The Traffickers

Every week an old U.S. Navy crash boat, renamed the Marlin, shoves off from Fort-de-France, Martinique. Aboard are 4O-odd brightly turbaned native women, carrying demijohns and wicker baskets and headed for the British island of St. Lucia, a five-hour ride across the choppy blue Caribbean.

At Castries, capital of St. Lucia, the Marlin's chattering passengers quickly pass through British customs. They pay a 50-c--a-gallon tariff on the French wine in their demijohns, but none on the high-duty Martinique rum hidden in their baskets. Ashore, they barter or sell their wine and rum, then go shopping. St. Lucia has the foodstuffs that bone-poor Martinique has had to do without.

The Marlin sails for home at 5 next morning, an hour when sleepy customs officials find it easy to look the other way. Without benefit of export licenses, food has found its way into the wicker baskets of the returning women, and their demijohns hold cooking oil instead of wine. Back in Martinique, easygoing inspectors hurriedly chalk their O.K.s on the baskets. In a few minutes the traffickers have sold their smuggled goods.

Last fortnight, just as the Marlin was to sail from St. Lucia, a woman screamed that someone had stolen her demijohn. When police went aboard the Marlin, they uncovered hams, butter, soap, cloth, shoes and other contraband. Goods and traffickers were hustled off to the hoosegow. The women pleaded Martinique's hunger, and the police relented. Late in the day they let the Marlin sail, with a warning that next time things would go harder.

Last week the Marlin docked again at Castries, right on schedule. Aboard were the 40 traffickers, dressed as usual in crimson and yellow, carrying as usual their baskets and demijohns.

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