
In the narrow streets of Vieux-Bourg, water trickles past the houses. On the ground, bicycle carcasses and old sheet metal pile up around plants growing in the dust. On the walls of several buildings made of sheet metal and wood, and more rarely concrete, a "demolition notice" announces the imminent end.
This emblematic district of Guadeloupe is the subject of a vast urban renewal project led by the Cap Excellence urban community, announced at the end of 2024 after being classified as an unsanitary area by the prefecture.
The prefecture estimates that there are 35.000 substandard dwellings in Guadeloupe, or 15% of primary residences.
In Vieux-Bourg, 160 houses are to be demolished, some already uninhabited. Sixty-five residents will be rehoused initially, according to the Guadeloupe Public Land Establishment, which is responsible for purchasing the plots. Others will be relocated later—the project is spread over two years, and will involve 84 families.
"Expropriation procedures are underway for the 10 hectares concerned," explains its director, Corine Vingataramin.
But the land situation is complex. Many residents have lived here for generations without title deeds. Joint ownership makes the process lengthy and sometimes contentious.
The bulldozers, however, are moving forward.
"At the end of 2024, we received a letter from the prefecture ordering us to leave," says Célina Mennock, president of the Vieux-Bourg Residents' Association.
"Despite the meetings, the rehousing issue has not been resolved. The start of demolitions creates the feeling of being faced with a fait accompli," she adds.
Guadeloupean paradoxes
This is the case for Georgette Sainte-Rose, 78 years old, who has lived in the neighborhood since 1975.
"When I arrived, there was already talk of demolishing our houses (…) Today, nothing is planned to rehouse us. It's all blah blah blah," she complains in Creole.
She does not deny the problems in the neighborhood: unsanitary conditions, delinquency, and decay.
"But this," she says, "is my home." She talks about the solidarity between neighbors that has existed since "nanni nannan" (the dawn of time in Creole, editor's note), neighborhood life, and the nourishing garden she cultivates with a neighbor: eggplants, chayote, medicinal plants.
"Everyone benefits," smiles Gitane Dragin, 68, Georgette's neighbor and friend. She, too, dreads leaving. "My cardiologist is next door. If I'm relocated far away, how will I be able to come?" she wonders.
Set up shop in a tiny wooden shop, Caliste Harry is the neighborhood shoemaker. "In the 1960s, there was a sugar factory here, a lot of economic activity," he recalls.
Economic crises, site closures, and population changes have caused the neighborhood to deteriorate. At 70, he still works, like many residents with small pensions and limited careers.
He was offered the chance to set up his shop in Pointe-à-Pitre, but he wasn't impressed. "This street is often burglarized," he says. And having to pay rent doesn't appeal to him.
Like him, many claim to be homeowners, without having a title, but with a strong memory of the place. Especially since the issue of compensation remains sensitive. "We've let the housing deteriorate; it's no longer worth anything," laments Marlène Quimpert, a member of the residents' association.
"It comes down to quantifying the experience of the people in the neighborhood," she emphasized to Valérie Létard, the Minister of Housing, who came to visit this neighborhood, whose reconstruction is presented as a model.
"What we're doing here is a delicate, case-by-case approach," the minister replied, promising a "tailored" response. This project, carried out with the National Agency for Urban Renewal (ANRU), is intended to inspire other rehabilitation projects in an area where large substandard housing projects are a daily reality.
No solution will be "totally satisfactory," admits Celina Mennock: "We resign ourselves, we leave, and we will mourn afterward."