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.