Bon Voyage - Samedi 23.09.06

Samedi 23.09.06 Bon Voyage

It’s both my sister’s - Roberta and Susan’s, Birthday today and I reckon I’m giving them the best present ever; my entire wardrobe. You see, I’m off to Martinique for the year and as both Aer Lingus and Air France have given us only 20kg baggage allowance I don’t have much room, or much use, for my high-necked jumpers and high-heels.

So at 3,30 after two hours of slumber I lug my bags and boyfriend off to the airport. The last time I went abroad for such a long time was last February when I was in Brussels on Erasmus. This trip, however, will be somewhat different as I’ll not only be swapping beer for rum but I’ll also hopefully be soaking up more sun rather than taking on the porous appearance of Sponge Bob Soaked Pants.

One thing which didn’t change was the bizarre journey to the airport. En route to Brussels we saw a car in the ditch and turned back to find it abandoned, yet this time we spotted a well-spent soul sprawled along the grass verge. I’m sure he had spent plenty of time and money in a pub the previous night and was just cooling off in the early morning foggy dew. We almost resorted to squirting him with water but Mum witnessed movement and we did likewise up the M1.

Dublin Airport was a hive of activity at 5,00 but by the time Dad had returned from parking the car I was already checked in and my oversized, overweight rucksack was lobbed down the chute.

My partner in crime, Nicola, was just a few minutes behind me and along with her sister Pamela and Pam’s boyfriend Dan we decided to reinstall our perkiness with percolated coffee and a sugar overload to set us on the road to Paris…or chronic adult diabetes.

Nicola snatched a last-minute fag while I dragged my boyfriend away for a healthier option kiss. With our farewells said and our hugs exchanged, Nicola and I set off along the windy way to Gate B28 for our 7,10 flight to Charles de Gaulle. By 10,00 we were off on another twisted trail to our connecting navette (shuttle bus) to Orly. Eventually after manoeuvring our clumsy chariot through crowds and corridors we found Gate 34 (at CDG Arrivals Level) from where we got the No.3 bus to Orly Ouest with our €16 tickets. The price of our fare was not the only pricey buy; Nicola has to steer away from gluten so she opted for the charcuterie (cooked pork-meats) which at €12 left her purse lighter and further still failed to satisfy her gurgling gut. The same price got me une baguette thon crudité, une tartelette flan and an iced-tea. However, despite the over-priced food we were lucky not be charged for our over-weight baggage on either flight; mine weighed in at 25kg and Nicola’s was 28kg.

At Gate 32 we boarded our 16,15 flight to Fort-de-France. I wouldn’t say our pasty complexions made us stand out too much as there were some more ‘colourful’ creatures on board including a guy who looked like he had been plucked off a cruise ship cabaret; he was decked out in white shoes, tight white trousers and shirt with appliquéd plumes.

Air France had us spoiled with their sleep packs, entertainment system and in-flight service. I watched Nache Libre, American Dreamz, RV and The Inside Man between rounds of Who Wants to be a Millionaire. Jack Black wasn’t the only celebrity on board. The man in front of us got special treatment and had people constantly passing with wide smiles or flocking up to him. His aide was later spotted at the luggage carrousel lugging luggage and tottering in her high-heels while he fought off the crowds.

We were well fed, watered, wined and ‘rummed’ on our 6,500km voyage. Our dinner tray was a plethora of dishes including chicken curry with rice and pureed carrot, round rice with tomato and olive garnish, enough bread rolls to feed the 5,000, a pot of summer fruit crumble and mini-crackers and cheese. A bottle of wine, another with rum and a tumbler of water also accompanied our meal, with tea and coffee to follow. Our snack was more modest but pleasant nonetheless. It consisted of bread rolls and cheese, shortcake biscuits, an Actimel, orange juice, water and more hot drinks.

At 18,30 we touched down on the island’s only tarred runway in Fort-de-France (Lamentin) the capital. The airport was in fact more modern and well equipped than I thought – and not at all like the ‘shed’ I was told to expect. We were greeted by total darkness and 27°C, but most importantly by Roger and his daughter Anaïs who appeared with a sign for ‘Miss Ruth Rowntree and Miss Nicola Rowan’. They just needed to flash it as I had previously emailed them a picture of us in case two other white chicks laden with bags descended from the plane…and yes, there were other white Caucasian duos about – and I stress duos and not chicks because to complicate things our hosts had previously thought that Nicola was Nicolas or even Rowan, as in Rowan Atkinson!

Formalities aside we wheeled our load to their car and 25 minutes and 15km later, along an ever-curving autoroute, past Fanny Décor, MacDonalds and other commercial oddities, and up a winding tree-lined back road we reached our destination at Chemin de l’Acajou Pays in Tivoli Post-Colon. As we unloaded the car la propriétaire, Madame Arlette, appeared from the top part of our spilt-level residence. We were shown to our new home which contains a terrasse, a small kitchen, a large living/dining area and two en-suite bedrooms. The place is modestly equipped and simply decorated but the piece de résistance, the view, was hidden for the time being. There are lights to be seen everywhere, even on our way to Maison MontJean Roger pointed out the lights of our home in the distance. Fort-de-France however, does not seem to exude the hazy night-time glow of a city. We are told that it in fact ‘closes’ at night with most nocturnal activity, if any, being undesirable. However, despite the lack of urban activity there is plenty of night-sky action as lightening constantly lashes the land and rain soothes its aching arches.

Our ‘hosts’ invite us to venture upstairs once we are settled. Of course we just want to flop on our beds but curiosity and civility prevail so we leave the contents of our 24 hour voyage and join Madame Arlette, her husband Charles, their son Roger and grand-daughter Anaïs for Saint James rum, miel (honey) and jus de goyave (similar to apricot). Madame Arlette is a keen horticulturist and treats us to her own coconut concoction which is not unlike Baileys – both in its consistency and taste. We present our hosts with a tea towel of Traditional Irish Ballads and in turn we are presented with dishes of deep-fried morue (cod) and crevette (prawn) infused with spices and cooked in batter.

The conversation is light; unlike the oily finger-food. The flashing sky evokes jokes about the Chinese paparazzi and somehow Nicola manages to pop Michael Jackson into the conversation. Mel Gibson also has a cameo role as we talk about ‘Braveheart’. Charles lives in Ducos and accounces that he should head home. However, an hour later he’s still there as we all lap up spicy potage from our bowls. Eventually we make a move, though not before we’re given avocados and fig-pommes (small sweet bananas). We’re re-acquainted with the French ‘kissy-kissy’ ritual and set off down the steep drive to ‘Appartement Julie’.

After 12 hours of flights, 4 hours of queuing and walking, 3 hours on the road, 2 hours in an over-priced restaurant the final hours in the company of our ‘hosts’ has been a pleasant end to a full day of travel. As fatigued as I am it’s hard to sleep with the hanging humidity and the nocturnal nattering of the tropical frogs. However, it’s the familiar pitter-patter of the rain, along with the effects of the night-cap no doubt, which soon see me drifting into another paradise under the musty mosquito muslin.