Class Act - Mardi, 03.10.06

Mardi 03.10.06 Class Act

It’s another early start as I’m on the bus at 6,20. I had waited for the 6,00 bus but my watch must be slow – well, it is the morning so it can be excused. Twenty minutes later the bus has done its round trip up the hill and back unto the main road, Route de Balata, where it’s chug-chug, lurch-lurch, beep-beep for 2km or in the early morning motor movement measurement of Martinique: half an hour. When I’m eventually dropped off in Fort-de-France I have to wait until 7,30 for a bus. I risk the No.29 as on my previous ‘recci’ I had taken the No. 2 and the No. 11.

I arrive at Chateauboeuf just in time to see the kids lined-up outside, ready to be herded in just like cattle. I greet my colleagues and settle on a rather haphazard timetable for the morning. I’m obliged to partake in a week of class observation to understand the teaching and discipline methods used in the class.

First off I’m in CM2 with Dominique for English class. From the onset it irks me that she doesn’t speak in English with the class but of course she probably had the same set-up as a student and this does seem to be the norm here. Of course the kids are intrigued by my presence and I’m instantly at the top of the class doing a Q&A session on all things Irish…from the format of Irish license plates to the reasons why our sheep are woolly. There are clearly some fashion conscious girls in the group as they ask me about clothes and les marques (brand names) this only leads the lads to ask about car makes hence the license plate question. They’re astonished to hear we don’t have any volcanoes or snakes. Their interest in Guinness and Irish drinking habits is a bit fanatical to say the least and although none of them admit to having tasted it most of them declare that they’ve seen it.

I’m pleasantly surprised to see them produce an Irish flag, and to add to their collection of Irish wares Dominique then produces a hurley and sliotar and asks me to demonstrate how to use them. I surprise myself my balancing the sliotar but even though there is no glass in the windows I resist trying to whack it into the yard. The presence of the hurley is cleared-up when Dominique mentions that teachers from Newry, Co. Down came to the school last year for an international day of cultures. One student recounts that they said Irish women are all femmes au foyer (housewives) and that all they do is eat bacon and eggs…Irish Breakfast. It’s soon time to go, but not before Dominique rummages around in a cupboard only to appear with a tin whistle. Without wanting to appear like I’m making excuses, or even shattering another Irish myth, I tell her straight off I don’t know how to play it…but I offer to take it and learn some tunes as they don’t have a piano and it would be a nice accompaniment to the rhymes and tunes I will teach them. I better not practise in Fort-de-France or I might become a modern day Pied Piper! The bell for change of class has long gone but they’re still not finished with me; at Dominique’s instruction they all rise and sing me a song… “Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye to you and you and you. What a nice way to spend the day. Goodbye, goodbye, goodbye.” It’s so sweet and simple, yet kitsch and I can’t help wondering what crazy assistante taught them that!

Next on my timetable is French with Christophe and his CM2 class. They have already started by the time I arrive so I just settle myself at the back and take my notes. Christophe has such a subtle yet controlled method of disciplining the class. I do realise that it’s a boring grammar class but some of them are shoving scissors and sniffing glue right under his nose. Obviously due to the subject manner the students are less boisterous and less attentive but it’s good for me to see how both the teacher and the class operate. Near the end of the class the children take a little power nap while he reads a story about twins; Deux pour une par Erich Köstner.

At 9,45 it’s break time and it’s mad to see nearly 400 kids run riot about the yard. Of course, during the 15 minutes about 5 kids are brought to la directrice with either injuries or attitude.

Afterwards, it’s onwards to the CE2 class with their teacher Catherine. She’s very sweet and all smiles to me but she sometimes loses the plot in class. It’s a double class until lunch and mathématique is on the agenda. Before they start I briefly introduce myself and explain my role in the school. Thankfully I just get to observe during the rest of the class. Maths is my own bête noir (pet hate) but I reckon I actually learnt something from that class! It’s funny to watch the cute little kids doing their ‘times tables’, especially in French.

It’s soon time for lunch; though not soon enough according to my tummy. Catherine gives me and lift into Fort-de-France and I browse about the shops before I meet Nicola. We dine on Quiche Lorraine, frites and Snowballs (Slush Puppies!) while discussing the weird and wonderful ways of the French educational workforce. Nicola has to return to Lycée Victor Schoelcher for the afternoon but I’ve got it off. I could probably have spent my time trying to decipher my notes but instead I march off to MAAF to inquire about car insurance.

I can’t drive and I’ve never been insured so I use Nicola’s driving details to get some quotes. Of course she’ll be the one who will get insured here but I thought that after all the previous red tape it was surprisingly refreshing to emerge half an hour later with two decent quotes without even being asked for a driving license. Obviously the relevant documents will have to be produced when we want to apply for insurance but I now have a quote in my name for €740 on a ”98 Volkswagen Golf 1.9 Diesel and €570 on a ”96 Opel Corsa 1.2.

Between the terrain and the heat here cars here get such a thrashing and depreciate so quickly. In fact, it’s cheaper to buy a car than it is to buy a scooter or a motorbike. The heat makes the paintwork crack so you constantly see cars with boiling bonnets and peeling panels. Of course there are flash cars too; like Marie-Ange’s high-priced and high-wheeled 4X4 and Odile’s sleek sports car. Nicola and I however, are just on the lookout for some bagnole; a clapped out motor. Between William, our Belgium neighbour, and Madame Arlette’s mechanic friend we should get a fine cruiser. There’s a weekly magazine called 972 which, like the Buy&Sell, contains all the petites announces for Martinique. Alas, I’ve been into numerous shops and supermarchés only to be told they don’t have it. I’m beginning to think the Martiniquais live for treasure hunts (chasse de trésor)!

I soon find myself back at the fresh, mint scented Crédit Mutuel. One of the cute clerks from yesterday ushers me into his office and we get down to business. I give him an assortment of documents and forms and he seems content with that and gives me his number in exchange…well, his office telephone number. He doesn’t seem phased by the fact that I don’t have proof of address other than the letter I sent myself from Ireland. I have filled it in on my half-completed Sécurité Sociale application so between that and my stack of papers ça suffit. He pauses for a minute while typing away and I notice him fidgeting with his wedding ring. He gazes at me curiously and asks if I’m married or have children. Pas encore I chuckle. A little later I leave the cool office and the charming Lionel ‘Richie’ LETON, Conseiller Accueil extraordinaire, only to be met by the harsh heat and the cities’ own rolling stones; it’s drifters and wild rovers.

I’m not home long when a weary Nicole appears. Over a modest meal of soup and brioche we recount the evening’s events and soon settle by the TV to check out the Miss World pageant. (We only have three other channels and they’re fuzzy). It gives us great amusement to tot up the number of times the expression ‘Beauty with a purpose’ crops up. Louis Walsh is on the judging panel and quelle surprise when Westlife appear on stage later on. Robin Gibb barely manages to finish Stayin’ Alive and it’s no time at all before Miss Czech Republic is crowned Miss World 2006. Her name Tittianna Slapovitch suits her well. She’s all tits and a fake blonde with obvious roots. Her white dress looks like it’d be at home on a street stall. Somebody slap her. Slapper.

I’m soon slapping on my mosquito repellent and putting on my long-johns as Nicola and I decide to have a night-cap on the terrace with our mossy mates and the other beasties. As most primary schools are closed on a Wednesday it’s not a school night for me so I have my full and later fall into bed as full as a tick…or rather, as full as a mosquito on sang sucré (sweet blood).