Nicola treks into town this morning. She has another private class with her older students. They don’t ask about breast-feeding this time but they seem to lap up verbs, conjugations and various other grammar fodder. Meanwhile I’m lounging at home with a slice of toast and Pi. Nicola soon returns and heads straight to bed.
We plan to hit the town tonight and it’s not long until it’s time to go. Will collects us and we head to Schoelcher. La Feuille de Tôle is our watering and waltzing-hole for the night. It’s just on the beach and it’s basically a lit-up beach shack with a tin roof, wooden beams, tall plants all around and a mixture of seats, benches and tables; some carved and some more crude. An old ice-cream van, with shells dangling from the ceiling, serves as the bar. The back door opens into the shack and the staff go out the driver’s door towards the kitchen. The oddest thing has to be the Christmas decorations; a Christmas tree glistens in one corner, a giant Santa Claus hangs from the beams and fairy lights sparkle from every nook and cranny.
The place is comfortably full but we find a spare table near the entrance. I begin to think we’re in the company of royalty as Will seems to know everyone and everyone who passes stops to check us – or check us out. As it turns out Will’s Grandad was Mayor of this region, but Martinique is such as small country that it’s hard not to know everyone.
We’re soon joined by Etienne, Alain and Karl, Will’s brother. Etienne and Alain are Rastas. Alain has dreadlocks and beads and he looks totally spaced-out. It’s Etienne who’s kitted out like a real Rasta with the multi-coloured cloak, trailing beads and tri-colour hat. His mornings are spent making beaded jewellery and the evening brings him to the beach. He tells us he weaved the hat himself and carved his cane from a marijuana plant. My chunky chain catches his eye and he slips one of his many beaded arrangements over my head. He looks a lot like a wise, calm chief with Alain as his bumbling side-kick with his eyes bulging from their sockets and ganje fluttering from his pockets.
A cheerful, buoyant ambiance prevails. And, despite our dopey company and their smoke-infused mystification we have the craic. The music ranges from Reggae to Salsa and as the night progresses things start to get jazzier. Nic and I have a swinging time and treat our companions to a live jive as we hot-foot around the stools under the stars.
There are plenty of whiteys about. There’s a group of Anglophones sitting along a long wooden bench in the corner and others rock and roll around the Christmas tree. It’s hard to see them all as the plants are in the way but we can hear them chatting and crooning in English. It’s only when Nic and I get up to trek to the toilet – it’s down the sandy street – that we notice Angela with Andy and Martin, the two Germans we met in Guadeloupe. They’re out with classmates from Université Schoelcher. We briefly greet them before scuttling to the cabin down the road. We later come by two other students from the Université. Jacqueline and Cathy are their names and they’re from England. They’re well gone but they quote Father Ted incessantly and mimic our accents perfectly. They know Sally-Jo, another assistante, and reveal that she got hitched to her hideaway honey over the holidays. He’s from Saint Lucia and she met him there during the summer as she was already in the Caribbean at that time. He sailed away but she, of bold mind and longing heart, found him and they finally wed in Dominica during the music festival.
With the dawn chorus warming-up and the dregs turning luke-warm we decide to see the sea. It’s still dark but the distant lights of Bellefontaine and the moon-light reveal the calm aquatic expanse and the streaked sands. We can’t resist taking a dip in the nip. The stars seem to twinkle to the rhythm of far-flung beats and I’m content as I lie back and conduct this orbiting orchestra; from the sea, from the sand, with my hands and feet splashing or burrowing to the tidal tunes. A shooting-star zips by and slowly dips over the horizon. The spray from the sea and the lapping of the waves is soon replaced by a steamy, sprinkling shower. As the sea of tranquillity is put to bed so are we and we don’t see the sea again until the midday sun is high in the sky.
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