Harley’s on the waterfront - dimanche, 24.06.07

dimanche 24.06.07 Harley David’s on the waterfront

Majid and Bea are leaving Martinique today. I try to call Majid but there’s no reply so I return to my beach towel and view of Fort-de-France. The rain is holding off and it’s quite hot but there’s not much sunshine which doesn’t encourage my patience as I lie there willing myself to turn brown. The man whom I usually meet at the little bridge is bobbing in the sea next to me. He’s dog-less today. We salute one another. He goes back to washing himself while I wallow in the true blueness of the ocean.

I’m meeting Stephen for lunch. The Ponton is our dining location for Sunday lunch. I don’t know why I’ve never been here before now as its worlds apart from Martinique. There’s a little chill-out zone with wifi and books at the end of the jetty and the restaurant-bar oozes laidback coolness as lunch parties chatter unobtrusively and students munch on organic fries and swot-up while wait staff shimmy in and out of the photograph decorated kitchen. I order beautiful stuffed pork with glazed baby potatoes and mixed grilled vege. Stephen gets a medley of salad which looks interesting served in peculiar shaped dishes but it wouldn’t fill the holes in my teeth. I have to finish with chocolate fondant – and the waitress kindly adds a gigantic scoop of vanilla ice-cream at my request. A Sunday stroll is needed to work off the indulgence so we take the scenic route as we ramble by local hotel lobbies with grinning staff, bars with uniformed pilots and pool sides with celebrity tans. Back at Stephen’s apartment we have our digestifs as I check my emails and he shows me his mini-photo collection from China.

The Pirates have left numerous voicemails on my phone. They’re all set to head to Ti Sable for some Sunday night entertainment. As inviting as their invitation sounds I reckon I’ve had my fill of seadog action for the weekend. Plus I’ve other things to do. Like keeping Benoit awake throughout his 24 hour shift as he deals with nail varnish poisonings and potato popping oddities. Let the crazy texts commence….

The Tale of the Things - samedi, 23.06.07

Samedi 23.06.07 The Tale of the Things which didn’t happen

Sprawled out on the bed is the perfect position to find yourself the morning after the night before. Maxxi FM is just the therapy I need this morning so I turn it up a few notches and kick-start my day. Nothing like a few jumping tunes to get me in fighting form - and nothing to get me moving that little bit faster than an unexpected house call from The Pirates and their stowaway Caroline, who eventually joins us from her dungeon wagon. Sure I don’t mind having them over for tea, toast and bargain bin beer but it’s just plain weird when they start doing Yoga in the living room. The cool floor is definitely the perfect chill out zone but I suggest getting ice-cream so we can get out and about.

Bundled in the car to Point du Bout we soon arrive at Mo’s Cream. The lads are in their usual pirate attire, which doesn’t quite cut it around this tourist district, so they spend ages putting on their clothes for once! I wander about a bit and when I return I’m told that Caroline has shot off for a while. My head is now thumping without the tunes of Maxxi to chase away my demons so I decide to skip the ice-cream and head home.

A shower and some sleep sorts me out until it’s time to get my gear together for the night. I’m slightly excited, but more anxious, about tonight’s Miss Harley Davidson event but as it’s my last weekend I’ve decided to throw caution (and later my t-shirt) to the wind!

Socks are strung out on Benoit’s terrace beckoning me over. The Pirates and Caroline have found their way back and he needs some moral support. My camera is on the blank so Mr. Je-Sais-Tous has fun fixing it while we lounge around the Medicine Man’s flat telling tall tales and discussing aliens, boats and bounties…

I make a few trips back to my apartment with evidence of last night’s antics. The cleaner is out and about and gives me a grilling about the traces of tarnished rock under the building. I deny all. Apparently I wasn’t even here last night. She doesn’t seem convinced. Wouldn’t it be typical to be in the Caribbean and not be able to hang around with mates for a bit of BBQed Barracuda and a few bevies in your own place? It was an unforgettable night for all the right reasons. Anyway nothing comes of it. Perhaps my over-confident flesh flashing, to get into character (and little else!) for tonight’s show, distracted her.

I put on my slap, short skirt and cleavage enhancing top and sashay to the beach where the trio are waiting. Well, Benoit is waiting for me under the palm trees; Cut Throat Murphy and Jack Sparrow are chatting up some sun seekers. Ben and I join them and we’re soon finding out about life on a boat in the marina. The girls, Elodïe and Stephanie, have been here a few years and love the leisurely life. I finally tick the 100th name off my I’ve-been-to-Ireland list as Elodïe tells me about her three month trip to Cork a few years back.

We’ve almost forgotten about our other plans for the night when I get a call from the marine lads. I’m actually all dressed up with nowhere to go. Throughout the evening I arranged five lifts but none of them work out. Benoit is secretly pleased. I suppose I’m a bit relieved, but I’m more amused. First off I had organised for J.P and Majid to accompany me to Diamant for the sparkly show of women and wheels. J.P crashed his car during the week so I made alternative arrangements with Caroline and here we are sitting on the beach waiting for her. Honestly it could be far, far worse… Even if she comes now I’ll be late but late is a loose term here in Martinique. I call Nicolas but he’s already down in Diamant with his rugby pals so he’s occupied. I call Dominique, the organiser, who is always as cool as a cat and she tells me she has mates in Anse Mitan who may/not be able to bring me – better late than never.

There’s still no sign of Caroline and the visions of our free feed and booze at Diamant seems to be fading fast so we head to La Tete en Folie for grub. Pizza and entertainment courtesy of Dorian, the seven-year-old cutie, are soon served up. Benoit gives a free consultation to the chef who was knocked about here in the ghetto last week.

My phone jingles with a lift at the other end. Half an hour later we’re at the back end of La Playa watching out for a blue espace with a driver called Pascal. Pascal and his ponytail whiz by a while later. There’s another oddly coiffed man with him. Balding crowns with trailing long hair must be the dress code tonight. Benoit gives me that look. When the espace hasn’t returned to the roadside after a few minutes I decide to join them at the hotel entrance. They’re about to zip off as erratically as they came but I flag them down. They don’t like the look of my company – supposedly DJ has a bad rep with them, and I don’t like the look of them or their attitude or the smell of their alcohol laced breath so just as I waved them down I wave them on. Purely out of politeness I text Dominique to let her know her friends were anything but friendly.

We spend the rest of the evening traipsing around Anse Mitan. The Pirates have their eye on some vessels which need salvaging so we hike it behind some posh homes and have a nosy at the neighbours abodes and boats. Our wanderings take us to the roundabout where we hang about while DJ barks down the phone at Caroline. A guy who I’d previously heckled on the beach for a lift to Diamant approaches and invites us to come to his home. His name is Siyani. He has perfect English and a swimming pool. We pass on his impromptu house party and head back to Benoit’s for Jenga and rum-punctuated juice. Benoit has to work early so daylight isn’t appearing when I head back to No.24.

Nicolas, who has spent the evening in Diamant, calls me to say that he’ll be passing by Anse Mitan, will pick me up and bring me to Coconuts after the wet t-shirt competition… Cue the rain. I’m at home finishing off my Heino when the heavens open. I’m still all dressed up with nowhere to go when Nicolas rings to say that his car is stuck in sand at the beach. Life’s a beach and then you come to Martinique…

Pringles kill ants - vendredi, 22.06.07

vendredi 22.06.07 Pringles kill ants

Pringles kill ants. It’s true. I’ve only discovered it using the sour cream and onion variety though, but it works. If the truth be told it was the ants who found their fate. I just re-opened the packet to find the top crisp covered with unmoving black specks. I removed a fresh one, put in on the counter et voila, they came, they tasted and they had eternal sour cream and onion dreams.

It’s not long until I’m mingling with onions again. In Leader Price. Benoît and I have decided to have a BBQ tonight. I’ve just spent the morning waiting for Rosalie and her hot wax strips so waiting at the check-out in Leader Price is all part of the natural process of the day. Mergeuz, sausages, ribs, potatoes, beer and rhum are all checked off my list. I pickup lunch and sleep-inducing fresh bread sticks in Deli France before travelling home like a nomad with my many bags and baguettes and a beaten up Baptist! Oh. Can’t forget the charbon de bois… for the fire and the impending gueule de bois!

The beach is calling so I lie there while replying to the volley of texts which come in about tonight’s char grill event. Some assistantes are still in the environs. Rachel is touring with Aussie mates and poor Kesha has chicken pox! Many people spark an interest but their commitment isn’t so branded. Anyway it’s only an impromptu mini-grill.

En aparte... Nic and I received constant grief from some of our mates about the state of our fridge. I can happily say that this one is living a better, more balanced life than the one in Tivoli did... balanced here however may be translated as a better selection of alcohol but I'm still proud of my fridge!!

In the end our party of eight is just right. Stephen, Bea and Bruno are munching on hotdogs and spicy ribs while Benoît’s motley crew are hanging out in the hammock smoking and joking. Jason is from Grenada. He’s a cool cat. Catamaran crew member, i.e pirate. His nickname is Jack Sparrow. Been here, there and everywhere. Been to Waterford and all. Got a divorced wife in Sweden and has three children, two of which are tattooed on his chest along with a random assortment of other adornments. Jel, also known as DJ L or Cut Throat Murphy, is from France and has been here for four years. He works in the Atrium. His friend Caroline is here too though she’s a weird fish. Hitting the menopause maturity harder than the high degree rhum. Edith-syndrome is evident.

It’s a fun night. Banter, burnt meat and booze. We’ll soon be all moving on. It’s a pleasant end-of-an-era gathering. In the end we consume all the evidence and hide all else to erase signs of our presence before struggling to our beds and beach hideaways to kip with the fishes.

Longest day of the year - jeudi, 21.06.07

Jeudi 21.06.07 The longest day of the year

Benoit and I had planned to have breakfast together this morning. Since he’s returning from his night shift and I’m heading into town early we agree to meet somewhere halfway along the route. We didn’t however expect halfway to be halfway across the bay – in separate boats. He has taken the 10.15 from Fort-de-France and I’m on the 10.15 from Point du Bout. It’s a rare occasion that they’re that synchronised like that but there we are both are waving at one another like crazy semaphore lunatics. He’s the first to disembark and he calls me just as I’m getting off in town. We don’t do things by halves so we agree to pull out the stops and have a BBQ this weekend instead!

I’m in town to meet up with my marines mates. I get the mandatory email checking and Blog uploading out of the way before chilling outside the Mayflower. I wander into a few shops and get chatting to a grinning Italiano called Gil who tries to convince me to buy sunglasses and watches, and failing that gives me a calling card for a greasy-spoon restaurant. I spy Number 1, Kevin and Fabrice skulking by on their way to McDo. Jerome, Oz and G.G are not adverse to the odd burger and matchstick fries but enough is enough so we head to The Crew for some gourmet grub instead. It’s packed but we pack in an aperitif before being ushered to our seat. Conversation about blow-up dolls, wigs and the various uses for buoyancy aides has us struggling with our food. Jerome pops off to the toilet as we’re finishing up. He’s there for ages and I wonder if he has joined Brian in the kitchen – to do the dishes.

G.G is tired and I want to visit the Base Naval so we bundle into the car and are soon outside the Ventôse for the grand tour. My skirt and flip-flops may not be the best boat-touring attire but as it’s under construction its slow going anyway.

I recognise some of the lads from Saturday’s BBQ. I have to transform into a mini menhir once Astérix gets wind of my presence. He’s a huge imposing gorilla man who eats ladies for lunch. Fortunately he has eaten already. There are four motors on the engine and I’m introduced to all of them Astérix and Obelix, and Caesar and Brutas. Motors aren’t really my thing but the missile launchers and pivot guns absorb more of my time as does the helicopter pad and port.

The air-con is on the blink and I’m feeling the heat something bad. We join Stephan, Nicolas and Lionel in the messy mess for beverages before heading up to Fort St. Louis. The iguanas are humungous though they’re more frightened of us than we are of them so we don’t get too close to nature. But we do get close to the edge. It’s belly-crawling dizziness up there. Not quite the cliffs of Moher but it still affords a beautiful vista. There are some old fortifications to explore too so we scuttle in and out of the dusty passages, up winding stone staircases and finally reach the vantage points.

Back at passport control the lads point out a bullet-riddled lipstick red BMW which was acquisitioned during the recent drugs bust in the south of the island. We also pass three of the gendarmes who took part in the seizure – they seem hole free.

Oz is going to a soirée and wants to buy some flowers for the hosts. He’s banking on the marché couvert being open; in essence it’s always open but after getting lost in the maze of streets there are hardly any stalls left when we arrive – and who wants to buy battered mangoes and pre-mashed bananas?!

I’m meeting Benoît for dinner so I bid the lads farewell and hop on the navette. Benoît and I have taken to hanging socks on the terrace or out our windows to let the other know if we’re in or not. If I was here any longer I’d us each a big white board so we could write full phrases too; though you probably couldn’t get them on this island. Slates perhaps. Benoît’s windows are closed with the block-out curtain over so he must still be catching zzzs. After a shower and spritz Mr. Medicine seems to have made a move. I see his skinny form from afar and give a holler. A few minutes later we’re out the door and headed for Le Marina.


It’s La Fête de la Musique here and in France so the whole island is hopping to the beats and tunes of bands, singers and sounds. Strophe is strumming at La Cabane so after wining and dining we get sucked into the party atmosphere at Point du Bout. Bea and Bruno are out and about though they opt for Le Malibu where the club tunes have started to compete with the solo guitarist beside us. My head is addled. The wine’s the main culprit and the clashing music is its accomplice. Benoît has to get up early anyway so an early night isn’t going to spoil a pretty good evening so we leave Strophe with his thankful tourists and are lead home by the thumping tunes at La Playa.

J.P’s on a roll - mercredi, 20.06.07

Mercredi 20.06.07 J.P’s on a roll

I sleep late. Subsequently I haven’t had breakfast when Natalie rings - so I have her for breakfast! She’s spinning me some story about the plumber being blocked at another job. Well, I can’t stay here babysitting a leaky tap. It’s a problem but it’s her problem. She tells me it’ll be sorted on Friday.

Sustenance is needed so I head for Deli France for my usual. I bump into the fish lady who’s going under the guise of a mango madame today. She produces three beautiful mangoes and gives them to me for my impromptu dinner donation/coke contribution last week.

I picnic on the beach – the ants don’t bother me but of course the locals are drawn to a single white female eating an overloaded tuna roll with about as much grace as a ravenous Rasta feasting on re-retrieved rations. I just act dumb. No speak French. Or no-speak-at-all seems like the best strategy. I’m reading a silly book titled The Island: Martinique. I bought it on amazon when I was in Ireland. I was looking for a travel guide but this is a travel novel. I’ve saved it till now because I didn’t want it to colour my opinion. No fear of that because I can’t plough through the heavy, convoluted analogies and parallels between the author’s marriage metaphors which he intertwines with cultural blah-blah-blah… I may tackle it again on the plane – or just make miniature paper aeroplanes out of it.

Cécile is coming to Trois Ilets. Coming like Christmas. She has two friends over from France and they’re planning to hit the beach. I’ve already bathed, bronzed and booked myself for the day by the time she texts to tell me she’s just getting the boat. I’m not obliged to join them so I don’t.

As it happens Cécile contacted me this morning looking for the lad’s contact details as she wanted to send them some news. I check my emails and find out that Oliver and J.V have been boozing and reminiscing, and I’m just in the door when Lionel calls me. He has been on holidays for the past month and met up with Alex a few times. He says it was hard adjusting to life without the sea and palm trees beside him and he constantly wishes he could be transported back to the beach. Dream a dream.

Before I can head to bed however I get a call from J.P. Such a saga. The poor guy parked his car on a hill and either left the handbrake off or someone gave the car an almighty shove because it rolled down the incline into another vehicle. Thankfully nobody was injured but J.P is leaving Martinique in a week and was to sell his car this weekend. However, this is not the end of the car chaos. I’m presented with a letter for Nicola which turns out to be another speeding fine. Ouch! It pains me to clock up how much she has forked out for her zippiness. 72kmph in a 60km zone. Man, after all that drama I’m tyred!

Sibrielle - mardi, 19.06.07

Mardi 19.06.07 Sibrielle - REPRÉSENTATION Théâtrale

Sleep and supermarket sweep are on the agenda this morning. When the afternoon clocks round I make a move for Point du Bout, where I call into 8 à huit before calling Nicola and EDF.

From that moment on I seem to be continuously on the blower; Strophe notifies me of his musical manifestation on Thursday night at La Cabane: Cecile will be over to Trois Ilets tomorrow with some French friends: Eduardo from school calls to say I missed the CM2 B production – his rave review will have to do: and Dominique Bay rings about the Miss Harley Davidson thing I’ve been recruited for… I’d gladly run away from that but my 50 cents is already on the table so I decide to go for an evening run instead. I’m all warmed up and ready to run when Eduardo rings again about Sunday’s excursion. And sure then I may as well call Majid and J.P.

My jog turns into a sprint and then a midnight swim as I plunge into the coolness of the Caribbean before following the boat passengers along the jetty with my wet footprints following me in turn.

Break-in. Break-out. - lundi, 18.06.07

Lundi 18.06.07 Break-in. Break-out.

I’m just thinking that Nicola’s probably showing off her tan or recounting some wacky tales to Nicki and Tom in Dublin when I get a message from her. Her house was burgled. Bastards. It was broad daylight, her mother was only gone an hour or so and they made their way in through the back window and went wild. They rifled through everything in Nic’s room, stole her laptop, camera, television… All her mother’s jewellery and anything else they could see and swipe which is of value or worthy of a quick sale. Thankfully Nic’s good jewellery was hidden under a stereo which she says was too cumbersome to move let alone lift.

When I talk to her she has to laugh when I ask if her collector’s edition Michael Jackson doll was taken too. Nope, it’s still standing on top of her wardrobe with it’s crotch in a gloved kiddie-fiddler hand. Sorry. I couldn’t resist. It probably spooked out the robbers. Oh, I’m so bad. Hang on, isn’t it Wacko Jackson who claims to be bad. Ouch! I felt that slap from all the way over here.

The weather merits a few hours at the beach. It’s funny that in my final week I’m more vigilant with sun-cream application than I have been over the past nine months. C’est comme ça!

I bump into Benoît sleep-walking his way back home after another nigh-shift at La Meynard. We arrange to meet up for drinks later.

He has just finished his meal when I join him at Point du Bout. We head to Boule de Neige for desert and planteurs before continuing our alcohol consumption in Le Malibu where Bruno is hanging out sans Bea!

I tell Benny Boy about Nic’s news and he reassures me of our own false sense of security with his usual scary-statistic sadism. After last week’s shooting we certainly do seem to live in a sort of ghetto.

Benoît has lived in many rotten parts of Paris so it’s not much of a surprise when he outlines his former Bad Boy antics. Un/fortunately the call of professionalism prevailed and reformed this wild child... However, he has a certain rebel reserve which allows him to accompany others in their divilment. For a while I’ve been itching to visit the Rasta ranch; especially the unoccupied wooden cabin in the wood - so we do. It’s a tiny four roomed hut which, with a few planks of wood and licks of paint, could be transformed into a pretty nice place. Rumour has it that nobody actually owns any of these huts but the residents in this enclave are a law unto themselves and would probably dig up the papers once someone finished their dirty work.

Disgusting Mini-Martiniquans - dimanche, 17.06.07

dimanche 17.06.07 Disgusting Mini-Martiniquans

It’s Father’s Day here in Martinique today, it’s also the day of the Funk Festival at La Playa, and it’s raining too. The rain is insane. But I’m snug beneath the cool membrane of my bed sheets.

Once the rain retreats I reappear. The rain may have shortened the hours God provided for sunbathing but at least it has brought a cool spell which makes sweating less evident and helps to banish the mosquitoes.

After all the sugary stuff yesterday my body is crying out for some more glucose goodies this morning. I load up on venoiseries at Deli France and buy a Floup to keep me occupied and hydrated on my way to the phone cabin from which I hope to touch base with Nicola. Something else however is about to touch the base of the phone cabin – a Lion Bar wrapper. Some young, pretty nonchalant Martiniquan Miss has just clip-clopped her way to the open cabin and launched her waste into the cubic speaking space. Someone should tell her that only Clark Kent does disappearing acts in there and that telephone cabin time-travel for wrappers has not yet taken off. I’m too far away to say anything. She turns on her heel and clip-clops back to the family hi-ace. However, when her little brother goes to pull a similar stunt I quicken my pace and get to the door just as he’s considering relieving himself – he may as well be, though even piss would evaporate and disappear more quickly. I ask him if he’s going to use the cabin, take his blank pause as a No and muscle in between the bandy doors to join Leo. The young lad looks at his family who look at me. The mother tells her son to put it in the hi-ace boot and he waddles back to the vehicle. I give them a contemptuous look and tut-tut animatedly in their direction. It’s not the right solution as it’ll probably just fly out the back when they zip around the roundabout but it’s better than being in the phone booth.

Nicola’s mobiles have been out-of-order since she hit home so I’ve no joy with them. Her home phone just rings out so I hang-up.

The Rastas are out having a BBQ. Some dreadlocked dudes are gutting strange fish and one of them turns his gummy grin on me and asks me to join them. What? Line up to be gutted? Thanks but I think not.

The funky tunes from La Playa compete for air space with the reggae and chart hits being pumped out by the Rastas. Sometimes there’s a lull and one reigns but as the French say: when someone sings it rains, and so it does…

Pirates of the Caribbean - samedi, 16.06.07

Samedi 16.06.07 Pirates of the Caribbean

It’s just after 8,00 on a Saturday morning. For some reason I’m wide awake. My antennae must be on high sensitivity because when I get up to check my phone there is indeed a missed early morning call. Suddenly a brisk rap on the door sends me jumping for my shorts. It’s the cleaner. The plumber is downstairs and will be up to fix my toilet in a while. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. An hour has passed when I finally get another knock. Jeez. Plumbers carry minimal equipment these days. What water miracle is he going to fix with a mobile? Of course it’s just the owner’s husband come to assess the tap and try some D.I.Y – real Martiniquan labourers have found better things to do since they clocked off at lunchtime yesterday. Mr. Mobile goes to turn the washer but I query him and warn him that we could have a mini-fountain in here in an instant. The plumber never comes but I just put the big black bin under the tap and go back to bed.

Ah. That’s better. An extra four hours of sleep leave me more refreshed, in fighting form - ready to party with the pirates. Six of the marines on the Ventôse have finished up their two year contract and are having a send-off today at Schoelcher. Two of those lucky lads are Jerome and Oz. The name of the boat actually comes from the name of the sixth month of the French Republican calendar.

I take an earlier boat into town so I can call home before my 15,00 pick-up. The lads have been getting things prepared since midday and the party officially kicked-off then. Fort-de-France is it’s eerie Saturday evening self. Amid the languid, lounging hangers-on about town I look like a real blow-in as I bob down the street with my flowery bikini peaking out under my palm-tree patterned top and my two beach bags slung over my shoulder brimming with party paraphernalia to see me through until early morning. It’s going to be a long night; a Long John Silver one at that.

The lads lapped up the pirate theme in St. Martin when they were there for the Tri-Colour event. Most of them are decked out in pirate motif t-shirts but even those who are bare-chested reveal the real tapestries of sea-men; mermaids, anchors, Tahitian swirls and symbols which all make the eyes boggle without the influence of alcohol. Unfortunately there’s nobody with a peg-leg but there are a few sharp implements and hip-flasks to add to the occasion.





The chef got the farewell ceremony out of the way within the first hour. The six leaving crew members were lined up against one of the two containers as if there were to be shot. They were presented with beautiful bottles of rum (which avoid being pillaged throughout the night due to the vast supply of liquids on tap) and intricately carved wooden bottle holders in the form of two embracing turtles. Jerome proudly shows me his presents which also include matching hi-ball Trois Rivières glasses. He vividly recounts how he was lost for words. Moved. Touched. Touched by the end of someone’s machete actually, as he was duly prompted to offer his contribution so that casks could be cracked open for the thirty sea-dogs.




Of course not all the marines are macho, macho men. The song In the Navy has probably not been as fitting as on this occasion. I’m told in hushed tones about the rea-reas of the group. I witness it myself from the height of my hammock. Down there by the bent palm trees, piled into one gay looking hammock are three laughing lads. I later startle one, Fabrice, by pretending I met him in the Mayflower. At first he’s a bit standoffish, his startling baby blues denying all but after we play ball together he warms to me and is soon inviting me to share his hammock – with three other guys of course!



If I thought the army dudes were the wackiest of the French military then tonight shoves them into second place. Merry? Very. Loud? What?! Fun? Curiously so. The pirates are wired, mental, unhooked, mad and they take bawdiness to a whole new island for fear of tainting innocent ears.








They truly love the sea – and all other liquids. And boy do they have a thirst on them. There’s a sort of farewell baptism for the parting pirates. They’re either pinned down or willingly deem the dorsal position for a mouthful of raw rum. Yum. Yum. Ho. Ho. Ho. And a bottle of rum. Squirming just means that you get it in your eyes but the state of inebriation of the pourer also affects the aim and quantity of baptismal juice.

After the kids are sent home, or to bed, and everyone has been fed enough to keep the alcohol down and all have been watered sufficiently to keep the mosquitoes in a dizzy dance, we walk the plank – voluntarily. We take to the sea to wallow in the night time coolness. It sobers up some souls and affords an occasion to have somewhat serious conversations about life in Martinique, in the marines and in the future as we bob along in the inky ocean.

A shooting star passes overhead and disappears into the night’s invisible velvet folds. A few whoops are let out. The celestial sighting is not however the soul reason for the joyful howls as two bags of beer simultaneously make their way over our heads. The marines, I’m glad to say, are rather eco-conscious even when they themselves seem unconscious. I only see one floating beer can and that only appears when it escapes from someone’s shorts. “J’ai la boîte dans mon slip,” Jerome tells me when I question the whereabouts of our shared can.

I’m turning prune-like so I collect some cans and dispose of the empty containers. Two huge freight containers have served as the walls for our mess tent space and a huge sheet of plastic has been secured overhead with pirate knots to keep both the spread and the revellers dry and unburnt – well any more so than the BBQ or sun has already rendered it and us. Before our dip in the big blue we finished off the sausages, mergeuz and salads of Feed No.2 but the table is now laden with cakes, pies and quiche surrounded by a fortress of rum blocs and juice cartons. The hunger that was curbed by aquatic antics is once again awoken. Most however pass on the solids and even offer their pirate patterns some refreshment. N’importe quoi!

Midnight splattering keeps us bopping under the canopy. Mimi, the mad little marine mechanic, only pauses momentarily to drag Solange into the sea to sober her up; I wouldn’t dunk a drunk mate but it seems to work. Oz is the Zouk King. Jerome is in club land with his hands up in the air making him look like he’s constantly replacing a bulb. Frank has retired to the car to catch some zzzs. There’s a toddler asleep in one corner, marked out by multi-coloured blankets so nobody steps on him. Viktor apologises for making English jibes at me earlier. J.P tells me repeatedly how great it is to speak English. Kevin is in awe at how well I speak French. Well, it is after midnight isn’t it?!

The mess tent is soon dismantled. Pirates are raised upon one another’s shoulders and knifes are raised to cut the rugged rope which holds the roof taut. We keep the fire lit a while longer, prolonging the party atmosphere. However police and plops of rain soon make us retreat. A gendarme van cruises around the parking lot over yonder. We’re not too loud or too boisterous yet we don’t want to be hauled away so we congregate in the open container. It’s already occupied; La Vielle is there nursing one of the Brazilian babes who is curled-up, conked-out on the floor. We sit like squatters huddled together on the ground, on the stereo speakers, on the overturned fridge. We eventually crawl out for one last dance and one last slice of chocolate fondant before gathering our gear. Three older kids are lounging in my hammock though they spring-up fairly lively when I growl and weild my machette.


Frank also wakes up in a start in his Clio as Jerome taps on the car window. Frank’s my neighbour so he’s bringing me home. We bid the guys farewell – until next weekend, and set off along the Rocade. The heavens open and we’re often forced to slow down to slip-slide with the running streams below. However, we get home safe and sound and fall sound asleep in the safeness of sleepiness.

I’m great In the sack! - vendredi, 15.06.07

Vendredi 15.06.07 I’m great in the sack

It’s my last teaching day in Chateauboeuf. There are officially another two weeks of school left but between evaluations, excursions and preparations for the end-of-year display it isn’t really worth my time coming in during such a disruptive schedule. I’d rather end on a high – and I do.

Christophe isn’t in but Aurore is so we settle for a sing-along session with Rihanna. I’ve told Aurore that we’ll to have a party of sorts at the end of the hour. I ask the kids if they want to invite Dominique’s class around to join us but they return reporting that her class are busy. I think nothing of it but only two minutes later I hear the Goodbye Song being sung in unison outside the classroom. The singing mounts and my other CM2 classes and Madame Edragas’ CE1 class file into the classroom singing, holding trays of food, bearing gifts and creating a semi-circle around me. I’m so touched. Speechless. Moved. The tears don’t come but I go a up a few shades of red in an instant.

It’s time for my speech; in English of course. Thank you, thank you, thank you is all I can manage, openly demonstrating my surprise, my shock and my joy, until I retain myself and offer some more profound words of advice, encouragement and appreciation to my pupils and my colleagues. Kind words of gratitude, support and thanks are likewise presented to me. Some are prepared. Some are improvised. Several are shy, short and sweet yet heart-felt. Others are emotive but open, buoyant yet poignant. In some ways I feel like Mother Teresa.

Many of the younger kids are subdued in the company of the big boys and girls but one little guy from Madame Edragas’ class takes the opportunity to get up and thank me for all I’ve done. He tells me that he loved making the masks and drawing in his copybook and that he enjoyed English and he learned lots of things about my country. I wonder what will become of these kids in ten years time. Only a while later, when the party mode has taken over, this young kid is break dancing in the middle of the room being cheered along by everyone. No doubt some will be stars.

Cards with poems, postcards with messages, pieces of paper with thoughts and designs are bestowed upon me. Some of the children really on their wits and present a sort of rap using vocab they’ve learnt. The fact that they’re the most reluctant learners makes it more authentic. Claude thanks me on behalf of my colleagues and Madame Caruge starts a sing-song about Madinina – l’Ile des Fleurs before I’m presented with a 972 hoodie. Quelle classe! It’s the kind of thing I’ve always wanted but wouldn’t buy for myself J

I’m still sort of shell-shocked but the kids are raring to get into party mode. There’s a spread of cakes, biscuits and crisps laid out and we tuck in before the kids take to the floor. At first they’re reluctant to strut their stuff but two older guys mimic Mauvaise Foi Nocturne by Fatal Bazooka and bring the house down. The guys request R. Kelly and 50 Cent and the girls get Beyoncé and Rihanna and launch into a chorus of Unfaithful which lasts until I’ve to gather my gear and head to Madame Pamphile’s lair!

The younger kids are relatively calm today. Many are anguished that it’s the last class but there’s still a party mode. The guys and girls separate to have a stuff-athon and a teddy-bear’s picnic respectively though they cross over from time to time to exchange jellies for chocolates, or just to annoy one another as per usual.

There’s a fête in the Maternelle today to raise funds. There are games and stalls set up. Kids roam about with the knick-knacks they’ve bought, begged for or won. There’s a stall with millions of seeds, another with hundreds of gum-boots and others with the usual bring-and-buy paraphernalia. Kids play fishing games with bamboo rods as they try to hook the newspaper wrapped treats. Others fling newspaper balls at tin cans and others sit in the shade drinking soft-drinks, feeding the dregs to their plants or younger siblings.

I’m supposed to be in Madame Thaly’s class but they’re at the fête too so I’m here too. We’re just about to head back for our dînette when one of the mothers – a huge, imposing woman in retina-damaging madras, recruits me for the sack race. I’ve just been busting a gut laughing at Claude’s attempts. Her request and insistence quickly sobers me. I’m up to the challenge, end up beating the athletic antillaise ladies and win the final against some bushy-haired father who I feel slowed down enough for me to bounce into the arms of the big, busty Creole creature at the end of the track; well, it was either me or him. I’m presented with a huge piece of local artwork and lifted unto a make-shift podium where I thank my fans and am received with a raucous round of applause and congratulatory backslaps on my sack-hopping technique! Never mind teaching English. Children, parents and teachers alike who witnessed my win will be sack champions for years to come if they copy my jump-start sack race technique.

Back at home I hang up the gigantic fabric picture which I struggled to lug through town to the boat. It hangs well and brightens up the apartment. I decide to clean the place up a bit before hitting the hay for a bit. The lads and I are heading to Coconuts so one needs to be on form for some frantic dancing and zany zouking.

We go to Point du Bout for a drink at Le Malibu where Bea is working. She doesn’t recognise me for a while. She looks knackered and feigns perkiness when she claps eyes on me. I’m introduced to two other marines who are skulking around the bourg. Kevin and Number 1, who obviously thinks he’s the shit. We later meet them in Coconuts where Number 1 is strutting his stuff. Kevin is standing like a statue beside a stunning, sultry long-haired, high-heeled beauty who I’m told is from Florida. “Bimbo,” Jerome, G.G and Frank chime in unison when I remark how beautiful she is. She’s no miniature geisha anyway!

I haven’t felt the heat so bad in ages. It has been ages since I wore make-up. Now I know why I don’t usually. I feel like a 99 in the height of an Indian summer. I run to the bathroom and rinse my face. Ahh. Better.

We get all the zouk we can handle, and then some more… Eventually the danceable tunes are cranked up and the dance floor is soon heaving with bodies, wet with sweat and spilt alcohol in this disco inferno. One of the kids at school gave me coconut bath products today so in keeping with the tonight’s venue I’ve bathed in coconut shower gel and spritzed myself with coconut body spray until even my piss smells like coconut. Joke. Anyway good thing I doused myself as everyone else smells rancid and I get lots of compliments. No joke!

G.G our driver is dozing on the couch for most of the night. Well, the guys did say this was their fief, so why not make yourself at home. After dancing some more and drinking some more overpriced drinks we decide to hit the road. The guys are having a farewell fête tomorrow and need to conserve energy for their big day out so we hit the road back to mine for more mint tea. Copious cups are drunken and soberness is restored before the guys head back to base for some snatches of sleep.

Au revoir Nicola - jeudi, 14.06.07

Jeudi 14.06.07 Au revoir Nicola. Il faut arroser ça

This morning I don my green top and gather my shamrocks for my last class with Madame Caruge, Mr Duval, Madame Acina and Madame Edragas and their pupils.

The older kids sing Unfaithful, by Rihanna, until they’re blue and I’m red. We then run through the words we’ve filled in before scanning through the worksheet. We finish with an introductory course in gaelique and then the floor is turned over to the kids for them to ask for translations, personal information, questions about me, Ireland… before I thank them profoundly for their enthusiasm and participation. I wish them the best for the future, do a bit of flag-waving and encourage them to speak English. We sing the Goodbye Song and I’m gone to the next class as quick as I came.

The younger kids get to spend most of the morning in the yard playing What time is it Mr. Wolf? Head, shoulders… and Do this. Do that. We then have a little ceremony during which I give them their Shamrock Certificates. We clap and cheer. I thank them. They thank me. And we get down to the serious stuff, or stuffing rather, as crisps, cake, sweets et al are divvied out for the dînette. We pose for pictures. I put on some music. Some sing along. Others spring up and dance. And we manage to put away the food mountain of goodies before the bell rings. It’s probably the most civilised class I’ve ever had with them!

I stick around school for a bit to tidy up my locker which seems to get fuller by the day. I’ve arranged to meet Strophe in town. I go in early to find out about trips to Marie Galante and Les Saintes but Express des Iles is out-of-action since last Wednesday until the day of my departure. I spy Strophe along the Savane strip. He’s talking to a girl in a café. I approach them and am introduced to Joanna. She’s from Florida but she was born here. Everyone has their story to tell. I listen politely while my stomach makes rude, but subdued, noises.

Strophe and I go for lunch. Well in fact it’s just me who eats as Strophe says he has no money. He has a kind heart but the pity game seldom works for me with people blinkered by dreams. I’d never crush a human’s reveries or squash their soul but a few home truths need to be told. He mustn’t be too mortally wounded because he hangs around with me until it’s time for me to go to the airport. He hops on the TaxiCo to Morne Rouge and I head for Ducos.

The airport isn’t as eerily quite as it was the last time though it’s still not packed to maximum capacity. Nicola’s bags are however. She uses the whole 40kg limit with Corsair.

Her flights at 18,00. I’m there two hours in advance. I’m sleepy but the sharp coolness inside keeps me awake and alert as I read. It’s soon time to stretch my legs. I head over to the check-in desks. There’s no sign of Nic yet but I spy a kid from my school with some military men. That same instant I set eyes on Jerome the marine. True to their word Jerome, Oz and their friend G.G are here to give Nic a military send-off. In her absence we head to the bar across the road for beverages and bawdy talk.

My eye keeps scanning the table behind us. It’s full of advanced military men. I recognise one but I can’t place him. I later find out its Liet. Col Thomasson. I knew I’d seen his mug somewhere before.

Nicola soon calls. She has an hour until take-off but has been told not to dilly-dally so our parting is short and sweet. Marie-Louise has brought her and she has also given us a little souvenir each – from Haiti not Martinique! Nic hugs, kisses and waves us goodbye before entering the point-of-no-return. A friendly smile from the local at security control is pleasant farewell reminder of the good, cheery folk who do exist in Martinique.

The guys offer to bring me home but first we’ve to head to the maze-like township of François where Oz drops off pictures for his boat license. He returns with pain au chocolat which I refuse as I’m still keeping up my I-don’t-eat-chocolate act! However, I don’t pass on pizza.

The traffic to Trois-Ilets is stilted, as is the service in L’Embarcadère. We’ve picked up another marine called Frank who happens to be my neighbour. The greasy grub is good. The lads avoid the health warning on the desert menu and opt for alcohol-laced ice-cream. The Vodka Volcan is pretty rank so I’m happy to stick with my Leffe. I invite the guys around for a non-alcoholic digestif and we’re soon sipping on mint tea.

Jenny from the block - mercredi, 13.06.07

Mercredi 13.06.07 Jenny from the block

It’s a good job I post my Blogs well after I’ve written them. Otherwise I think my mother would be over here this afternoon to pull Nicola and I out of the ghetto which is becoming Anse Mitan. Only last weekend I spied a guy skulking along the beach with a knife in his hand; I’m sure it was just used to cut up mangoes – not a man. However, today the bay and the beach are swarming with gendarmes as there were some unsavoury fireworks last night just opposite the beach parking lot. The scene of the crime was a local resto-pizzeria called “La Folie en tête”. The name’s somewhat ironic. Tomorrow’s headlines will read: Tout près du meurtre a l’Anse Mitan. The gendarmes scan the beaches, float about in their little blue and white boat and send two divers out into the depths to find the flung flingue. Of course the sight of hot, flustered, uniformed gendarmes only brings Nic and I out to observe the action.

It’s Nic’s last day and we plan to hit the water before heading to some watering-holes. Mr. Turtle and Mr. Mango are our instructors at the jet-ski centre. We’re jet-set ladies at this stage but we seem to merit a more precise induction for our randonnée to Anse Noire and Anse Dufour. There’s another couple with us; the guy looks old enough to be the girl’s father. I know Father’s Day here is coming up but I don’t think father-daughter relations like that are tolerated anywhere!

The couple are let loose on one another and Nic and I are let loose on the ocean. The waves are monstrous. Every time we glide over a through we either splash-land in another one or get creamed on a crest. At one point there’s no stopping the spray hitting us every time we rev but Mr. Turtle tells us to keep the power on irregardless. If the aim of jet-skiing was to bash the motor as much as possible Nic and I would be pros. It’s hard going topping 40mph but with Mr Turtle’s antics and our aimless careering we have a blast – and extremely sore arms.

Back at the centre Mr Mango offers us a free ride on the pédalos, and of course some mangoes from the fruit-spitting tree overhead the office. Nic and I watch the gendarmes intensely before drifting off. We cut the rotors to have a little sieste and to take in the view but we soon find ourselves in the shadow of a boat; thankfully it’s anchored so it’s not going anywhere fast.

After all our water manoeuvres we make our way to the beach for a dip. The divers are getting out of the water at the jetty. They strip off. They don’t seem to have found a flingue or mango carving knife but we find the sight very interesting indeed!

Nic’s in a packing frenzy once we get home. Even though I’ve another two weeks to work on my soon-to-be enviable tan I’ve already sifted through a few bits and bobs as I don’t like the last-minute panic which sees you chucking out some important item in the bag-making madness. I settle down to finish off my Shamrock Certificates and by the time I’m done it’s already time to put on the finery and go dining.

But first Nic sits me down with a whiskey in both hands. Nic é Ruth has finally been produced. The pictures are priceless and the memories are irreplaceable. It’s a great gift. Thankyou J

We invite Benoit to come dine with us at La Langouste. The mosquitoes eat more than we do but La Playa’s cocktails soon fill us up. Dominique, who hosted the fashion show last week, is out and about with her hairy mates. They invite us to an upcoming fashion show in Cap 110 and invite us to participate. It’s a Miss Harley Davidson Show. She has to repeat it five times before Benoit informs me that its motorbikes, leather and bearded blokes that’ll be on the menu that night.

Bea and her man Bruno are supposed to join us tonight. We’re to meet them at La Pancha. There’s a big birthday bash on. The staff seem weary and non-compliant so it’s no surprise this is our first time here. Some little kid steals the show by giving everyone cocktail parasols. Bea’s off to Ireland just before me. Her boyfriend will follow a few months later but this indeterminate amount of time is exactly that. Watch this space. Bea is 27 and Benoit inadvertently makes some comment about her approaching, and passing, the perfect age/condition opportunity for having a baby. Unbeknownst to him she is pregnant. She says nothing. She just munches on cashew nuts and pesters the waiter for the umpteenth time to take an order for a pecan and pistachio ice-cream. The big birthday boys have eaten all the provisions so we just get in more drinks before floating back to Benoit’s gaff for a parting gargle and Nic’s third smoke of the day!

It’s time for olives - mardi, 12.06.07

mardi 12.06.07 It’s time for olives

Nicola’s giving up fags today with a little help from a little prick. It’s not Baptiste, its acupuncture. Michel le grand would have to sit on me to get me to comply with this sort of needlework but Nicola seems to have enjoyed it and her anaesthetist tells her she was a very receptive client. So while I’m going through Earth Song and Unfaithful with my pupils Nicola is lying back with pins and needles in her nose, neck, wrists and ankles.

It’s a miserable morning weather-wise and midday isn’t much better only for the fact that we’re drying off in La Croisière. The ladies and Alex acknowledge us today. We feast away on the mains until the flan coco comes wibble-wobbling on the plate. We briefly pop into J.P and leave our heavy bags with him until we return from our snapping and shopping spree for a drink with himself and Thomas. Nicola found out some startling things about J.P last night when she was in the company of Christian. It’s not something to be repeated – by any party concerned.

If it wasn’t Nic’s last day – and if I didn’t have to be there to slap her wrists every time she whimpered for a fag, then I’d probably be in school correcting copybooks. As it happens I’m saved because there’s a survey being done on student’s writing/copying skills and so they need the entire copybook collection for each subject to analyse this. It sounds tedious – though probably no more so than my job would have been; I’d probably puke at the sight of red pen after correcting thousands of scrawled, incorrectly copied cursive sentences.

We eventually depart from town. It’s time for food again so we stop off at Le Malibu for omelette and chips. The fish woman from Antwerp is roaming around. We don’t want fish and we don’t eat bananas but we give her a few coppers and she promises us fresh mango tomorrow. Nic’s jaws ache. She has a headache and a face like she’s eating ice. She’s itching for a fag. She toys with the idea of menthol cigarettes but I tell her that it’s just like giving up chocolate for Lent but concluding that it’s ok to eat white chocolate – I should know. However, after beating the puff for four hours there’s no stopping her as she pops off to buy some cigars – supposedly they’re not as addictive. They look and smell like vanilla infused flakes. She has one which lasts an eternity.

Back at home it’s all engines go as Nic starts to pack her bags. She takes a break to do a mini-interview with me about our time here in Martinique. It’s soon Take III as Benoit keeps popping his head out the window. Eventually he goes off to eat his pizza. I know Nic is making a DVD compilation of some sort. She has been trying to keep it a secret but I just know…

I settle down to make Shamrock Certificates for all my younger pupils. I was going to stick them on to a ready made certificate but I’ve enough to do with cutting out a hundred shamrocks before dozing off…