the prisoner, was dreaming there, inebriated by the perfume of the tiaré flowers that was wafting up to his balcony.

But do we really know what effect fiction has on reality? Perhaps I am myself a variant of the fairy that keeps you here, a sad prisoner in this faraway land, after having stolen the secrets of your magic? 

I sometimes seem to hear your sigh of defeat and sometimes, on the contrary, I hear the very far off echo of your joyless laughter, as if you were still mocking the futility of it all.

© Karin Speedy and Hélène Savoie, 2010


Eucalyptus Steam Bath1024px-Kings_Cross_at_night

I walk alone in its wake. Night is wrapped around this city of shadows and desire, and its silence is shattered by police car sirens.

I am there, watchful of what is hiding in the dark, walking on the asphalt footpath that is still warm from the now faded heat of the day. I am walking towards the twinkling stars of this cruel southern city. Misery lets out its groan in one heavy breath in this almost deserted street, turned over to its night time residents, in a stench of rubbish and of lingering odours of nauseating, stagnant, greasy fat.

The Boulevard Hotel: how many times have I looked at this foggy red sign? The steam baths are on the 28th floor: a Chinese woman with a frozen face reigns over them. With her mummy-like smile that is more of a grimace, she welcomes me, along with other single men and elderly English couples, into the parlour.

“Eucalyptus steam baths”, said the ad in a brochure picked up in a hotel room, lost among the addresses of brothels and call-girl clubs. The slap slap of flesh being pummelled resonates sinisterly from the otherwise silent booths: this is where sex-starved oldies come to regain their vitality through some expert bottom smacking on the part of the masseuses.

Just as dark is the sauna bath in a thick fog of odorous steam. Here men and women slyly eye each other up in the half-light, like old injured animals ready to tear each other to pieces.

I flee this place, overcome with uneasiness and disgust, feeling tainted, soiled by mere association with these people, sick of body and soul, searching for their lost youth, their wilted beauty and the all-too-quickly exhausted pleasures of their flesh, now withered by the wear and tear brought on by time and all their vices.

I make my way up the last of the empty levels of the thirty-floor building: piano music is floating out of the restaurant overlooking the Harbour and the Bridge. The shopping arcades are all closed at this hour of the night. The twelve strokes of midnight of some imaginary belfry resonate through my body, and I find myself a prisoner in a waking dream, like a stranger wandering aimlessly though a pathetic comic version of a fairytale, where some fallen prince has replaced Cinderella.

A captive of my own despair and solitude, of my still unfulfilled desire to leave or to finish with it all, it appears more and more obvious that Fate has been toying with me. Sometimes I turn around quickly and look back towards the sumptuous lobby with wall to wall red velvet where my steps disappear, inaudible, muffled by the thick carpet, hoping that this abrupt movement will make she who has injected me with the poison of this incurable melancholy suddenly appear from the lift.

Who is she ? How do I know her? How did I meet her? I have no recollection whatsoever. I still don’t know what she looks like, I simply sense that she is there, near me, present on the other side of reality, so close and yet so far away, her mere apparition, it seems to me, would be enough to save me from myself.

She remains mysterious and hides, like Isis, behind the seven opaque veils from the invisible, where I drift in a maze of empty and incoherent images, as if this world had become a stranger to me.

So, like a man demented, I throw myself back into the heart of the damp darkness of the avenue, this river of lights with a violent backwash, I go up it until I reach the intersection of the Cross so that I can drown my senses in the dives and sleazy bars in this modern Babylon, certain that I will walk there alone until the end.

In her wake, only perceptible to me, sometimes floated the blended fragrance of a vanilla and ylang-ylang perfume whose trail I followed, in a hurry to burn the last years of an existence that had driven a wall between us. I was longing to escape from the imprisonment of the cloister of my life to find her on the other side of the mirror of appearances, where she has been waiting for me for such a long time.

© Karin Speedy and Hélène Savoie, 2010


Speedy, Karin and Savoie, Hélène. Les Terres de la demi-lune / Half-Moon Lands. Bilingual edition, Translated and with a Critical Introduction by Karin Speedy. ISBN: 978 2 296 11771 6. L’Harmattan: Paris, 2010. (280 pages)

The Lost and Found column in colonial newspapers

Perhaps the most fascinating thing about archival work is the volume of ever-so-interesting-yet-not-related-to-what-you-are-actually-researching snippets of life that you notice (and get distracted by) along the way. Much of my research centres on the Colonial archive, particularly the archives pertaining to New Caledonia. 251px-Loyalty_Islands_mapA few years ago, I combed through thousands of pages of Le Moniteur de la Nouvelle-Calédonie, the local newspaper and mouthpiece of the colonial administration in Noumea from 1862-1886, looking for traces of Reunionese settlers and sugar workers for my research projects. Whilst perusing shipping arrivals, news stories, local decrees and so forth, I became intrigued by the curious and very frequent advertisements in the “objets trouvés” (Lost and Found) column. These ads catalogued all manner of everyday (and occasionally bizarre) items that appeared to be of immense value to their owners.
The objects, often personal accoutrements made of metal or textiles, almost always manufactured, seemed to represent tangible traces of “civilisation” in the “wild” colonial space in which their owners found themselves. While the columns sometimes listed expensive items, many of the things held so dear by the colonisers were nothing more than cheap baubles. Yet,  there they were, occupying column inches in the newspaper. Of course, I began to wonder about the stories behind these material things brought from Europe to the far-flung Pacific colony. And I also speculated on how various items became lost in the first place…
While my imaginatiodunst18700304-2-11-2-a1-332w-c32-782-146-664-13681n ran wild, I also thought about the hideous irony of the invading people fretting about lost trinkets while they were busying themselves dispossessing the indigenous Kanak of their land and livelihoods (not to mention their lives). Naturally, none of these more significant losses featured in the lost and found columns in the colonial newspaper.
TS18690828.2.12.1-a1-445w-c32-119-5371-889-921None of this is peculiar to New Caledonia, of course. The few examples of lost and found ads I have posted here are from New Zealand newspapers and they reflect an almost identical preoccupation with man-made consumer goods from the home country. Similar ads litter the Australian colonial press and I am sure the same sort of announcement can be found in newspapers in any former colony. For me, however, it was the New Caledonian “colonial rag” and its “objets trouvés” that inspired the following poem.
Objets Trouvés in the New Caledonian Archives
a button
in the Lost and Found column
of the colonial rag
a brass button
no longer shiny
a bit tarnished
or torn
from some
sweaty settler’s
quite unsuited to
tropical climes
cut in the fashion
of a decade
a dull
as it occupies space
in the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
much like the
pair of trousers
lost too
on the side of the road
down in a ditch
kicked off
in a moment of passion
with a pock-faced pute
imported from Ireland
via Sydney
or a duskier maiden
surely missed
in the morning
by the sharecropper
in shirt-tails
once the
had worn off
and clearly
as they occupy space
in the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
all lost
or found
as they occupy space
in the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
fertile land
terraced taro gardens
freedom of movement
severed heads
on pikes
or preserved in alcohol
all lost
none found
of no value
from the Lost and Found
column of the colonial rag
© Karin Speedy 2015
First published in “Piercing the White Space”, Blackmail Press, 41 .

Études françaises? Études francophones? Positioning the French discipline in the Australian context

Last year, I was invited as one of a “minority of ‘Francophonists’ [. . .] the squeaky wheels who challenge European-focussed curricula” to give a Roundtable address at the Australian Society of French Studies conference on the topic “Études françaises? Études francophones? Australian University ‘French’ Curricula”. My fellow speakers (Trudy Agar from Auckland University and Chris Hogarth from the University of South Australia) and I spoke about the situations in our respective universities and how we design curricula to accommodate cultural production from outside of metropolitan France in our programs. Perhaps the most interesting part of the discussion, however, was the deconstruction of the “French and Francophone” appellation and the importance of taking an inclusive, diverse approach to teaching the discipline in the Australian context. In this blog post, I have reproduced the parts of my paper, presented on 9 December 2015 in Newcastle, that pertain to these points.


The “Francophone” world

Bonjour à tous ! Today I am here as one of the “squeaky wheels” in French Studies in Australia. I am Head of French at Macquarie University where we have broken the mould, gone out on a limb, and called ourselves “French and Francophone Studies”. I confess, it was I who instigated the name change at Macquarie but I cannot claim innovation there. It is not very original. While Australian universities may be somewhat conservative in this regard, French and Francophone Studies sections and departments exist around the world, notably in the UK, the US and Canada. Neither was it a decision I took lightly, despite my own research background that might indicate that it was something of a forgone conclusion.

What is a “Francophonist”?

Before I expand on that, I’d like to make a brief comment on the label “Francophonist” that was used by the conference organisers in the abstract for this Roundtable.[i] When I read the abstract, the term jumped out at me and struck me as quite odd. We don’t say a Frenchist, so why a “Francophonist”? For me it has a strong whiff of anthropology about it. It brought to mind other uncomfortable terms such as “Melanesianist” or “Africanist” that can be heard in academic circles. “Francophonist” conjures up a sense of othering or exoticism that we do not get when we say we are a “French scholar”, for instance. It is definitely not a term I would use to describe myself.

It is true that I am very interested in the French-speaking world beyond Europe. My research does focus on peoples living in spaces ravaged by colonialism and I do investigate their histories and linguistic, literary and cultural productions in a postcolonial context. I also publish in many fields outside of what might traditionally be seen as French Studies. I am interested in histories of migration, movement, contact, creolisation, transnationalism… but “Francophonist” is just not a descriptor I would choose for myself.

Why “French and Francophone Studies” at Macquarie?

If I am not totally at ease with “Francophonist”, then, why did I call our program “French and Francophone Studies”? If we stop to analyse it, it is such a loaded juxtaposition of terms. For a linguist, having French and Francophone together might seem somewhat superfluous, if not downright ridiculous. France is, after all, a French-speaking country and, therefore, a Francophone country, so why have the two? Maybe we could just snip out the French bit and just say Francophone Studies? That might well work. But then, the linguist will likely think of the inherent linguistic imperialism of the francophonie movement and realise that it is indeed a politically charged term.

For the literary scholars, “French and Francophone Studies” calls to mind the whole debate around the privileging of metropolitan literary production as “French” and everything else as “Francophone”. This division implies a certain imperialistic value judgement. If it were purely geographical, it might pass, but a problem arises when migrant writers (or French-born writers with migrant parents for that matter) writing and publishing in France are referred to as “Francophone” when logic and “Republican values” dictate that they should be French. The use of the identifier “Francophone” can thus be seen as introducing a hierarchical, racially-based, othering dichotomy and, oh dear… problems…

Or perhaps not? Maybe it is precisely this sort of paradox that promotes the critical thinking that we hope to coax out of our students? It is also more in tune with a postcolonial analysis that considers identity formation as a legacy of colonialism, as something inseparable from it. And it certainly highlights the unevenness or the inequalities of the “liberté, égalité, fraternité” motto, the so-called universalist values of the Republic. Let’s face it, we all know that if your name is Mourad, Momo or Myriam in France right now, you are going to be treated a little less equally than your neighbours, Jean-Michel and Marie.

This reading of “French and Francophone” converges with that of scholars investigating the history of migrations through colonialism and Empire-building. For them (us), Francophone is more of a spatial concept, a concern with parts of the world where the French left a trail of imperial destruction and where there has been subsequent contact, métissage of languages, identities, cultures etc. In all cases, the combination of “French and Francophone” alerts us to power differences, questions of identity, and relations with the other. It signals critical engagement, intellectual enquiry, possibilities for research, inclusion – even if it can be read as exclusion. The very fact that we acknowledge the exclusion is somehow an act of inclusiveness. For me, you just can’t have French without Francophone and vice versa.

Responsibilities to our students in the postcolonial Australian context

As French and Francophone scholars, teachers, researchers and cultural mediators in the Australian context, the decentring of our discipline is of utmost relevance. We are operating from the traditional periphery, in a colonial/postcolonial space that has borne witness to some of the most violent forms of imperialism on the bodies, cultures and languages of the indigenous first peoples. If we choose to privilege only French cultural production (whatever that might be – I mean, what is French? Don’t we need the whole historical picture to get any kind of understanding of that term?) but, for argument’s sake, let’s say metropolitan French, European French, white French, the “standard French” language, the literary canon (books by dead white men), the grand narratives of French history, aren’t we playing a hand in the continuation of that violence? Aren’t we saying to the students, voilà, these privileged, white, adventurous, terribly smart, people,… this all-embracing, universalist, centre of civilisation and culture,… these ideas, these stories… are the only ones of value?

By ignoring the vast, rich, histories, cultures, languages, experiences of the French-speaking world beyond metropolitan borders, by whitewashing the student experience, by failing to address French imperialism and its aftermath, we are doing our students grappling with and coming to terms with their place in a postcolonial world, a great disservice. We owe it to them to be inclusive in our teaching, in our research so that they can engage with the academic, political and critical conversations that are happening and make links with their own experiences. In university Learning and Teaching-speak, it fulfils the graduate capability of becoming “engaged and ethical local and global citizens”.

[. . .]

In our French and Francophone Studies section at Macquarie, we have made a concerted effort to overturn a traditional, metropolitan, purely language-focused curriculum to include those histories, narratives, voices, productions from around the French-speaking world and to acknowledge their role in an understanding of what it means to be French. By doing so, we do not exclude the classics, the dead white men (and women) – rather we include alongside, read alongside, privilege just as much those other stories that are so relevant to our students, that speak to our postcolonial context here in Australia, that engage them in critical thinking and that allow us to foster a vibrant interdisciplinary research culture. French and Francophone Studies opens up possibilities and spaces for dialogue and that is essential for twenty-first century learning.

[i] Here is the abstract for the Roundtable that was sent to myself and the other speakers by the conference organisers:

The debates about how to reconcile the ‘French’ and ‘Francophone’ in curricula are neither new, nor a subject about which much consensus tends to emerge. A minority of ‘Francophonists’, those whose work engages with cultural production from outside of France, have often been the squeaky wheels who challenge European-focussed curricula. The compromise position within university settings, be it in Australia and elsewhere, has typically been to acknowledge the broader French speaking world in beginner and intermediate language classes, but to reserve in-depth considerations of the culture, literature and/or language (if the latter is ever truly addressed) of non-Hexagonal French-speaking societies for the upper-level subjects that are most often taken by students specialising in French. The purpose of this panel is to examine whether or not this model is meeting the needs of our students – and ourselves as a scholarly and professional body – and to venture ideas about the future of what it will mean to teach and study ‘French’.

Sydney’s Global Slavery Scandal of 1857

Imperial & Global Forum

Sugarcane harvesters, Reunion Island c.1885 Sugarcane harvesters, Reunion Island

Karin Speedy
Macquarie University, Sydney
Follow on Twitter @KarinESpeedy

In 1857, 51 Gilbertese (I-Kiribati) and 14 Solomon Islanders were spirited away from their homes. They were transported on the Sydney-based barque Sutton, and then sold as indentured sugar labourers on the French-owned island of Reunion in the Indian Ocean. When the scandal hit the shores of Sydney, the incident  shifted from a global diplomatic dispute between the British and French empires to a local story, revealing the complexity of the colonial space where culpability was tied to local politics, class, and notions of nationality.[1]

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Flame Tree

CMwofqeVAAEGFqDFlame trees (les flamboyants) have become somewhat ubiquitous in New Caledonia. They are, however, exotic plants, native to Madagascar. They arrived in New Caledonia with the first Reunionese settlers who disembarked in the early 1860s. A sugar crisis in Reunion, France’s previously booming sugar island in the Indian Ocean, forced large numbers of people who had relied on the sugar industry for their livelihoods to migrate to France’s newest colony in the Pacific. There they would help set up New Caledonia’s sugar industry, bringing their expertise and equipment (sugar processing machinery in parts that they would put back together on arrival). They also brought seeds, plants, foodstuffs, recipes, language, songs, customs etc. from Reunion to New Caledonia.

Curiously, the 19th century Reunionese migration to New Caledonia was little known. History books mentioned the arrival of a few rich, white, sugar planters and Indian “coolies” who had come expressly for the production of sugar. However, it was claimed that few actually stayed, moving on to Australia, other Pacific Islands or France when the New Caledonian sugar industry crashed in the 1880s.

The reality was far different. Hidden from the official narratives, almost erased from the colonial archive, their stories silenced, their faces whitewashed, were the thousands of black and mixed race Reunionese who also made the journey from the Indian Ocean to the Pacific. Many of these migrants were former slaves or descendants of slaves (slavery was abolished in 1848 in the French colonies) and were highly valued sugar workers or tradespeople.

The French law proscribing any mention of race for French citizens teamed with the New Caledonian tradition of the “non-dit” (the unspoken or unsaid) meant that this important group of black founding settlers was forgotten, left out, excluded from  official New Caledonian history.

In a number of publications since 2007 (see below for references), I have uncovered the existence and started to tell some of the stories of this hidden group of settlers.

I have reproduced below a poem I wrote about the extraordinary life of Marie-Alexandrine Elphège (pictured). She is the great-grandmother of Chris Vidal who has been sharing her family’s oral history with me. I look forward to talking more about this in future posts.


Marie-Alexandrine Elphège

©2015, source: Chris Vidal

Flame Tree or Portrait of a Reunionese Woman in New Caledonia circa 1908

A warm day in sleepy Ouégoa
and you would much rather
be sitting
legs stretched straight out in front of you
on the grass
embraced by the shade
of the cool flame tree
eating achards
or bread and chillies
or lychees
freeing the sweet flesh
from the shell
the pulpy goodness
slipping down your throat
as you spit the seeds
on the soil
to settle
like your many children
in this Southern Pacific isle

Instead here you are
uncomfortably elegant
trussed up in this unforgiving costume
of black fabric
with a peep of white ruffle
and lace
wound tightly around your neck
heavy petticoats and ample overskirt
obscuring your sturdy limbs
whose muscles bear witness
even now
to your prowess as a horsewoman
riding for hours through the bush
to help
to heal
to gather herbs
to deliver new life
a wise woman and sage-femme
and a little feared
by the other broussards
both exotic and native
in this Southern Pacific isle

Your tiny brown hands
disguised by the hide
of creamy kid gloves
grip the wicker chair
a photographer’s prop
that dwarfs
your diminutive frame
a ti paille en queue
who crossed the oceans
bidding adieu to the craggy cliffs
the volcanic soil
the cirques
the sugar plantations
and the social stigma
of your slave name,
fleeing Bourbon’s impoverished shores
centuries of knowledge
stored deep within
to be shared with your daughters
and no one else.
“It must not be said”
le non-dit
guardian of all manner of family skeletons
in this Southern Pacific isle

A miner’s widow
this is not a familiar ritual
but you handle it with aplomb
posing with your absent husband
standing rigid
head intelligently cocked
black eyes staring directly through the generations
in front of a hastily erected damask
that does a poor job of
the corrugated iron
and wooden crates
that decorate
your garden.
You think of the flame tree
a living memory of your past
brought on the boat
as a sapling
now flowering
brilliant red
and providing cover
as its roots
spread wider
in plain sight
like your people
in this Southern Pacific isle

©Karin Speedy 2015 First published in “Piercing the white space”, Blackmail Press no. 41, 2015.


Speedy, Karin. 2014. “Les Réunionnais oubliés du Caillou : un terrain de recherche multi-situé et pluridisciplinaire traversant temps et espace” in Véronique Fillol and Pierre-Yves Le Meur (eds.), Terrains océaniens : enjeux et méthodes, L’Harmattan: Paris, 267-283.

Speedy, Karin. 2012. “From the Indian Ocean to the Pacific: Affranchis and Petits- Blancs in New Caledonia”, Portal Journal of Multidisciplinary International Studies, Special Issue: Indian Ocean Traffic. http://dx.doi.org/10.5130/portal.v9i1.2567

Speedy, Karin. 2009. “Who were the Reunion Coolies of Nineteenth-Century New Caledonia?”, Journal of Pacific History, 44:2, September, pp. 123-140. http://dx.doi.org.simsrad.net.ocs.mq.edu.au/10.1080/00223340903142090

Speedy, Karin. 2008. “Out of the frying pan and into the fire: Reunionese immigrants and the sugar industry in nineteenth-century New Caledonia”, New Zealand Journal of French Studies, 29.2, pp. 5-19.

Speedy, Karin. 2007. Colons, Créoles et Coolies: L’immigration réunionnaise en Nouvelle-Calédonie (XIXe siècle) et le tayo de Saint-Louis. Paris : L’Harmattan.