Deck the Hall - Lundi, 04.12.06

Lundi 04.12.06 Deck the Hall

I eventually get up at 5,30. Nicola is just out the door to catch the 5,50 bus. My bus does arrive this morning. I’m in school in good time; ready for a new working week. Madame la Directrice is in a conference today so Madame Caruge is not present in my first class as she’s acting deputy principal and has to run the show. To get everyone motivated we get up and sing Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes. We then recap on the different ways to introduce ourselves using our name and age, and now our country of origin.

I come from Ireland. I come from Martinique.
You come from Martinique. You come from Ireland.

Where do you come from?

I’m nearly at pains to explain that this phrase refers to a country and not a nationality but it eventually hits home. Some of the older kids have obviously previously learnt – I’m from Martinique, and they stick in I’m come from Martinique. From also takes many forms – flum, frulum, froam, and it takes some repetition to iron out that mispronunciation. Some of the students are good at prompting one another and so that helps. And some kids use their initiative and use their own place of origin such as Haiti, Saint Lucia and Washington.

In groups of three or four I get them to introduce themselves to one another using their name and the newest acquired question and answer. Claude is very good at helping out but in Madame Caruge’s class they resort to chatting in French when I’ve moved on. It’s to be expected so I pounce between tables and quiz them.

Since I was previously shocked that some of the kids could not locate Martinique or even America on the map I’ve decided to incorporate this into the lesson. I’ve made tickets with the names of different countries; America. Australia. Britain. Martinique. Dominica. Ireland. France. Spain. Jamaica. I give one out to each kid and get them to come up individually and introduce themselves using their new country of origin. I ask each child: Where is America? Where is Dominica? Where is Ireland? They have to locate the country by pointing to it and repeating: This is America. This is Dominica. This is Ireland. They also use various tickets in their dialogue groups and swap them among themselves.

As each child now has three tickets I get them to pair off and guess where the other comes from; Do you come from America? Do you come from Dominica? They reply using Yes. I come from America or No. I come from Dominica, as it applies to their tickets. I only try this with Madame Caruge’s class as I realise it’s too much too soon. Not only that but at the same time another teacher appears at the door with four young children; their teacher is out today and for insurance reasons they have to be placed in a classroom. I explain that I shouldn’t even be teaching on my own and that I’m not prepared to baby-sit… though I don’t need to worry about that because about five of Madame Caruge’s pupils start to fuss over the young ones. There’s too much noise, it’s too much of a distraction and not enough concentration so I stand there with my hands on my hips until they calm down. They do but not for long as another student gets up and starts to talk to the young kids. I tell the babies to take out something to read and I tell the wayward student to sit down. He doesn’t despite his classmates protests. I won’t put up with that so I tell everyone to fold their arms and sleep - as if I was babysitting them. Go to sleep: I write on the board. It works. Silence. Some grumbles are heard though they stay like that for the last ten minutes of class until I’ve to go.

Madame Caruge is nowhere to be seen so I head to the secretary, Odile, to tell her that someone has to supervise the class. She locks up the office and I tell her about their distractive behaviour. I’m setting up for my next class with Claude when Odile reappears. She tells me that Madame Caruge wants to see me. By the time I’ve crossed the yard I’ll be late but Claude’s class are only returning from P.E so I’ve some time. Man, now I need to pee. Madame Caruge is spitting fire. Her class are definitely getting an earful. I feel sorry for her. Her class is usually so good, so attentive but they were attentive to the wrong people. “This is the first and the last time that this will happen,” she hisses at them and threatens them with sanctions. I don’t get a class apology but I’ve no time to linger. I excuse myself adding that I’ll now be late for my next class. As I head off I can still hear her nipping at their minds like a vicious dog.

Claude’s class are a dream. The unruly chap, Greg, is not there so maybe that’s all they need – no nonchalant nonsense. I eventually get to spend the last 15 minutes doing a sondage on métiers. I stick up a picture of a nurse, builder, farmer, dancer, singer, policeman and footballer with the relevant words. Each child gets a chance to come up and tell the class what they want to be:

I ask: What do you want to be when you grown up?
They reply: I want to be a ______________.

I put a mark beside each job and we tot them up at the end. Some have compiled a whole list of occupations. I ask them to choose one. There’s the usual selection of footballers, hairdressers and singers. There’s also a variety of future teachers; geography, French, maths and history. One girl wants to be a journalist and one guy wants to be a Formula 1 driver.

Alwin’s class are a bit more chatty than usual. One little guy is asked to stand up for a few minutes as he seems to like hopping out of his chair so much. I only choose five different tickets to simplify the lesson for these younger kids. They also don’t pair up for dialogues as it would involve too much movement – there’s over thirty of them. As for the professions they stick pretty much to the seven flashcards I stick on the board. One or two want to know what a vétérinaire (vet) or a chauffeur de bus (bus driver) is so I add them to the list. One little girl picks one job from her list of six. She aspires to be a canteen-lady. You can’t turn your nose up at their choices and I nod my head reassuringly at each of them.

Madame Thaly is in today. There is one ambulance driver, one singer, two policemen, two non-specified teachers, two farmers, three hairdressers, four nurses, four footballers and four wannabe cowboys in her class.

Nicola has been having a similar discussion with her pupils about role reversal nowadays. One of her classes is appalled at the thought of a man being a house-husband. It’s unheard of; they declare they’ve never heard of it and totally denounce it as a role. Only this morning I saw a man on the bus with a baby strapped to his front. He also had a shopping bag, a baby bag and a bum bag. He managed to unhook the baby carrier and lay the baby girl on her back across his knees for the duration of his journey, and before he got off he managed to get assembled again. Such tenderness, such ease and such dexterity; and such a contradiction to the pigeonholed views of those Lycée students. Never mind that the baby seemed to be a caramel colour and he was as black as coal. Perhaps he was the babysitter.

I meet with Nicola and Chloe in town for lunch. Chloe said her boyfriend, eh, husband actually, was not happy with her going out on Saturday so she stayed in. Whipped. She’s from the Metropole and her man, Pilly, is Martiniquan. She does observation studies in Lycée Schoelcher where Nicola teaches. We bring her to the all-you-can-eat canteen restaurant. Pilly rings her halfway through the meal and she tells him who she’s with, where she is, what she’s eating, what she’s thinking and when she’ll be back with the car. “You’re under-the-thumb my French friend,” I think to myself. I only thought that happened to guys - another role reversal of sorts I suppose.

Nicola and I have more car rental inquiries to make so we wave goodbye and leave her wavering at Pointe Simone (she’s even scared to be in that area with us and earlier with Nicola she insisted on driving to the multi-storey car park instead of just walking down the hill into town!). With more car info under our wings we decide to stock up on Christmas decorations. We blow €12 on some garlands, tinsel and inflatable Santa’s. Back at home I have a field day putting them up. We nicknamed the Santa’s as Nic (after Nicola and St. Nick) and Roo (after Rupe and Rudolph). They’re a bit full of hot air and so are we after a few bevvies on the terrace. Nic has bought some herbal teas but we stick to the beer blends instead.

Snooze on booze - dimanche, 03.12.06

dimanche 03.12.06 Snooze on booze

I sleep until 14,00. I’ve nothing else to do. Hang on… I’ve classes to prepare. One fry later I’m drawing my ideal village; we’re continuing with professions so I’ve decided to draw a factory, hospital, church, building site, shop, post office, hotel and restaurant to keep the children going and to keep me awake. Sketching may be a good way to shake off a hangover but colouring is sure to bring on a headache. Ahh! Bright colours. Hideous highlighters. Ghastly crayons. Actually the longer I spend with the paper, pencils and pens the more intricate the drawings come and I have to STOP before my head explodes. I make some tickets with the names of different countries to use for the second half of my class. I assemble my supports and eventually settle down for some snippets of sleep. I don’t know why I can’t get to sleep but I wake at intervals… It’s not long until I hear Arlette’s high-pitched morning nattering and Nicola rustling about in the kitchen. 15 more minutes in bed. Now 10. Then 2ZZZZzzzz. Oh, two more… then snore….

Ding,dong merrily on high - Samedi, 02.12.06

Samedi 02.12.06 Ding,dong merrily on high

Such fowl ducks-love-it weather we’re having. We risk getting swept away but we have to venture out this morning. We plough up the hill but I can’t help looking around at the mighty streams, gurgling gutters and ravenous rivers en route to the bus-stop. It’s just as well I look up otherwise we may have slipped on a dead rat – a drowned one at that. We’ve taken the early bus as a precaution; buses don’t stick to any sort of timetable on the weekend and the weather is sure to take a few more off the route today.

In Fort-de-France we take shelter in a café with our jus du goyave and pain au chocolat. The men in the place are staring at us but I suppose the rain outside really isn’t much to look at. Nicola goes off to teach her chatter-box chicks some choice phrases while I get the bus to Dillon to meet Madame Bonne. I ring her when I get to L’Imperial des Iles and no sooner have I turned around to gaze into the patisserie than I hear a toot-toot and spot her across the road. She doesn’t live far at all, yet her home is far from the grandeur I expected. It’s not that it’s rundown or unkempt it’s just not as classy as I had presumed. Their home at Montgérald seems to preoccupy the whole floor as her husband is working in the other apartment across the hall and the doors are both left open. He works on the fishery board. I’m told he went to Ireland last year on a junket. I’m told all about the family’s travels; how Madame Bonne, Jacqueline, was in London and how she brought her daughters to Barbados last Christmas. Her younger daughter, Kelly-Ann, wasted no time speaking English to the locals but Euryle (pronounced like Muriel without the M) was not at all keen on the idea. She’s thirteen, shy and wears braces – not that that should affect her English skills, but perhaps it does make her more conscious of herself. She’s my student today. I’ll have both of them next time but today’s task is to break the ice with Euryle.

She’s quiet but she knows her stuff and I reckon her resistance is due somewhat to her Mother’s persistence and her younger sister’s shine.

Imagine, I get paid to help her with her homework; it’s an exercise on London landmarks, and as I’ve never been it’s an education for me too. For the other half hour we work on dialogue sheets which have been pre-prepared by her mother; they’re on professions. It’s somewhat ironic that that’s what I’m doing in Chateauboeuf at the moment. There are three dialogues; one for a trainee teacher, another for a dentist and the last one is a non-specified director which turns out to be a film director. I can’t help but notice that the most positive qualities are attributed to the dentist who has to look at foul mouths and mouldy molars. The film director works long, erratic hours but there’s no mention of creativity or working with celebrities. I coax out that information after getting her to ask me about journalism. In the end she doesn’t know what she wants to be and I look at her in mock surprise but reassure her it isn’t always crystal palace clear.

Kelly-Ann is in school this morning and Madame Bonne is on her way into town to collect her so I get a lift in. She kindly brings me all the way to Route de la Vierge so I can check out sports clubs in the Maison de Sport. Unfortunately it’s just gone midday and the desk is closed but I pick up some pamphlets and head to the IUFM to call in on David.

Blessed is he among women… and football. He has been listening to the Scottish Premiership all morning and he offloads all his football fantasises on me. He supports Kilmarnock. At the time of writing they’re only three points off second place after winning 4-1 today. Celtic, of course, are on top.

David’s a bit thinner on top today. His new haircut makes him look like a grunt. He’s living an army life of sort all right; there’s no washing machine here so everyone has to wash their clothes by hand – he could have just hung them out the window last night and they’d be well agitated by now with all the rain and wind.

While I’m availing of the internet services David heads to Hyper U for provisions. I get fed up and when I finally get fed-up I head back into town to pick up some of my own grocery goodies. I’m not long in the queue when this guy turns around and asks if my six-pack of milk is for my baby. I tell him it’s for cereal. He doesn’t seem to know what cereal is and I don’t bother explain as he’s getting on my wick – what with his son and wife in tow. I ask the kid if this man always acts like this; the kid bashfully affirms my thoughts - such a sad case getting kicks from winding up women. I’ll give him kicks alright… I don’t bother talking to them again and I pass the time reading the headlines; Cyril. Le plus fort. Damn. I missed another stellar Star Academy show; though with last night’s weather the TV was probably on the blink anyway. The guy behind me is speaking away to someone on his BlueTooth earpiece and I actually thought it was me he was greeting – he eventually does strike up a conversation. His name’s Raphael. He plays the bongos on Rue Victor Schoelcher every Saturday morning and invites me to pop by next week. I have to ask what he does every other day. I should have just read his t-shirt; A camel can work for 10 days without drinking. I can drink for 10 days without working. His t-shirt should go in the laundry with his work.

I’m a few minutes late for the half four bus but so is the driver. He spies me with my heavy load and indicates with hands and lights that he’s pulling up further along the cemetery wall. Sound out. He’s the pervy young guy but he’s on the phone and a glowing grin simultaneously shows my gratitude and keeps him sweet. I thank him again as I alight and this time he has more to say…

The dirty, drowned devil’s dog is still on the road. It’s a pity the rain didn’t wash it away. It’s starting to swell; now bloated on drain rain. Its beady eyes are bulging; so are Arlette’s. She’s putting up her decorations; there’s a tinselled tree in the porch, as host of glistening garlands and she’s now hanging up the lights. The whole neighbourhood is in the festive mood tonight. There seems to be more cars down the road tonight than there were bouquets at Princess Diana’s funeral. La Créole is lit-up and people are filing into the underground garage which is opened up. Will comes around and we decide to get out of the hills and head for our regular Saturday night haunt in Schoelcher. Alwin hasn’t contacted me and Chloe pulls out at the last minute but it’s their loss. Will shows us the area where he works, and lives. He points out a flickering Rudolph in the distance; Pearl and Will Junior are no doubt sound asleep. You snooze you lose. Will and Pearl went for a snooze in February and ended up with someone else sharing their bed in November.

We feel like savouring a new scene - La Cabane. It’s right on the beach; sand under our feet, water lapping unto the shore and the stars in the night sky twinkling down on us. We stay there for a few drinks and unwind to the sounds of the sea and the sax. ‘Pink Panther’ Will nips off for a while to meet Jimmy and Edith. By the time he has returned we’re in form for a more up-tempo night and head to La Feuille de Tôle for cheaper drinks, mustard-smothered chips and the craic with Thierry the dustbin man who is also Will’s brother-in-law, and supposedly a cousin of Thierry Henry’s. Nothing better than Belgian fried chips to take the edge off the munchies – better than ‘gone off Coco Pops’ any day!

Thierry invites us to a Chanté Noël at Université Schoelcher (Ravine Nou Zar) in a few weeks time. It could be a good night, and we don’t need much persuading at the mention of schrubb and rum. Nicola’s got into the habit of drinking gin at La Feuille. Will goes for the Guinness and I take a few Caribs. There are more decorations here this week but we end up staying so late that we see them being taken down. Bye-bye Santa. Adios tinsel. Do widzenia fairy lights. There’s light on the horizon as we crawl into bed. I’m happy. A bit tipsy perhaps but, as the kids in school sing, “…what a lovely way to start the day…”

Winter Weather - Vendredi, 01.12.06

Vendredi 01.12.06 Winter Weather

Nic and I catch the 5,50 bus this morning. It’s way too early but at least we haven’t caught a cold yet. There are a few snivelling teachers and spluttering students in school today. Madame Bois and Mr Carval are my first two points of contact. Between the two classes I’ve got an aspiring Queen and wannabe midwife. The smiley fJce exercise keeps them all quiet. It works a treat too for Madame Pamphile and Madame Edragas’ broods. I get talking to Madame Pamphile and she’s nothing like the tough-cookie she usually lets on to be. I keep my distance from Madame Edragas but only because she has a cold and insists that I don’t take any risks for the weekend. Before I leave I ask Odile and Madame Do if the Rectorat rang. Negative. Though Madame Do tries to call them. The electricity was off today so there’s a possibly they did try to call but I’ll not know unless I go to the Rectorat myself.

I just miss the bus to Point Simone and have to stand at the bus-stop for half an hour with a crazy old lady who talks to herself and a young guy who tells me I’ve a German accent. We’re an odd trio but our chit-chat passes the time. In town I get another bus to Rond Point and I meet Nicola at Lycée Technique just before 1pm. We find a buffet bar which serves up a pleasant selection of food and festive fun. There’s live music and some couples are already up waltzing around in an attempt to shed traces of their midday stuffing session. The complementary buffet spread is more my thing and a bit of rum and punch sets me up for my trek to the Rectorat.

I’m there by 14,30 but there’s hardly anyone around. There’s nobody at the main desk and the gardener is not much help. I knock for Madame Profit and Madame L’Inspectrice but there’s no reply and the doors are locked. I walk around the back of the building to peak inside the windows but there’s not a soul to be seen. I wait back at the entrance until 15,00 and two ladies appear after a tipsy lunch-break. One of them get out her mobile and a minute later I’m informed that Madame L’Inspectrice is at a Stage this afternoon. Damn EDF strikers. Maybe Madame Profit did try to call Chateaubouef after all. I write a note asking her to contact me again and I slide it under the office door.

Thankfully the rain has eased-off and I walk back into town. The warm weather window closes just as I get on the bus. The rain is driving even harder than the bus driver is. I’m almost morphed into Mary Poppins as I sail down our road with my umbrella and the rivers of rainwater under my feet. The wind whistles through the house and despite closing the shutters I can still feel the odd violent spit of rain. The downpour is so deafening that I have to find my AirFrance earplugs so I can finish FILTH in peace. Thunder and lightening are not long coming and it’s a stormy night which sees in the start of December.

Mosquito-Men IN BLACK II - jeudi, 30.11.06

jeudi 30.11.06 Mosquito-Men IN BLACK II

It may be the last day of November but it certainly isn’t the last day of the mosquitoes; in fact it’s as if they have discovered me for the first time. My drainpipes are dotted with numerous nasty nips. They’re not so numerous that I can’t count them but after twenty I begin to feel a bit nauseous when I think about all the blood they’ve drained. Bloody Roger Moore’s. Not only to they suck out your blood but they also leave a little oral offering; these miserable blood-suckers leave a miniscule vial of vile of their mossie mucous embedded in your skin and if you itch it just won’t stop so it’s better not to give in. I’ve a wild desire to itch. Just one. Just once. Just do it. I use the end of my umbrella to scratch my foot. Its relief of a sort but it’s short-lived. A tingling grows beneath my skin. The redness spreads. The itch returns. What the hell. I itch around the red glossy swell. The bus lurches alongside the footpath and my scratching ceases.

Today I am continuing with professions and the family. Last Thursday was the fourth Thursday in November so that means it was Thanksgiving time in America. I was otherwise occupied last week so today I tell the kids about the Pilgrim Fathers, the Mayflower, the stuffed turkey and pumpkin pie which bring American families together for this yearly tradition. I mention that Irish and British people do not celebrate Thanksgiving but this year I went to an American friend’s home to join in on the celebrations. This brings us back to the notion of the family and I introduce my mother, my father, my brother, my sister, the baby, my Grandfather, my Grandmother, my Aunt, my Uncle and my cousin with the help of my cardboard cut-outs and flashcards. I place them in a hierarchal family tree formation. We play listen and touch individually and in teams. Not surprisingly Mother and brother seem to cause the most problems.

The next part of the class involves professions or jobs. I have face cut-outs and flashcards to illustrate various professions and figures and so I stick them on the faces of my family as I introduce each person and their relevant profession; nurse, builder, farmer, policeman, footballer, dancer, Queen, Indian.

Nurse. Farmer.
A nurse. A farmer.
My mother. My grandfather.
My mother is a nurse. My grandfather is a farmer.
She is a nurse. He is a farmer.


I point to each face cut-out, then to a family member and I finally affix the professional face on the individual and get the kids to repeat the above sentences after me.

After that I call out a sentence eg. He is a policeman or My uncle is a policeman, and the kids shoot-up their hands if they know which person it is. They then come up and point to the policeman or my uncle and repeat the phrases. Is he/she right? I ask the children, and most of them reply while others just sulk because they haven’t had a turn.

I should have laminated my cut-outs as they’re getting plenty of use this week. Father already has a missing eye – the Blutack took it away. And cousin’s left leg must have also got mauled by the Blutack bulldog.

Finally I write the title of each family member under their accompanying figure. The children repeat, repeat and repeat until they’re as blue as Blutack. It’s copybook time so under the date goes the title My Family and in the middle of the page they each draw themselves – a circle, two eyes and a mouth suffices:

J
ME

And as I remove each cut-out figure I replace it with another smiley, speckled, curly-haired, bald, spiky-haired, toothy, lippy or big-eared chalk face. The females are drawn in pink chalk and the males in blue. Me, baby and cousin get green chalk grins as they are neutral terms. The pupils are keen to copy the exact colours I use so this exercise works a treat yet even though I start off explaining why I’m going to use pink and blue for the females and males respectively I still get the odd child who pipes up in a moment of revelation that all the girls are pink and all the boys are blue. Bravo!

Claude’s class are in good form today – they’re not their usual sluggish selves. Madame Caruge’s class still insist on using rap-artist and singers names for their teams – Snoop Dog and Pussy Cat Dolls. I rechristen them Dogs and Cats. Madame Thaly is not in today so her class is dispersed. Some of them are in Madame Acina’s class but Madame Acina herself seems to have been replaced by that young male trainee teacher.

His name is Alwin – it’s pronounced like a girl’s name. His name, his cursive writing and his earring could have had me fooled but at the end of the class he asks if he can speak to me. With 60 beady eyes set on us we shuffle over to the door. I actually think he’s going to give me some new-age teacher advice about being sensitive towards children’s family situations (I asked the children to take down ALL the family members even if they didn’t apply to them). But no. He asks me out instead. “What are you doing this weekend?” he asks in French. “Pas grand chose,” I reply, relishing in his following nervous numbness.

For a while there I was nearly fooled into believing that not all Martiniquan men are mosquito-like but Alwin instantly goes down in my book as another parasite – straight out of Paris and under my skin in a tick. I remember back to the first conversation with him where he told me that I looked like a girl in the IUFM. It was a strange way to strike up a conversation especially when I was only passing by the classroom and he had to stick his head out the window to talk to me.

This time round I let him sweat it out in silence for a while. Madame Thaly isn’t in so I’ve Scottish Football Association classes to get on with. I pipe up that there’s a party in Acajou on Saturday and I may go; but he still says nothing. I actually think he’s shy and I save him wasting more class time and jot down my number adding that if the party plans don’t work out I’ll probably just go for drinks with some friends. Like the leech he seems to be becoming he perks up, hands me his details and asks if he can see me; as in just me, not with a group. Negative. Awkward, inappropriate and unprofessional to the core. I say goodbye to the pupils and Alwin and skip out of the classroom and over to the office where another mosquito-man is waiting for me; it’s a parasite parent. Imagine, leeches in the school and all; in my day we had head lice but at least you didn’t have to be civil to them. I pop into Madame Do to ask about Christmas holidays and Odile offers to fix me up with a calendar of all the upcoming events.

Back at home I’m inundated with calls. It doesn’t even cross my mind that I may now have a French-speaking stalker – but I don’t. The secretaire, Madame Profit, from the Rectorat, offers to call me tomorrow should Madame L’Inspectrice not be in that afternoon. I also get two calls from a CAF contact who is processing my dossier. She’s full of official-speak but it’s good to know that someone’s already seeing to my application for a rent refund. James is also on the blower. I texted him earlier about going to his place in Saint-Marie next weekend. However he is having a dinner with his institutrice and some other scholars that Saturday. “Sorry but any other time,” he adds apologetically. My phone doesn’t get a break as Nicola is firing texts my way – her latest eye-candy is on the bus again. He is attractive but he isn’t my type. My guy’s probably typing-up a multitude of essays, pouring over some tough texts and studying simultaneously. If only he could read my mind…

Beach bums - mercredi, 29.11.06

mercredi 29.11.06 Beach bums

Heather, Raketa and I are off to the beach today. Nicola’s still feeling poorly and the fact that Heather and I are nattering away early in the morning doesn’t help her head. I had fired out a few texts last night telling people to meet at McDo is they were on for a bit of beaching across the bay; David got back saying he had classes (for once!), Lola said she was busy but nobody else replied so rapidly. You spend a fortune here on phone credit. Digicel and Orange are the main providers but Heather was telling us about the ONLY network which gives you 12 hours of free calls a month for €35. However, you can’t use that phone outside of Martinique and you also can’t text internationally. Rip. On top of that the phone coverage and services in general aren’t great - I got a delayed text from Kesha the next morning telling me she couldn’t make the beach trip.

Raketa didn’t reply but I spotted her on the street and flagged her down. Heather and herself had both just been to the health centre to pick up their medical results to say they don’t have tuberculosis or bronchitis or lung cancer or whatever suspected illness the French establishment believe they may have; this administrative procedure leaves North Americans, and other non-Europeans, hanging around for two months without their social security numbers and long term visas.

Thankfully crossing the bay isn’t so tedious. We leave the black billowing clouds in Fort-de-France and chase the sun over to Anse l’Ane. The sea is a bit rougher than usual but the wild waves don’t deter us from jumping in. The sun fades a bit but the heat is still on; my sun cream clearly isn’t, as I turn crimson by the end of the day.

The sun cream may be forgotten but there’s one son who isn’t; Raketa’s son. Honestly, I’ve forgotten his name but he’s two years-old and has a plastic tri-cycle – what more do you need to know?! How does she manage to work here with him? I did ask that. He’s in day-care during the day. You could opt for private day-care at €340 a month but public day-care is also available and it is calculated at 12% of the parent’s/mother’s weekly wage. Raketa goes for the later. She’s considering renewing her contract and staying here for another year. She’s settled in and to move in half a year would be quiet unsettling for her child. She, herself, has lived in Africa, America and France so her wanderlust has perhaps been satisfied for a while. She tells us about the job she left at home in the States. She worked in a private secondary school teaching English, French and Literature and although she quit the classroom work before she moved to Martinique she still does on-line classes with a few students, including one who is training as a swimmer for the Olympics and another who is running his own business. It’s fascinating to hear how it works and how it works out. Heather mentions that she took a few online classes, such as geology, in her final year of college to make credits.

It’s soon time for some lunch. Chips and dips are the order of the day from the beach café. We inspect and compare the girls’ x-ray reports. Leering lads don’t need x-ray specs to check out the talent on this shoreline; a lady whips off her top in front of us and bounces across the beach before diving into the sea. All eyes are on the sea but we’re on the lookout for other buoyant devices; the navettes. We hop on board and in no time at all (well 25 minutes), we’re back in Fort-de-France.

Ceri is at the jetty waiting on the navette. She’s on her way across the bay to teach her tutrice’s four year-old son. Raketa goes to collect her son. Heather heads for the TaxiCo, and I say bye-bye and go to buy some groceries. I pick-up Nicola’s herbal brew in LeaderPrice. She has actually ventured into town to check out the ONLY phone deal but as fate would have it she forgot her bank details.

Back at the ROWANTREE RANCH we crack open a few bevvies and set about planning our Christmas trip with Pam, Dan and Fergal. Nicola’s in charge of lodgings and I’m taking care of logistics. By the end of the night various brochures, leaflets, tourist books, travel guides, maps and calendars are spread across the terrace, and not long after we find ourselves spread across our beds.

Ho! Ho! Ho! Joyeux Noël

Hi all,

I hope you have a fabulous Christmas and a fantastic New Year wherever you are.

Enjoy the festivities :)
Ruth

Gone awol or gone fishing? - mardi 28.11.06

mardi 28.11.06 gone awol or gone fishing?

Umm. Something’s definitely up with the buses this week. The drivers tend to change from week to week so this one is either lost, late, lazy or just loathes his job. My knight comes along in shining silver armour. It’s Charles in his Daewoo. He’s off fishing for the day. There are clear skies ahead and no doubt he could do with a clear head after all Arlette’s mad mutterings of late. I have to tell her later that I’ve a friend staying over. But that can wait… There’s a dog trying to get on the bus in front of us. It’s rear-end is barely visible but a foot suddenly appears and whooshes it back on to the path.

I’m in just after 6,30 and decide to head to the wooden shelters along the waterfront to read my filthy book in peace. Lots of people will be milling about on the other jetties as they come off the navette from Trois-Ilets so the place will be nicely animated though I’ll pick a jetty shelter nearby but not so close as to be disturbed by the noisy navettes. Nicola got the 5,50 bus this morning as her class starts at 7,30 and last week the traffic was so bad that it was hardly worth her while going in. As I approach the jetty I spy a familiar white shirted, blonde-haired figure; it’s Nicola. We chat away and it’s no time until we have to make a move. We arrange to meet for lunch and continue on our separate ways.

Monique, the teacher I acquainted yesterday, is on the same bus as me and we chat on the way in. I start the day with Madame Bois’ CM2 class, followed by Mr Carval’s. Since both these teacher’s had an active part in last weeks foreign festivities I help their pupil’s translate the posters which the Finnish delegation brought over. I only go through one poster with each class as I’ve my own class work to get on with. Plus, by the time each student has read out a line and I’ve translated it into French the time has rolled on. I ask the children to think of what they would like to write on their own class poster for the next time we work on it and continue with Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes.

Next up are Madame Pamphile’s and Madame Edragas’ CE2 classes. The children in Madame Pamphile’s class shake my hand as they file in after break saying, “Nice to meet you”. One little girl asks if she can greet me with a kiss as they do here. If she does they all will follow suit. It’s time consuming enough with the teachers and it may not be the wisest habit to pickup in a school with 400 students so I tell her it’s not my custom to do so. There’s a little deaf boy in Madame Edragas’ class and when it comes to naming parts of the face he’s the only one to know what ears are in English. He leaps up and down so much before I get him to answer that I think he’s going to unhinge his hearing-aides.

I may be finished teaching but my work for the day is not done. Madame Do informed me this morning that Dominique Bois still requests my assistance with correspondence with our foreign friends. In order to get the grant money from the big boys in the E.U for the Comeinus project each visiting school has to send off an assessment form. I translate the short but official text and make a point of telling Madame Do that I’ve done it; that should cancel out my tardiness and her wrist-tapping.

Nicola and I venture to the marché for lunch. There’s a cock-a-doodledoo tied to the railings near the café quartier but that doesn’t deter us from choosing ‘chicken’ for mains. Nicola’s still feeling out-of-sorts so she gets a chicken salad. I opt for the meal deal with ti-punch, accras and poulet grillé. I get ice-cream with my lunch and Nicola decides to indulge too. We both go for coconut but it’s that marzipan-mix which doesn’t seem have a trace of coconut. We’re served by a scrawny, hunched old lady with no teeth; it could have been her who sucked out the coconut flavour, along with her teeth. We waddle down to the Post Office and I sit in the cool, conditioned salle as Nicola inquires about a postal order to pay her HDip candidate fee.

Christmas is just around the corner. Literally. The shops are brimming with tinsel, tacky twinkling lights, spray snow and novelty neon Santa Claus figures. The most gigantic baubles I’ve ever seen are here in Martinique; if that dropped off the Christmas tree and hit you you’d have more than a dent in your pocket over the festive season. Without touching the decorations though I reckon Christmas will still leave a big enough dent in everyone’s pockets; though it’ll be worth it. My boyfriend, Fergal, Nicola’s sister, Pamela, and Pamela’s boyfriend Dan are coming over on December 28th. Pam and Dan are staying until January 8th while Fergal is staying until the 14th. We’re back to school on January 8th so I hope Fergal survives living under Madman Arlette’s roof for a week! On verra…

We’ll have to rent a car while our guests are here as we plan to get out of Fort-de-France for the time they’re over. I’m sure the odd Taxi-Co would be out to make a killing but we need wheels not wheelers and dealers. We call up to the place at Point Simone but it’s closed till 15,00. We spot a sign for location de voitures over the bridge and decide to check it out. It’s an old sign and there’s no sign of any rental place so we turn back just as a policeman advises us not to go up the road. We thank him for his information even though it’s the damn road that Nicola treks up every morning on her way to school. We then head to Europcar. Nicola drives a Seat Cordova in Ireland so she’s jumping for joy to the world when we get a quote for that. The caution is €700 and the rental is a hundred less. It starts to sound like we should have bought a car but hey, it’s Christmas, time for splurging, and the rental will be spilt five ways anyway. The guy at the desk wants us to learn Créole so if we come back with a few choice phrases maybe he’ll drop the price!?

Nicola and I go back up the dodgy road. I’m off for a close shave at the beauticians and Nic’s back to wax lyrical about Michael Jackon to her students. There are three young ladies on a stage in the salon and things are noticeably slower than usual. I was due to meet Heather back in town at 16,00 but its 17,30 by the time I’m in. I’m already late so before I catch Heather I pop into the rental place near Point Simone as it’s now open. Suzie is the lovely lady behind the counter. She’s down-to-earth and knows what I’m on about when I ask about striking a price deal as we indeed to rent the car a few times during the year. There’s a Peugeot 206, with a caution of €500, going for €460. It’s cheaper than the Seat though the seat and boot space in the Peugeot could be a problem as we’ll have five people with big bags travelling around in this car for 11 days. I take in the information, thank Suzie and scurry off to meet Heather.

Back at the ranch we feast on pizza and natter away. We eventually settle down to watch Ed TV. It’s barely watchable; it’s the beer, tiredness and company which grounds me to my seat. At least I’m content. Arlette didn’t throw a mikey-fit over Heather staying for the night, though she’d be a right spazwit if she did. If anything I think we made our peace as she talked about seeing me in the paper with Aimée Cesaire…blah-blah-blah. I tell her how three assistants have already left Martinique and how one has had a burglary, another experienced a near-kidnapping and another looked out her window to see a gloved hand going for the latch. I tell old hawk-eyes that it’s a good job she keeps an eye on the gate. I’m not cheeky. It’s just the usual banter with the oul bat. Maybe she morphs into one come midnight, and flits down to the eaves to eavesdrop on our conversation. Halloween is dead and gone…yada-yada. Well with Christmas coming maybe a turkey will be her next reincarnation.

En retard - Lundi 27.11.06

Lundi 27.11.06 en retard

It’s back to real work again this week. The bus seems to be acting up. The 6,20 hasn’t come by 6,40 and I start to get a bit panicky; every minute counts in this early morning rush. I decide to stick my thumb out at respectable looking souls but even at that they don’t slow down. I’m considering calling in sick or calling Charles or Arlette when a white pick-up truck pulls up. A man and a woman are in the front and they ask me where I’m going. Fort-de-France? Right answer. I hop in the back of the cab and settle in for our 50 minute, 5km drive.

The couple are friendly and reasonably chatty. The woman has a thick Créole accent which I find hard to decipher but the man takes his time and looks in the review mirror as he talks to me. The traffic is so slow that I have enough time to give them a geographically lesson on Ireland. The lady works in town while the man works in a Lycée Professionnel in François, about 30km away.

I only get the bus to Chateaubouef at 7,45 and so I’m late for school. Of course it’s the one day that Madame la Directrice, Madame Do, is standing outside. I flash a smile as I move in for the kissy-kissy greeting. She exchanges my gay greeting by tapping her watch and muttering something about 10 minutes. My single word answer silences her. Embouteillages. Traffic-jams. I wouldn’t mind but Mr Duval’s class are still lined-up outside and some student stragglers are following me into this Bovine Castle, plus I’m at least 20 minutes if not half an hour early every other day.

Madame Caruge’s class are waiting for me. I apologise for my tardiness but they seem unconcerned; they’re just happy that I’m there. They really are a nice bunch; attentive, inquisitive and bearably competitive. Some of the other classes would tear their team-mates apart if they didn’t get an answer right or were too slow off the mark. Mr Duval’s class always have P.E first thing on a Monday morning which must suck as come rain, hail or shine they’re out in it training for the semi-marathon. It’s also sucks the life out of most of them. If it’s raining they’re tired and if it’s hot they’re just lethargic. This weariness means that there’s hardly a peep out of them but that isn’t any use when I want them to repeat what I teach.

To get them moving I start off with parts of the body…head, face, eyes, ears, mouth, nose, neck, shoulders, arms, hands, fingers, thumbs, legs, knees, feet, toes… It’s a hands-on activity and there’s lots of action on my part; my hair becomes tousled: my skirt is hitched up to reveal my knobbly knees: I toss off a shoe to grab my toes to the astonished ohhs and ahhs of the class. And once they’re feed up to the teeth with pointing, touching, nodding, opening, closing, smelling, hearing, looking, talking, chewing, knelling, wiggling, shaking, bending and kicking around the room I use flash cards for a listen and touch game and another variation where I remove a flashcard and make them tell me which one is missing. After that I get them going with Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes. I already did this with the younger classes as part of my Irish dancing workout but not surprisingly some of these older students already know it too. The girls then come up to the front and perform in as girly as manner as possible, while the boys follow taking on manly movements. Since toes is the last word of the song I pickup on that and ask what we purposes our feet have. Predictably someone mentions football. Gud oul fitba; international by name and by nature. From here I can pickup on nationalities and professions; David Beckham, Victoria Beckham, Beyoncé, Fifty Cent, Thierry Henri, Aimée Cesaire and his best friend, yours truly, as well as our foreign friends from last week are thrown into the mix:

This is David Beckham. This is Beyoncé.
His name is David. Her name is Beyoncé.
He comes from England. She comes from America.
He is English. She is American.
He is a footballer. She is a singer.

I try to demonstrate the difference between his/her and he/she with furtive pointing and patting of heads. Some things just have to be written but that will follow.

I add my own spiel:

I’m Ruth.
My name is Ruth.
I come from Ireland.
I am Irish.
I am a teacher.

Likewise they’re instructed:

We come from Martinique.
We are Martiniquan. We are French.
We are students.

I am from Martinique.
I am Martiniquan. I am French.
I am a student.


Aimée Cesaire clears up the Martiniquan/French identity crisis and so we stick with Martiniquan as the children’s chosen nationality. I show them a photocopy of my passport with IRELAND and IRISH highlighted though they’re more interested in my name and previous hairstyle.

To end the class I produce cut outs of different professions and play figures; nurse, builder, farmer, policeman, Indian, Queen. One kid is so shocked at knowing the word Queen before I’ve even said it! I distribute them among the younger classes and as I point to my own blutacked images and call out the word they hold up the corresponding image. Some of the pupils are very good at correcting oneanother – even if they do shoot each other down a bit too much. Madame Thaly’s class are blazing today while Madame Acina’s (which now seems to be taken over by the trainee teacher, Alwin) are more chatty and more concerned about sticking the figures to their heads than being correct. For some reason I left Madame Acina’s class 15 minutes early and so I spent an hour with Madame Thaly’s class – much to her relief I dare say as the poor woman looked a bit harassed today. I wind up each class by asking the children to think of what profession they would like to have in the future – the future being next week! Quand je serai grand, je serai ________. When I’m older I want to be a _________.

I get the bus into town with Monique, a CP1 teacher with children aged 7-8. She’s down-to-earth and flashes me a big smile as she gets off at her stop.

Back home the clouds are acting up. There’s a strange cloud formation on the horizon. It looks like a solid pillar of cloud in the middle of the bay. If it’s a tidal wave we’re screwed. Better to be screwed in bed, than swept away on the terrace, says I and so I hop off to the leaba for forty winks. I blame that Welsh dude for my vulgar language of late. Not Gethin but Irvine Welsh, author of Trainspotting and my current read, the aptly named, Filth. There are no waves crashing down on me but tiredness washes over and I’m halfway there until I hear some rustling outside. It’s Charles dropping off some post - another letter from Crèdit Mutuel. They want me to call into the bank regarding some business with my account. I can’t help but think that some yobo in there just got hold of my address and wants to lure me in for a quick rendez-roo. It’s Martinique after all; there are bound to be more dodgy withdrawals and Western Union advances here than in the Cayman Islands. I put away the letter and decide to sleep on it.

Semi-marathon - dimanche 26.11.06

dimanche 26.11.06 Semi-marathon

I wake up feeling rough. My teeth are sore. I’m suddenly aware of the chattering creatures outside my window; the bird calls drill into my brain, the frog sounds hop into my head and the natterings of the natural world fill my mind until I drown in the drone and fall back to sleep. At least I can function and scavenge for some nourishment; Nicola is in a worse way. She’s on dry toast, soup and sweet tea but by the end of the day she swaps the soup bowl for the toilet bowl. We had planned to visit the Jardin de Balata but our plans literally go down the drain.

I’m content to just read my latest literature find. Karla had a stack of books at her house and so now Irvine Welsh’s Filth is now keeping me entertained. It’s as raw as the burger I pop into the oven and as rough as I felt this morning. It’s great to have nothing else to do or rather have no need to do anything else.

My lesson plan for the week involves foreign bodies - I will cover both different nationalities, body parts and the family and professions. Since we were recently graced with the presence of our Finnish, German, Polish and Irish friends it seems apt to continue with this and I’ve thrown in the body parts as Christmas is coming so they will have to know where scarves, gloves and stockings go even if they have no need for those garments here.

An early night is in order but I don’t wrap up until after midnight and when I do only a flimsy sheet shelters me from the silent sleet of sleep.

Seasonal depression - samedi 25.11.06

Samedi 25.11.06 Seasonal depression

The early morning sun filters in through the slatted window. It’s only early yet but the heat cooks me as I lie on my back looking up at the ceiling, waiting for tiredness to come again. It doesn’t knock at my door but something else is making a racket. Scratch. Scratch. Scurry. Scurry. It could be mice but it’s actually bats. So long as they stay outside, under the rafters I’m content to stretch out. Karla tells us she had five fluttering around the house a while back. The repellent only seemed to make them more batty; though those that weren’t trapped in jam jars eventually shrivelled-up and died. I think I’m about to do likewise. The heat is a killer today; I don’t know how Karla can go for her early morning run. I nurse my cup of coffee and admire Marie-Ange’s collection of karate awards. The dresser is laden with cups, medals and plaques. Her son was the French Karate champion a few years ago. The lady herself appears and asks where Karla is. The unhurried pitter-patter of a jogger’s final footsteps are heard as Karla lopes down the lawn towards us.

Christmas lights, tinsel and garlands from the night before sway slightly as a light breeze wafts by. Heather appears. We help Karla clean out her kitchen both by instant-consumption and immediate-stockpiling; before we leave the house we leave the fridge a bit brighter and lighter.

We’re only at the bus stop a minute when a battered bagnole creeps up alongside us. The toothless goons ask if we want a ride. We pass but the next vehicle also slows down and the guy in a jeep offers us a lift. We’re not in any rush but a free ride is a free ride. He thinks we’re American but we set him straight. He’s adamant to speak English and tells us that he wants to visit our countries but he doesn’t have any contacts there yet. We play up our dumb-tourist charm – vague, non-committal feigned interest seems to work best with weirdoes. He searches for a map which I presume he will use to pinpoint our weekly whereabouts. He doesn’t find it but I ask him where Ti-Sable is. It’s at Rivière-Pilote in the south. Heather and her housemates have been invited to this place as one of their teachers plays music there. Our jeeper-creeper, Didier, is also in a band – Bonaire City. They’re playing in Fort-de-France tomorrow at the Semi-Marathon and even though he’s a cool dude he seems enthusiastic at the thought that we may be there. As if… We’re dropped off in town and congratulate one another on our simulated stupidity! We browse about the shops for a bit. Some floaty dresses catch Heather’s eye but at €60 each we swiftly say bye-bye and move on. Heather goes to the internet café while I pop into Bibliothèque Schoelcher to leave back my books. A bunch of lads are on the other side of the road. “I luuve you baby,” one shouts across to me. “No you don’t,” I respond on the rebound. The group go wild with laughter. I pop on my shades and wander down the road with a wide smile on my face.

I spot Nicola at the bus stop. I’m under the shelter and she’s struggling by with a six-pack of water in one hand and some beers in the other. I call out to her and we stand in the shade together before tiring and getting unto our hunkers to chat. A tramp stops beside us and bends down to join in on our conversation. He’s a cute old man. He grins constantly and breaks into song. We don’t understand Spanish but he then starts to speak a bit of English. He doesn’t seem to have a word of French or a pick of fat on him. He spots my bus ticket and asks for it. Nicola pulls out a €2 coin and he hops off with that; though not before asking for more. He’s grateful nonetheless, and this hapless yet happy hobo shuffles up the road to the bus.

Supposedly our water has been off all morning. I need a shower. I’m almost repulsed by my post-party stench; it was probably the familiar, foul fragrance which attracted the hobo in the first place. One of our neighbours gets off the bus and we ask her about the water works. We’re told it may be off until this afternoon but when we get home and turn the taps they stream with milky fluid. One towelling, two shampooings and three rinses later I’m out on the terrace munching on brie and sipping tea.

We plan to head out with Will again tonight so we get some kip before we hit the beach bar floor. I miss a few calls from Karine; she leaves a message asking how the Thanksgiving meal went. I consider inviting her out but she has a young son who’s probably tucked up by now. Nicola had a Frenchie called Chloë observing her classes in Lycée Schoelcher during the week and we arrange to meet her. However, by the time we’ve risen she has pulled out and Will, Nik and I head to La Feuille de Tôle again for some beer and cheer. There are more decorations up this week and although we don’t meet any of the college crowd, or dance with the Rasta men, it’s not long until 4,00 comes round and we head home.

For once in Martinique I’m cold. It’s probably a mixture of tiredness and alcohol too but I need to borrow Will’s jumper. A rum warms me up a bit - a run would too. Will spins a yarn about doing the Semi-Marathon in the morning; it starts in two hours. I reckon he’ll be dashing off to bed soon instead of running along dashes in the middle of the road. We’re dropped off home and soon drop off.

The life of Reilly - vendredi 17.11.06

vendredi 17.11.06 The life of Reilly

I can’t believe how quickly the week has flown. It seems like no time since I was starting the day by confiscating scissors and diaries. Today however, starts on a happier note; Cherie FM is blaring on the bus. It plays mainly English songs so Nic and I are in our element as we sing along to cheesy 80’s tunes. Total Eclipse of the Heart gets us going and we’re in top form by the time we cruise into Fort-de-France while crooning away to Take my breath away.

My next bus journey is not as animated but I’m still humming away to myself as I enter Chateauboeuf. I spot Christophe in the yard but Aurore is in the classroom as per usual; she apologises for being absent-minded last week. Christophe’s class have prepared a display showing the different types of forest found in Martinique. It’s interesting though not aesthetically inspiring especially as blobs of green glue drip from behind the leaflets and leaves and others have fallen off.

I reuse yesterday’s lesson plan, though I only play one game of BINGO to allow ample time for the price exercise, and possibly a slot for foreign greetings.

Both Christophe and Dominique’s classes love BINGO, though one girl in Dominique’s class incorrectly yells out BINGO three times; even though I’ve called out neither 13 nor 30 she has them both marked off. Two of her classmates steal some Blutack and Dominique threatens to roast them over a spit at the festival. Her eagle eyes don’t miss a thing. I hadn’t even noticed, but since they only have white pâte à fixe here it sticks out well. We’ve a few minutes at the end of the class to run through some German greetings and Polish welcomes. I leave a poster with the phrases in each class room so the kids can practise; if only they took such notions as quickly as they take Blutack.

At the break I find myself doing more translations. I help Dominique with questions relevant to the class projects and Régine asks me to translate a text on costumes and carnivals. They’re both interesting pieces and should our visitors tire of searching for the answers I can always save them the hassle and give them the answers; for a fee of course or a pint perhaps.

Its back to step one with the younger children, as we try to get heels, toes and hand changing motions in sync with the music; it’s too fast for their tiny, faltering feet and fluttering fingers so I end up just shouting out the commands over the music. Madame Pamphile decides to choose the three best pairs in her class to dance but Madame Edragas wants to include her whole class; they can sort it out themselves as I’m done for the week.

Lunchtime is always a flurry of cars, chat and clatters and it’s hard to get away without spending a frantic five minutes on farewell formalities. I lightly tap Madame la Directrice on the arm and wish her a good weekend. Eduardo is just driving in the gate and I wish him likewise. Christophe pulls up at the bus stop and offers a lift but I’m mid-call and he’s not going into town so I wave him on, mouthing merci.

I’m between two minds whether to hang about to meet Nicola or whether to head home. In the end I decide to linger for lunch and I pass the time in Bibliothèque Schoelcher. I join up and take out two books: Life of Pi by Yann Martel and Le Chat qui cassait la Baraque by Lilian Jackson Braun.

Nicola had her first class with Edith, the witch woman. All went well with her but it was the class who were unruly. The lesson was about piercings and tattoos and it eventually drifted unto Pamela Anderson and Goths – which quickly dried-up as the students pointed-out that they couldn’t possibly become Goths (I think that rates with the previous “black-eye” class!!).

Eventually homosexuality rears its many heads. Nicola explains that sexual orientation and religion can usually be determined among men with pierced ears in Ireland; in Northern Ireland Protestants wear an earring in their left ear while Catholics wear one in their right ear. The reverse applies for straight and gay guys in Ireland. One guy has both his ears pierced. He has obviously picked up on certain elements of the lesson and justifies his look by explaining that he is both Catholic and straight.

Nicola has been asked many times if: a) she is married; b) she has kids; and c) if she has a boyfriend. When she replies in the negative they ask her if she is a gween, a lesbian. She tells them otherwise but adds that she lives with a female friend. The questions start-up again and they break into laughter and start nudging each other at the thought of two girls living in such close proximity. Even if some guys give in to the thought of lesbian action they are not at all approving of male mating.

These sixteen and seventeen-year olds believe that homosexuals should be burned, turned out of their homes, shot and exterminated. One of the teachers is so taken aback by their blinkered judgement and condemning comments that she gives out, defending a person’s sexual orientation. She then asks the boys how they can wear earrings, necklaces and braids; in her mind they seem to be contradicting themselves by taking on the appearance of girls while hating gay guys. She challenges them asking how they would feel if a friend or family member was gay. Their reactions are even more explicit. Although they don’t use this phrase they are of the opinion that “God made Adam and Eve, not Adam and Steve”. The world turns but some people stay stuck in the shade. C’est la vie. That’s life.

The Life of Pi is far more absorbing and tolerant of different religions and lifestyles. I love how Martel’s mind works; it’s like an ever-turning kaleidoscope seeing the world’s ever-changing multiplicity. The long evening stretch becomes noticeably shorter as I soak up the story of this unusually-named boy and his life-buoy.

Don’t dare call me Jade - Jeudi 16.11.06

Jeudi 16.11.06 Don’t dare call me Jade – it’s for your own good

It’s 5,45. We’re in Arlette and Charles’ home signing the CAF documents. I’m relieved to see the correct forms have been purchased and presented – that must have set Arlette back by at least €30. She goes off on a ramble about why she wrote a particular clause at the back – I presume it’s to save our backs as well as hers. We ask if we can stay until the end of April without paying an additional week’s rent and of course she’s alls nods and smiles without actually saying the words we want to hear. We may not stay here past then as the summer months may be better spent au bord de la mer - we’ll see how things pan out.

I was set to tell Arlette how unreasonable her request is for visitors to fork out, but I let it pass as I’ve to get the bus. Plus, I’ve decided to run it past her gigolo first – it was William, our Belgium neighbour, who contacted us on Arlette’s behalf while we were still in Ireland. Nicola and I are convinced he told us it was fine to have friends over. My argument is that this extra cost was not indicated initially. And despite it being probable that we may have to fork out for extra people, we feel that €150 a week is an extortionate amount especially when we already rent the place. It seems greed is the only motivation behind this request. It was Arlette herself who told us that she is “not a business”; but her manner is certainly money-orientated. And she calls herself a Christian. Pah! I quizzed her as to what the €150 covered: bed, lighting and water. Water is the only rate I could see reason with. The lights will be on no matter if two or twenty people are present and paying for the bed when we already rent the place is just ridiculous. On the contract it says that this apartment is only suitable for two people, so would it not be Nik and I who suffer if people stay? The damn place isn’t even air-conditioned, and there’s no fan supplied. I know rightly that another body, or two, makes for a restless night’s sleep. If two people stayed for the week it’d be best to rent out the place next door as it’s advertised on the internet at €300 per week (though that’s another story…)! If anybody out there has any advice or comments please feel free to pass them on before we get bamboozled!

Nik and I have a right old rant about this as she walks me up to the bus stop. She’s still in her PJs and she ambles back to bed as I head to school. I photocopy our precious documents; sacrificing time that I had planned on preparing for class.

Madame la Directrice asks me how the children are getting on with their foreign phrases. I tell her I’m not prone to Finnish pronunciation even though she advises I guess it. I add that I know someone who could help me and she lets me use the phone as I try to phone my Finnish friend Jarno. At first however, she protests by saying that her card is used up and the phone doesn’t work. I produce a call card and she sends another teacher into the office to help me use it. I voice my disbelief that she’s actually making me pay for the call when I’m doing it on her behalf. The teacher empathises with a knowing look. I haven’t much good to say about some Martiniquans at the moment; the words conniving and con come to mind.

Money is however, the catchphrase for the day. Today, with my older students, I’m introducing currencies and we’re going to play shop with some priced items I brought in. I wanted to borrow an apron from one of the responsables but it’s no time until the bell rings for class.

The kids seem to grasp numbers pretty quickly and we cover, and concentrate on, numbers 1-30 in preparation for our BINGO game. I explain how simple it is to count in English when you know the stems and we soon touched on numbers 40-100. 50 Cent helps some of the kids remember the midway mark although 100 is often mistaken as being tenty! Mr Duval doesn’t partake in the BINGO game. For once he’s occupied with correcting copies. After two exciting games I introduce more gaming vocab: winner, runner-up, runners-up and their corresponding positioning of 1st, 2nd and 3rd are also highlighted, and we clap as I announce each triumphant gamer.

Madame Caruge decides to be a sport and joins in on a round. Her class have some difficulties with thirteen and thirty but she explains to them that this is the reason we play games such as this – to listen, recognise and understand spoken English.

We work on different currencies and prices using numbers 1-30 for the second part of the class (which actually only occupies the last ten minutes since everyone went bonkers for BINGO). I have some currency signs but they’re too small and lose their stickiness so I just use different coloured chalk to show the €, £ and $ signs. They know about the € and $ but £ is foreign to them; I enlighten them as to where it is used. They can not pronounce the word euro to save their lives. Uro. Eoro. Auro. I write the words euro(s), dollar(s) and pound(s) on the board and moving swiftly on I illustrate some prices, hand out labelled items and ask them to find the price.

How much is it? I ask.
They reply: It costs €7. It costs $30. It costs £3.50.

We run through the names of these items:
a book, a toothbrush, a top, a ticket, Blutack, a receipt, an umbrella.
I then get them to repeat: It is a book. It is a top. It is a ticket.

I then ask: How much is the book? How much is the top? How much is the ticket?
To which they reply: It is $3. It is €7. It is £3.50.

It’s soon time to close shop. I scurry off to the library to gather my musical accompaniments for Irish dancing with the younger classes. I spy Jossylene in the yard and she’s over to me in a flash with requests for translations. The older kids are creating projects on the craft industry in Martinique which will be displayed next week at the cultural exchange. I weave my way through texts about wickerwork and basket making only to find another teacher, Christophe, waiting for me to help out with a jungle of rainforest and topography terms. I’m glad to be of service, though if I were a shrewd Martiniquan Madame I’d probably spring a fee on them ASAP!

There’s a practise assembly for next week’s festivities so I only have half an hour with each of my younger classes. It suffices because between the heat and all the movement they start to wane, and whine. Madame Acina’s class are a frail bunch. They squirm and flail about with or without the accompanying music. It is my first proper dance class with Madame Thaly’s group as she was out on Monday. She seems concerned that they are not ready but in fairness I don’t think they ever would be; let’s just hope their toothy grins and cute ways win over the crowds.

I head into town to meet Nicola for lunch. I’m early and so I head to Le Pavillon Bougenot at Rue Victor Sévère which is an annexe to Bibliothèque Schoelcher on Rue de la Liberté. Le Pavillon Bougenot is a digital public place which houses the Espace Presse et Documentation (The Press and Documentation Department), Espace Culture Multimédia (The Multimedia and Cultural Department) and Espace Déficients Visuels (Department for the Visually Impaired). I sit in the cool reading salon and pour over Time magazine and Cosmopolitan before deciding I’m getting chilblains. It’s scorchio outside and I keep to the shady side-streets as I make my way to our midday meeting spot.

I spy an interesting new place for lunch. It’s reasonably priced and as it’s set-out like a canteen you can see what you’re getting. Nic and I both go for poulet grille with lentils. As a side I opt for légumes pays (fruit de pain and banana-jaune) while Nic takes rice. At only €8 with a drink it’s the cheapest, tastiest, most filling lunch yet. Though, I’m surprised they don’t have snails on the menu as the service is that sloooow. We chance getting another coffee but it takes three people 5 minutes to get us a café and cappuccino – though taste wise they’re worth the wait. The only downside is that there are too many English speaking natives who constantly butt-in on our conversation to ask how we are, where we’re from and if we enjoyed our meal; there’s a cruise ship in the port today so they obviously think we’re tourists.

Nicola notes that our chatty meal-mates are a lot more talkative than Charles was this morning. It turns out that Nic’s bus didn’t come this morning but Charles drove by and gave her a lift. Over the past few days Madame Arlette has been cleaning out the apartment next door so Nicola asked Charles when our new neighbours are arriving. He admitted that someone was coming but he didn’t answer her question about their arrival date…On verra.

It’s almost 14,30 and we’ve a rendezvous at the CAF HQ on Rue Gabriel Peri. Madame Sangri, from the CAF workshop, is there to help us make up our portfolios. She is very pleasant and helps us through the realms of documents. I tell her of my concern for a colleague whose landlady is making outlandish, additional payment requests. She says that it is not unheard of, especially with a location saisonnière although she adds that the additional cost is quite high. Later on, as we’re waiting for an estimate of our CAF refund, we find a notice board with lodgings in Tivoli Post-Colon at €650 per person. We joke that it’s probably the apartment next door to us or more realistically the place up the road with the pool. We take an online CAF assessment which estimates a return of €130 on a monthly rent of €375; that means we could get a nice lump sum back after 7 months. The usual amount for successful CAF candidates is 40% of their monthly rent so we’re not far off. However, we won’t know if we qualify for it for another three months. There are numerous things to be considered, which determine the amount you get and most importantly whether you receive anything at all. Location, living arrangements, size of lodgings, occupation, and salary are all taken into account.

If our food expenditure were also considered I’m sure we’d be due money from the CAF. It’s time to stock up again and we head to Leader Price which seems cheaper than Hyper U. We pay €100 for two bulging baskets of goods and groceries. We have to surrender the ice-cream as we’re getting the bus home and it would end up running down the hill after us.

One cat who does look like she got the cream is Cat, an English girl who knows Angela. Nic and I are browsing through the cereals when a local guy approaches us and asks us where we’re from. He is shopping with Cat and they introduce themselves. Cat is studying French, Créole, and something similar to Anthropology, in Schoelcher and her friend says he’s studying law near Chateauboeuf. He’s quite good looking but he gazes at us as if in awe at hearing English. We exchange numbers and return to our brimming baskets at the muesli aisle.

Our bags are almost bursting and my arms are aching as we trek up the road to the bus stop. We see the bus zip by and decide to stop for refreshments as we wait for the next one. A lady stops us in the street and asks if she can help us out. We thank her saying we’re fine. Once she’s gone Nicola verbalises what I was thinking – that she’d charge for helping us. Perhaps Madame could help us from turning so cynical?!

As the bus comes I take up my box of beans and greens. Nicola mentions that my friend is on the bus. I immediately think of John, our neighbour, and when someone tugs on my hair I think it’s him being flirty. But when I turn around I see three dudes behind me. They’ve just turned around but I know it was one of them. I shout out a curse in Créole as they waltz down the road; Kookie-Mama. I hear one of them call me a jeune salope as I get on the bus. Lucky I had my load or my hands may have gone past their stringy braids and straight for their scrawny necks. We sit up the front as there’s a space there for our buys. The bus doesn’t move off for a while and this gives one of the lads enough time to come onboard and chat me up. He asks if he can come to the party (he spied the beer). I just ignore him and talk to Nicola behind me. The bus moves on leaving him behind but now it’s the bus driver’s turn to turn around and smile, chat and leer at us at every traffic light.

Back at home we still manage to add men into our conversation; I’ve to catch up on what I missed at home in Ireland and that involves a lot of in-depth gossiping about guys. Whether it’s my boyfriend Fergal, Nicola’s ex, class mates, or other chaps, they get mentioned. Another Fergal crops up. He’s a college chum and he made a DVD to commemorate the past four years of college. Nic and I settle down to watch it. We get a good few laughs though I’m aghast to find that I’ve been nominated as the person most likely to become a Big Brother contestant; I thought that was Nicola. I don’t know what way to take that but I’ll get those survey results and track down the perpetrators and give them some suggestions of my own!! I head to bed light-headed and light-hearted and soon abandon my search for hidden-cameras.

Sweet William - Mercredi, 15.11.06

Mercredi 15.11.06 Sweet William

Nic arrives back in Martinique today. She texts to say that dear, sweet William, our Martiniquan friend, is collecting her from the airport. He’s a pettle; though he’s also a bit of a parasite. We reckoned he had got the hint that Nicola was not interested, and that he was content to just be her friend but he still greets her as ma cherie - and his lecherous ways are still on display. However, she has to wait a while before Will collects her and she wiles away the time in the airport bar. She’s only two minutes in Martinique when she’s hit-on by another native. He’s a paraplegic; one arm, one leg and one thing on his mind. He asks if she wants to couchez avec lui but she replies by saying that he couldn’t handle her. Why does she attract these lame lads? It wasn’t so long ago that a crippled old guy tried to hook her into an alley with the crook of his cane!

I had expected to have a bit of a welcoming party. Kyla was due to stay overnight but I’m halfway through the cobwebs and crapaud dung when she rings to say that she’s far too tired to travel to Fort-de-France. Gethin also calls me to pass on his best wishes to Nicola in his absence and he quizzes me on flights to Europe; he’s off home to Wales for Christmas and heard that Air France are doing good deals… I’m really none the wiser but I have to fly too as Madame Arlette has just popped her head round the door. She expected Nicola to be back earlier so we could sign the CAF documents but I tell her we’ll call up in the morning – if Nicola can manage to get up after 16 hours of travel.

I’m just finishing Great Expectations when I hear a chirpy “Hello!” followed by the rumble of wheels. Nicola appears, we embrace and we’re soon sitting on the terrace, with Will, deep in conversation about our travel experiences and future ventures.

It’s like a mini Christmas with weird and wonderful presents, Irish whiskey and good craic – we’re just missing the stuffed bird. However, when I tell Nicola that Arlette has requested guests pay their way it’s not long until we defiantly decide to tell her to get stuffed as she’s just money-hungry. The beer flows North past the nose and the pineapple spread goes South past the mouth. We chat and chuckle until the wee hours – until Will finds himself persistently using the bathroom that is.

It’s finally time for Will to hit the road. We’re relieved to see him go; for my part he talks too much gibberish and Nicola is only too pleased to get close to her cosy pillows.

It’s in the toilet - Mardi, 14.11.06

Mardi 14.11.06 It’s in the toilet

I’ve taken to reading on my way into school. I spend at least an hour on wheels every morning and I’m rarely interrupted; unless I sense someone’s staring at me, like some guy was this morning on the bus into Fort-de-France. He was chatting to the driver but I could feel his eyes boring through me. He’s not the only voyaging voyeur. While I’m waiting at the bus stop a guy in a maroon car slows down as he passes me and either whistles or sends out some wacky message for the day. Today it was: “Ne gratte pas les moustiques!” after which he quickly added “Bonjour” while flashing a wide grin. I just grinned back and continued scratching my knee. It was actually itchy. He doesn’t know how lucky I’ve been with the mosquitoes all week – though it’s the moustique-men who won’t let up lately.

I’ve another man to put up with once I reach Chateauboeuf. It’s Eduardo the surveillant général. He’s there to keep an eye on who goes in/out/near the building. Lately he has taken to walking me to the gate when I leave. He’s not built like a burly guard and frankly he’s quite pleasant even if he comes across as being a bit moody. I think he fancies himself more than he does me so he’s not on my weirdo list at the moment.

I have my other two CM2 classes this morning. Christophe’s class dilly-dally as per usual though when I mention that a round of BINGO will reward their work they perk up a bit; of course they’re too behind to play games. Christophe is more vigilant than usual and he helps out by checking everyone has correctly transcribed the sentences and dialogues. Towards the end of the class he almost apologises for the class’s hopeless slowness. I tell him it’s to be expected and I then tell the class that sentences may be mind-numbing but they are still necessary, and I add that the next class will shake them up and wake them from their weary ways

Madame Bois is busy down the back of her classroom preparing for the rallye next week. Her class diligently take down the new phrases and make up interesting dialogues using the images they brought along. Of course there’s the usual prankster who has neither images nor imagination to draw any. Andy is the joker today. He tells me that he’ll do the exercise at home. Madame Bois is suddenly all ears and she jumps up to award him with a black mark for his insolence.

During the lunch break each class is chaperoned by a responsable. Since there is only enough room in the canteen for 100 pupils there are numerous lunch seatings. It is the responsible’s duty to look after and entertain the class during the two and a half hour lunch break. This week, in preparation for our upcoming cultural exchange, the children are making decorations to brighten up the school. I show them my Irish-flag bunting so they can copy the design for the other flags. Dominique’s class complain about their responsible saying that she’s fierce; I’m sure she’s only matching their own fury.

During the break I meet Elizabeth the other English teacher. She’s battling through the day; one of her shoes is broken as is the strap of her bag and she herself seems a bit worn out. She also teaches in Chateauboeuf B – the collège. I’m photocopying some posters offering English lessons and she proofs them for me. I place them in the staffroom/library, canteen and toilets, and I give Elizabeth a few to bring to the big school.

There’s a policeman in with Madame la Directrice. Elizabeth doesn’t know what’s going on but she isn’t surprised as brutal behaviour and certain unpleasant deeds within the school are usually dealt with by the police. There’s a good guy here too; it’s Guy Chastan, who works with my responsable Jossylene, as a Conseiller Pédagogique (primary education adviser). He’s all smiles and chats away about Irish dancing, Leonardo DiCaprio and The Gangs of New York.

Today’s troop of young dancers catch on quickly to the Irish dance, Séanín. We push back the desks in Madame Pamphile’s classroom and after a rousing rendition of Head, shoulders, knees and toes the children sit in the middle as I run through the steps with my chosen partners. When it’s their turn the boys awkwardly shuffle about unable to look the girls in the eye to ask them to dance. The girls huddle together and squirm as the boys extend their hands. It takes some time but eventually they’re all paired off. I have to talk to them in French to get the steps across but it’s the lack of space which irks me the most. Thankfully nobody is injured (although someone does fart making the group scatter at lightening speed) and the wandering Inspectrice doesn’t stumble across us while she’s on her rounds.

Madame Edragas’ class is the best by far. We use an empty room to practise in which helps a great deal. Plus the class is evenly paired-off so there are no boy-boy combos this time round. HEEL. TOE. 1,2,3. TURN and HOP. 1,2,3. SPIN are all you can hear for about half an hour until someone starts to moan about sore limbs and sweaty palms; I swear I hopped to the gate with Eduardo and skipped off to the bus stop.

I’m glad to be home with my limbs and sanity intact. I get off the bus a stop early. The wild hedge along the roadside has been cleared and I can now see down the valley into the gardens below; I spy a pool and wonder if we’ll ever get friendly with those neighbours. When I reach the top of the road there’s a guy from the bus lingering about. He starts walking when he spots me. I deliberately walk slowly and keep behind him to see what he’s up to. He briefly calls someone on his mobile. It’s too quick to be a real call and I don’t hear what he’s saying… I think I’m becoming too suspicious for my own good!

I pop up to Arlette to remind her about the CAF documents. She has a friend over and they’re both in old clothes, bent over a stove with lots of small pots and a bucketful of charcoal. She says she’ll have the forms ready tomorrow and I tell her there’s no rush though secretly Nicola and I have been wondering what is taking her so long. I hope she has the proper documents as we have our meeting on Thursday which doesn’t give us much time to go changing things. I skip out of there before the witches’ coven puts cloves near me or cloven feet on me. I hear them nattering and clattering away for ages after.

Poor James is bored again. He texts to tell me so and adds that he’s distraught too as Gaël has left Star Academy. I consider visiting him tomorrow though before I get to reply I’ve drifted off with The Coral Island in my outstretched hand and my mind. I rise about 19,00. I make a cheese burger, and munch on pineapple as I settle to watch the sun descend and the day end.

Beetle Mania - Lundi, 13.11.06

Lundi 13.11.06 Beetle Mania

I’m looking forward to today’s lessons. It could have something to do with the fact that I reckon I’ll have it easy with the younger kids this week as I’m taking them for Irish dancing.

I’m continuing with numbers, and recapping on names, with the older students this week. Today will be mostly writing exercises…well, copying things from the board. It shouldn’t be too hard for them but they make it that way by a) not having the materials I asked them to bring and b) by dawdling, yapping and generally being slow. Even the bright ones seem stuck. Why is it that if I write a question in blue chalk and the response in green they have to ask me millions of times if they must copy it in the same colour? I know they’re only kids but they’ll be going into collège next year. Mr. Duval and Madame Caruge rightly remind them of this as they bark at their sluggishness.

As per usual it’s CM2 D and CM2 C up first. We continue counting in English. I explain how numbers 13-19 end with teen and that when they reach their 13th birthday they will be teenagers. They seem to grasp the new words easily with most of them later asking me obscure numbers for their sentences.

They fill four pages of their copies; two with dialogues using their cut-outs and vocab relating to their name and age, and the other two pages contain questions and answers specific to their age and useful phrases using the conjunction I’m with symbols to illustrate the emotions ☻, nationalities and so on.

Most of the children have images. Those that don’t have to sketch and some kids take liberty of the English-turned-Art class by drawing throughout the lesson. I don’t have time to go around drawing stick images for them all and they aren’t babies so I let them feel the brunt of their lethargy later on when I tell them we don’t have time for BINGO as they we too slow. Plus some of them clearly were not concentrating as I spotted novembre, âge and half-completed words such as wat instead of what in a few copybooks. Madame Caruge’s class ended with at least half the pupils being finished but Mr. Duval only has one student who can do the sentence sprint. His CM2 C class are just in from P.E; they should be rejuvenated not worn out.

I explain to the kids that it is necessary to do these exercises and I empathise that it seems tedious and boring but I reassure them that the next class with be more vibrant and lively.

During la pause I find out that Madame Thaly is not in. The kids are obviously concerned as it is they who tell me. I ask Odile, the secretary, to assemble the class as they are dispersed in different CE2 classrooms.

Madame la Directrice calls me over in her office-cum-staffroom and asks if I speak German. I ramble off a few phrases but otherwise I admit I don’t. With our foreign visitors coming next week she’s keen to get the children to learn off some phrases to greet our guests. I notice she leaves out Gaelic but Finnish, Polish and German are in there. Hello. Welcome. Have a nice day. These are the three key phrases she wants. Or, as she said to me: Bonjour. Bienvenue. Bonne Journée. I’ve already made a list for myself but I think she’s asking a lot of the children to learn these, otherwise useless, foreign phrases when most of them struggle with English. Anyway before I know it she’s asking me to impart my internet intelligence. “Peut-être,” I add in a non-committal manner after the bell rings for the end of break. She must be potty if she thinks the children can learn them off just like that.


Hello

Finnish Hyvää päivää
French Bonjour
Gaelic (Irish) Dia duit - Dia is Muire duit.
German Guten Tag
Polish Cześć/Dzién dobry.



Welcome

Finnish Tervetuloa
French Bienvenue
Gaelic (Irish) Fáilte/Tá fáilte romhat/Cead míle fáilte
German Willkommen
Polish Witamy



Have a nice day!

Finnish Hyvää päivänjatkoa
French Bonne journée!
Gaelic (Irish) Go n-eirí an t-ádh leat.
German Schönen Tag noch!
Polish Miłego dnia!





I’m no linguist. It would be alright for me to make an arse of myself but I couldn’t teach the kids the wrong pronunciation. I guess Jarno, Ferdi and Asta may be getting a call over the weekend!

Madame Dau may well have reason to go potty; one of the kids knocks over a flowerpot during our dance lesson. There was a lot of jostling and he got pushed. He’s a good guy and it was sad to see him cry when she scolded him telling him that he will have to explain all to his mother and buy a new pot. I know it’s not my fault either but I was going to buy a pot to grow shamrock in so if I see a suitable one I may get it. I probably could have saved the pot from smashing but something made me recoil when I went to outstretch my arm. The kids were seated and subdued for the rest of the class and I left them to cool off with Madame Acina and the trainee teacher Aaron.

I pushed back the desks in Madame Thaly’s classroom and set up my body parts on the blackboard for Head, shoulders, knees and toes but twenty minutes later Odile and the kids still weren’t to be seen so I packed up, popped into the office to drop back the CD player and I bid the bodies bon appetite. I’m soon sitting in the coolness of CyberDeliss with David watching a dude tussle with a civil guard on the road in front of the bus, in the middle of Fort-de-France. There are blows a-plenty and when we walk by ten minutes later the guy is detained by the orange mounties on their bikes. He draws quite a crowd.

The hunger has me hanging so we settle for La Crosière for lunch. David is only just up as he doesn’t work Monday’s – or Tuesday for that matter, and he just has a coke. I tuck into a crispy chicken spring roll and steak au poivre with chips; another mighty €10 meal overlooking the hustle and bustle of Fort-de-France.

Quelle chaleur! The heat is a killer. I wanted to browse a bit but it has me beat, plus my feed has me content and ready just to stretch out. David has his travels to plan and so we go our separate ways.

There’s post for me at MontJean. Two lovely letters, a belated birthday card, a disturbing passport picture, silky long-legged pyjama bottoms and knee-length white socks await me. And who’s the one trying on the socks and pants in this heat?!

There may be a heat wave but I have a brain wave and recall that it was Beverly Knight who supported TakeThat in the Point at the start of the summer… It was a bit of trivia that I had on my mind over the past fortnight! Never mind. Now I’ve got lesions to deal with…hee-hee!

Thankfully I don’t have any mosquitoes to put up with. I’ve given up the bananas but I nearly have myself convinced that Nicola’s smoking attracted them instead of annihilating them.

The kamikaze beetles have The Beetles to contend with tonight - A Hard Day’s Night is on the TV. The Beetles always remind me of my Aunt Laura. She was the only real Beetles fan I knew. Ringo was her favourite, and I remember she had a picture of him on the sill of the back bedroom window in Granny’s house. The French voice-overs really take away from the film but its entertainment nonetheless – better than my flute tooting any day.

Sun Day - Dimanche; 12.11.06

dimanche 12.11.06 Sun Day

It’s Remembrance Sunday but I’m not wearing a poppy. Instead I’m turning poppy red. I finally finish The Water Star and take up my fleeting fluting. A little lime green lizard has been sitting at the far end of the couch during my piping. I don’t shoo him away but when I’ve returned again from the piping hot sun he’s not there any more. I take a shower and he pops out from under the sink. It could be his beady-eyed brother but I know no differently and leave him to scurry about.

My mum calls and fills me in on all the Graduation details. It’s a bad line and we don’t talk for long. She laughs when I give her the countdown to Christmas and Fergal’s arrival. She’s interested to hear about Dominica and my travels and asks me about St. Martin as one of her work colleagues sent her parents packing there on holiday. I had been making tea before the phone call and when I return to my pasta and peas I can barely see my tinned tuna for the millions of ants milling over the half-opened tin. Ugh. I lift it by the tin-opener, cover it with a strainer and run it under the tape until all the critters have either drowned or escaped up my arms.

I sit down to my tea and watch the news. Martinique’s Scouts make the headlines. The voiceover says that there are around 750 Scouts in Martinique. Bruno Vincent is the Scouting President of Martinique. I had considered getting in on the Scouting scene over here but for all the free time I have I’ve never got round to it. According to the news coverage the jamboree is in Trinité which is on the other side of the island. They’re making torches with rags and tinfoil, learning camp skills and there’s a wicker workshop where they’re weaving baskets. www.rfo.fr

I plan for the week’s lessons with the CM2 classes. The younger ones in CE2 get it easy as I’m teaching them Irish dancing all week for the cultural exchange the following week.

My day ends with Catherine Zeta-Jones and Sean Connery in Entrapment or Haulte Voltage as it happens to appear here; it puts me to sleep long before I’ve settled under the sheets ☼

ConGradulations - Samedi, 11.11.06

Samedi 11.11.06 ConGradulations

I would be graduating in Dublin today if I hadn’t been such a mean money-scrimping tight-arse. Anyway, I’ve reasoned over this many times before and despite the expense, or otherwise, it’s just too soon to go back and it would be too short a time to do all I’d want to do. Instead I email my classmates to congratulate them and reassure them that I’m not freezing my arse off in a chilly church clutching at my scroll and clapping till the cows come home.

There’s more room for celebrations today. It’s Kyla’s birthday and it’s Armistice Day. A few souls are sunning themselves at Tartane, on the east coast near Trinité, for Kyla’s get-together, but because its a public holiday David, Gethin, Francesca, Bex and I decide to head to Anse à l’Ane at Trois-Ilets. We still get our beach fix and don’t end up stranded as we can take the boat instead of a TaxiCo.

Fort-de-France is surprisingly lively on this day of commemoration. The whole harbourfront is decked out with stalls and markets, and there are numerous canopies under which locals and tourists alike are seated eating accras and drinking coconut juice. The bus depot has been transformed with makeshift outdoor bars and barbeque shacks. The aroma of grilled fish and charcoaled chicken wafts everywhere and music is piped along the waterfront throughout the commemoration celebration. Further down the waterfront the crowds are entertained by live music and commentary by Plage de la Française under the shade of Fort St-Louis.

People gather along the quays to watch the dozens of multi-coloured, tall-masted boats race across the bay. These traditional sailing boats are called yoles and there are various nautical competitions throughout the morning as they cross Baie des Flamands.

Everyone is out for a good time and even the guy’s working away all day in the internet café are gay. I spot my landlord Charles and he cheerfully waves back wishing me a good day.

David, however, is hanging. He went out with his institutrice last night to a club where white middle-aged men were showing off their pitiful parent-bopping moves. I think David painted the town a different colour other than red L He tells me about the strange living arrangements his institutrice puts up with; two of her daughters have live-in boyfriends and they seem to mother over her more so than she does with them. Her husband is no longer around and she was dropping hints all night about her availability. Supposedly a young German man was in a similar predicament a few years ago and he succumbed to her ways. I joke that his name was probably Hans as I wiggle my fingers and guffaw. David hangs his head and laughs wearily, unable to withstand my wit. A bit of sea air refreshes David and we’re soon taking in more of the fresh sea breeze as we sit up-top on the vedette to Anse à l’Ane.

I’m surprised for the second time in one day by Fort-de-France’s outlying charm. As I watch from the boat it fills out taking on the appearance of a smart city cradled by the surrounding verdant hills. Of course once you venture from the happy, hyped-up harbour grimness takes over. That’s something I have to get over but for now I’m content to be on the other side of the bay with my foreign friends. Someone notes that the five of us represent the UK well. We just need Alex to represent Northern Ireland. But for today I’ll straddle the border. Gethin is Welsh, David is Scottish and Fran and Bex are from England.

Bex also has Jamaican roots, as does some loopy Rasta who disturbs our conversation. “More like a Jamfakin,” Gethin later quips. The ratty, tatty Rasta tells us he’s the original gangsta before going off on a wild tangent about the time someone put a gun to his head. “If you’re going to kill me, kill me now,” he shouts with his hands all over. I have trouble interpretating what he’s saying but I don’t think I missed much. He later confirms his insanity; we spy him humping a plastic chair to blaring Reggae beats.

We beat it and head for the beach just as some American shouts across the restaurant asking us where we’re from. He reminds me of someone I lived with; he’s interestingly cute from a distance but otherwise he’s just a mouth-piece who thinks he’s God’s gift to women. David is intrigued by this character who tells us he has been stuck on these islands with only a smattering of French. He finds out that he sells cleaning agents mainly around the French West Indies yet he doesn’t speak French. The language of love however, seems to get him by and he’s seen hanging out with a young local lady all afternoon.

I think the madness is contagious. Gethin, whose arm is just healing after his operation, tries to break my back by sitting on me. He asks me how I like my primary school and I joke that the work is getting on top of me… He’s a rugby player so he’s not the lightest at 14 stone. He guesses my weight to the nearest post-Christmas dinner amount and then announces that there are 44 days till Christmas. It’s true. It is creeping up. There are already decorations for sale in Fort-de-France. That means there’s only 47 days until my man, Fergal, comes over. My man, your man… you know what I mean people! My friend Ewan, from Fife, texts to say he’s in Glasgow for the weekend doing his Christmas shopping. It all seems a million miles away – and it’s staying there until the cocktails here start being garnished with sprigs of holly instead of pineapple chunks.

It’s a lovely, lazy day spent by the sea. I soak up some pages of my unremitting read, The Water Star. I’m getting into the last few chapters but I don’t want it to end. Fran and Bex tell us about their time up a tree house at an Eco Lodge in Dominica. We may have flooded the house but they broke the bed. Wood and water are plentiful in Dominica so there were no regrets. David wanders off for a while as Fran and I sun ourselves. Bex and Gethin hang by the pier and I later surprise them as I appear from the rungs below them. It’s a nice, shallow bay so I’ve no qualms about being all aquatic – that is until Gethin tries to shove me off the pier. I jump in anyway and swim back to the palm-lined beach.

The day is nearly over and so we head back to La Case de Glace for some drinks and ice-cream. It’s here that we witness the Rasta man’s nasty dancing skills. Fran, Bex and Gethin drive back to Ducos while David and I swing our legs off the side of the jetty as we wait for the last boat.

It’s only 17,50 but it’s pitch black – much like at home. My mum texts and tells me about the enjoyable time they had at the Graduation in Dublin with my classmates, their families and our lecturers. Many people have told me that I’m not missing out on much but some little part of me wishes I was there. David tells me that he graduated with Prince William at St. Andrews; the Queen applauded him at his Graduation. Well, DIT would hardly top that now would it?

Fort-de-France is not as alive as when we left it though it is still well illuminated. David and I bid farewell as he walks back home and I get the bus. Thankfully I don’t have to wait long for the bus but with the crowds leaving town it takes a bit longer to get home. I leave a sandy trail behind me and crawl into my bed weary after a day of fun in the sun.