Farmyard Sounds - Samedi, 21.10.06

Samedi 21.10.06 Farmyard Sounds

I may have slept well last night but I pay for my haste. This morning I count nine fresh mosquito bites around my ankles. I was so spent the night before that I forgot to do my night time ritual; spray repellent under the bed, shake the sheets and net, set out the net, put on long-legged and long-sleeved bed clothes and douse limbs with anti-mosquito ointment.

The mossies aren’t the only snappy creatures; Nicola’s also in an I-don’t-do-mornings mood when I ask her how the search for accommodation in Guadeloupe and Dominica went, as she spent some time on the internet the previous evening. I don’t push for a response but after a while her bones and brain start to thaw. I’m told that since James can’t come along it’s proving more difficult to find accommodation for three instead of four. Nicola’s remote morning manner can also be put down to Edith’s indifferent coolness in their English class. Supposedly Edith was not her usual eccentric or entertaining self and she didn’t pay much attention to Nicola or the class.

Some alternative retail therapy is in order and so we pop into town for the afternoon. Our first stop is the internet café. As it turns out they all charge €3 for half an hour so we quickly browse the net for more accommodation options. Lola is also there searching for similar holiday housing. My Dad calls me during the last crucial minutes of my surfing spree. He understands my dilemma and keeps the greetings brief. Our next port of call happens to be the ferry terminal. We’ve to co-ordinate crossings, accommodation and cultural activities. We plan to hit Dominica for the final day of the Créyol festival. The Créyol Music Festival will be well over but there is also a Créyol Parade which seems more engaging and less commercial – Shaggy and Wyclef Jean are among the main acts at this year’s Music Festival.

We take the scenic route to the croisière port. It’s Saturday evening and all is calm in Fort-de-France so it’s perfect for taking in the sights.

Fort-de-France was built in 1676, due to its strategic trading position in the bay on the south side of the island. The city was named Fort Royal because of the presence of the fort, but in 1848 it was renamed Fort-de-France by Napoleon Bonaparte. After the eruption of Mont Pelée in 1902, the then capital Saint-Pierre was destroyed and Fort-de-France became the new budding capital with intense economical development and the relocation of administrative offices. The town offers some wonderful sites which, although now somewhat ancient looking, were the superb sites during the city’s glory days:

- Le Théâtre Municipal, a beautiful building, was listed as an ancient monument in 1979
- La Cathédrale Saint-Louis (19th Century)
- L’Hôtel de la Préfecture, built in 1933, has been classed as a listed building since 1990.
- The Museum of Pre-Columbian Archaeology
- The Museum of History and Ethnography
- La Bibliothèque Schoelcher
- Le Fort Saint-Louis

We stroll along the seafront and sit for a while watching the waves and listening to the water lapping and slapping. The sun is high in the sky but it’s pleasantly warm with a cool breeze taking the edge off the heat. We wander back by Fort Saint-Louis. The fort is made from volcanic rock from Mont Pelée. It was built in 1638 when the first governor of Martinique, Jacques Du Parquet, decided to reinforce the city’s bay position with the fort becoming a naval base. To this day it is the seat of the Commandant de la Marine Française for the Antilles maritime zone and the Gulf of Mexico.

We later pass through La Savanne, with its flowery walkways bordered with royal palms. There’s a daily market in this public park. As per usual there are lots of traditional Martiniquais wares for sale and show: artwork, woodcraft, jewellery, pottery, hammocks, baskets, paréos, various garments in the madras style, as well as spices, punch and sweet treats. I buy some freshly ground gingembre (ginger) and cannelle (cinnamon) and Nicola picks up some volcanic gems. We admire the traditional madras costumes (multi-coloured check style).

So after helping the local traders we decide to help ourselves at MacDo. A Big Mac Meal™ is my guilty pleasure while Nicola opts for chicken nuggets and a caramel sundae. We also want to make a stop at a particular brassiere but its shut. With our tummies full we then head to Leader Price to fill our shopping bags and our fridge. Flour, yeast, milk, eggs, margarine, raisons, prunes and apricots are all added to the list as I decide to get some ingredients to test my culinary skills.

We arrive at the bus-stop with the plastic bags cutting into our palms and our fingers nearly falling off due to our bulky buys. John, our neighbour, is at the bus-stop too and we pass the time in conversation about toads, frogs, mosquitoes and men - mostiquomen. He’s so flirty with me; though Nicola isn’t left out as the bus driver hands back hier ticket with his name and number on it! Only a few hours previously while stepping out of the internet café another bus driver pulled up alongside us, in an empty bus, and asked if we wanted to go to the beach. They’ve either been having too much fun in the sun or not enough!

I’ve decided to make Barm Brack for my students to give them a little taster of Halloween. The fruit has to be prepared for the cake-making process. I chop up the apricots and leave them to steep overnight with the raisons and currents in a concoction of cold tea. Madame Arlette appears with a pan of râgout du boeuf. I ask her for a cake tin and she produces two doughnut shaped moules.

Arlette looks very dolled up this evening with her hair all fluffed out after spending the day set in rollers. Nicola and I also get ready for our night out with Will and Jimmy; the pimp and the pirate. We’re off to a Reggae club with the lads. It’s the first time I put on make-up…and a dress. I’ve a long, light, floaty black dress so it covers my mosquito bites and it seems casual enough for the night. Nicola wears a red and white polka dot dress to make Will go dotty!

Will collects us at 21,00 – a good hour ahead of the arranged time. We head to Cluny to pick up Jimmy. At first we presume Edith is coming too but supposedly she has gone to the cinema. The reason for Edith’s absence soon becomes more apparent. Jimmy can’t read and he later hands us his mobile with a message from Edith. She’s in a strop and has sent him a message to say that she has gone to s’éclaircit ses idées (clear her head). Later as we sit outside a friterie (chip stand) with our beers and burgers the whole Jimmy-Edith scenario becomes clear.

In short, Edith, at 60, is experiencing the menopause and is all over the place; physically, mentally and otherwise. Even the smallest things set her off. She doesn’t allow Jimmy to smoke but lately (since he met Nicola!) he has taken to having the odd fag. Earlier this evening he produced a packet and Edith started seeing red. She eventually drove off “to the cinema” to “clear her head”. This Saturday night disappearance act is not, as Jimmy tells us, a recent thing. Apparently she has been doing this for the past three months. Of course Jimmy and Will have come to the conclusion that she is seeing someone else; they even proclaim that Gethin is her latest fancy man. C’est incroyable! After looking at one another in disbelief Nicola and I crack up and reassure the lads that the only thing Edith would get off Gethin is grief – especially after the ‘arm specialist’ scenario. However, the lads take it to another level and state that the real reason Edith went to see Gethin was to persuade him to take her bed not a hospital bed! They say that there have been similar stories involving Edith. Somewhere along the line she accosted Will, Jimmy’s best friend! Edith must either be off her rocker or off her tablets; or both. Nicola and I try to educate and enlighten the lads about the menopause, HRT and it’s associated symptoms. Two light-bulbs suddenly start to flicker. Jimmy explains that Edith uses special creams and herbal remedies to combat the menopause but she doesn’t take HRT tablets. Edith’s mood-swings, sexual déloyauté, errant behaviour and her overall oddness are all contributed to the menopause and her struggle to come to terms with (or rather her refusal to recognise) her body’s change of pace and purpose.

It’s after midnight by the time we arrive at the Reggae joint near Ducos. It’s located at the end of a bumpy road which is barely suitable for a tractor let alone the jeeps and motos which seem to have travelled this way tonight. The stench of the mangrove trees and a wandering cow follow Will’s jeep as we jolt and jerk along the rutted road towards the Reggae ranch. The name of the club hardly comes as a surprise: La Ferme du Pèlerin (Pilgrim’s Farm). Since we’re in the middle of a mangrove wood there are millions of mossies hovering in the air. There are also hundreds of vehicles neatly parked nearby. For a club it all seems so organised, so calm, so tranquil; though it helps when everyone’s high on hash. The air is heavy with the smell of ganje. People are only smoking and selling. We’re all frisked on the way in and torches are beamed into our bags. The only commotion is from the two huge, growling bulldogs who are barking hysterically behind the barrier.

Of course Nicola and I are the only two blanches there. A few guys ask Will why he’s bringing English girls in and another tells us he will speak English with us later. I feel, however, that our freckled features don’t stick out as much as our dresses do. I feel so over-dressed. Other girls are wearing little more than the glow-bands we’re given at the gate. The majority are dressed in jeans or denim skirts with halter necks or bandeau tops, though some are all decked out in camouflage gear – it’s just like going-out get-up at home. There seem to be two sorts of guys; those with the Rasta dreads and a matching hat to hide hair and hash or the others with baseball caps, baggy denims, long baggy shirts, white trainers, diamond studs and shorn heads.

This place, music-wise, is more rap than Reggae. The crowd goes wild for Fifty Cents and Chamillionaire. The whole set-up is called a ‘Sound System’. Basically it’s a huge open shed with a galvanised roof, no walls and a large screen at one end. People assemble in rows and they dance on the spot for hours on end. Some of the girls gyrate and grind. Most people shake and shudder the night away and others sway in their daydream trance while day trippin’. You can buy hash in the toilet cabin while you dry your hands. The bar is a long cabin with a wooden counter and huge fridges with a limited supply of drinks; champagne, Coke, Orangina, Porter 39, Royal, Heineken, Desperadoes and Guinness. Will and Jimmy go mad for the Guinness.

The ‘Sound System’ stays open till 5,00 but by 3,00 us blanches decide we’ve had our €6 worth of dancing dopes. It’s great to experience the club culture but even it’s not somewhere I’d make as my local. Jimmy tells me that they’ll find a boite (nightclub) to bring us too next time. On the way out the dogs are dozing – probably high on the hash dans l’air. Will and Jimmy are accosted by their mates on the way out. Later in the jeep Will starts to charm Nicola again by telling her that he has had to pass so many ladies tonight because he only has eyes for her. I make a remark about fan clubs which he doesn’t take too well. At one point he’s ranting so much that I think he’s going to stop and make us walk home. He does sound like an adult lecturing a teenager but that’s just his manner; he talks more than most women, and makes less sense. Jimmy sees the funny side of my comment and we chat among ourselves while Will goes off on another tangent. I suppose you can gauge how much your French is improving when you can manage to annoy the natives one moment and then regain your street cred in an instant. Jimmy states that he will soon leave Edith and he adds that he would like to find a girl like me. My reply is a three letter mono-syllable – non, which ends up having to be explained and simplified since the men here are programmed to be so damn persistent and prying. My reply doesn’t even concern Will but he’s off again on a rant. “Il a tenté sa chance,” shuts them up (He has tried his luck) and I end up getting an admiral address from Will who yaps away for ages praising my use of French… it must be the drink. Nicola and I are dropped off home. And we soon exchange Will’s incessant nattering for the chitter-chatter of the frogs and their flighted friends.