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.
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