No TaxiCo comes by this morning. I’m due to meet the visitors at the port at 8,00 but I’m stuck halfway between Fort-de-France and my house. I text Jossylene, Karine and Ciara and tell them to go on without me. We’re off to Saint-Pierre today; it was the former capital of Martinique before the eruption of Mont Pelée in 1902. I’ve been there before and even though I like this lively, vibrant town I’m not too concerned whether I make it or not – I can always get a TaxiCo and meet up with Heather, Paula or Maria, the other assistantes there.
In fact, that’s what I intended to do. Heather only has classes until 9,30 and she’s all on for meeting up. However when I finally get to Fort-de-France who is standing at the TaxiCo rank but Karine. She too was delayed. We find out that the visitors got to Chateauboeuf in one piece and since the coach isn’t leaving until 9,00 we reckon we can still get there on time. We do.
It’s probably fate which brought myself and Karine together this morning. We get a chance to openly talk about Martinique, the people and their attitude. In other words we vent, we rant, we complain, we explain and basically bitch about what’s wrong with this country. My money-grabbing landlady is the bane of my life at the moment. In hindsight it’s a minor complaint when I live in a secure, lush, fresh surrounding but it’s not right to live under her wrath. I mention that come May I’m considering moving to Trois-Ilets to indulge in the real Caribbean scene.
Karine has grander plans. She would love to live in Australia. She has been there before and fell in love with it and the people and their outlook. Karine is a Mulâtre – her dad was white and her mother was black. Despite Martinique being “European before Europe” internal racial prejudice is not uncommon.
I can empathise with Karine. Not because of racial narrow-mindedness but because she has experienced something different, something desirable and distant which is far away from normal life. Though when we move, do we not move in the hope of getting away from something not to somewhere? That’s how I see Martinique. I finished college, wanted to travel, and to postpone real work but yet still work. And so I have come to this far-flung island which constantly shakes up my life, creates new challenges and opens my eyes to new people, places and a different existence. Martinique is a beautiful country with its sparkling beaches, rolling hills, lush rainforests, hot days, cool showers and beaming brightness. The people are unique, different, the culture is rich and the music, food and way of life are so unlike what I’ve known before that they shake up my previous snow-globe existence and change the landscape of my life. There may be certain parts of life here that are foreign, strange and even unpleasant but even by witnessing them and living alongside them I have understood that they exist, and can learn to adapt and furthermore I can appreciate what I have taken for granted in my previous lifestyle.
I feel there’s disaffection in the air. The absent-minded, laidback attitude of the Caribbean may be desirable when you are on holiday but it doesn’t wash well when you are trying to get things done. Before coming here we were warned to expect this but once here in a working capacity this carefree approach appears more offhand, more haughty. Vagueness, forgetfulness and procrastination are words I’d associate with this brusque Martiniquan manner – and I’ll add materialism and avarice to that list too when dealing with landladies! For instance, to rap up this international week of culture and cheer there is a meal planned tonight in a restaurant. However, I have not been told about it. I only got wind of it from Ciara, the Irish girl, and even she wasn’t sure of the details – it was just a getogether on Friday night. I use this to illustrate to Karine why I have this altered, almost cynical, view of the carefree Caribbean nature of Martiniquans. Immediately she turns to me dumbfounded. She is astonished that nobody has told me. I don’t even ask why SHE didn’t mention it. It’s the perfect example of inter-racial rifts, the someone-else-will-do-it attitude and the belated concern which follows. Obviously Dominique has had a tough week, Madame Do is just Madame Do, Jossylene is up to her eyeballs in work, Christophe is too timid… the excuses are all there in the air but there’s no real explanation. I’m just glad I got wind of it. I really don’t care if I don’t go. I just wanted to be told, not let it just be presumed that I’d go… My wish comes true. I’m not asked once but several times. And when I tell them it’s all cool and I’ve other plans they seem indignant. I’m turning down their offer after complaining that I wasn’t invited. Well, I do have other plans for tonight. It involves turkey, stuffing, gravy, cranberry sauce and pumpkin pie.
I realise Martinique is different to what I’ve known before. It’s a tougher nut to crack. It’s a Brazil nut. Ireland is a peanut and Belgium is a cashew. Here, unless you are paying over the counter, you find that thankyous and concerns tend to be delayed, they’re too late, too preoccupied with something else, or nothing else. You’ve already formed your opinions and got on with your day, and their tardy thanks just don’t seem so genuine. Personally it doesn’t discourage me to be as kind or grateful as I’d like to be though you have to adopt a harder attitude to get by without being trampled on.
It is something which has to be experienced and unless you go beyond the desk in your holiday resort or the counter of the shop you probably won’t experience it. You’ll say merci and just accept it. The food may be good, but expensive, but you’re on holiday. The taxi may be dear but how else will you get around. You just go home thinking it’s a charming but costly country. That’s the holiday mentality but you have to adapt to actually live here. You have to swap sunglasses for bifocals. Just as your skin changes colour so too does the pretty picture painted by travel guides and tourist brochures. It may sound terrible but it’s the way of life here, not the tourist trail, which brings you to the point where you have to expect the worst, you even have to embrace this modern mentality and give them as good as they give.
On the bus to Saint-Pierre Karine gives me a lesson in Créole. She chuckles in disbelief when I tell her all the slang and jurons I know. Créole is a language of the heart and she cautions me as to the use of the cruder phrases; an innocent retort could find you in chucked out of the Martiniquan melting-pot and straight into the indigenous inferno.
Mont Pelée is still a hellish hill. It is still an active volcano. The population of Saint-Pierre came foul of it’s eruption in 1902 but even though many other eruptions followed, this one is the most prominent due to the high death toll. 40,000 people turned ashen as the billowing volcanic dust wiped them out in under three minutes. At the Centre de Découverte des Sciences et de la Terre we watch a film on the Mont Pelée eruption and other Volcans des Antilles. A temporary exhibition shows how our planet reacts to various natural disasters and there is also a permanent exhibition which contains information on :
Volcan Meurtrier (les éruptions de la Montagne Pelée)
La Martinique vue du ciel (photo aérienne géante)
La Montagne Pelée vue du Ciel (photographies aériennes)
Séismes et Cyclones
Once again my translation skills are put to use; though thankfully the hour-long film has subtitles – well at least it does the second time round! Kids, teachers and visitors alike seem to love the interactive zone where you can play with pins, needles, balloons, sand, soil and rocks.
We don’t have time to stop at the Cachot de Cyprias but the bus gets stuck as we pass by and a multitude of camera clicks are heard as we all take instant images of this famous dungeon. Cyprias was one of two survivors of the Mont Pelée explosion in 1902. The other person was the town tailor but Cyprias’ story is more interesting. He was put in prison for a week and the thick walls of the cell saved his life. He escaped from the deadly ash with only a few cuts and bruises and was looked after by a priest in a neighbouring town.
There’s a slight rumbling to be heard on the bus journey up to the foot of Mont Pelée though I fob it off as hunger pangs. Karine tells me that the bus is actually prohibited for a bus of this size to go up the narrow, winding roads to the foothills but we get to take in the fabulous views of the surrounding rolling countryside and the numerous sugarcane plantations with their flèche con which indicate that the flowers are in full bloom and the cane is ripening. From our picnic vista you can see both sides of Martinique at once; the Atlantic on the left and the Caribbean on the right. It’s a spectacular yet fleeting sight as the cloud quickly comes in.
Our foreign visitors don’t seem very satisfied with the lunch provisions but the kids, and I, are up for seconds. The students get rolls with tuna, shredded carrot and cucumber, an orange, a portion of cheese and a bottle of water. We get the same but accras and sugarcane are thrown into our mix. We stand around the bin picking sugarcane fibres from our mouths and spitting out orange pips. The kids play chase and we sit around, walk about and take more pictures. There’s a small café under the picnic shelter where kids and still-starving Finns indulge on sweets and treats. Some miniscule bodies can be seen clawing their way up the side of the mountain. Unfortunately we don’t have time to explore but on the way back to the bus a group of hard-core canyoning creatures come rolling down the hillside. They are not the bikini and short-wearing sort. They are kitted out with full-length wetsuits, hiking boots, helmets, harnesses, ropes and racks. I get some information about future expeditions of the friendly Sophie Sutter and her now semi-naked, tattooed comrades who are stripping alongside our busload of school children. The bus lurches out of the parking lot and we’re soon twisting and turning back into Saint-Pierre from where we cruise back through Le Carbet, Bellefontaine, Case-Pilote and Schoelcher en route to Fort-de-France.
Heather has decided to get a TaxiCo into Fort-de-France later on so by the time I’ve been dropped off in Fort-de-France, said my farewells to my foreign friends and gone to Leader Price for juice and plastic forks she has arrived with Angela. Ceri, Maria and the two Germans, Andy and Martin also join us and we hop on the C5 to Saint-Joseph.
Karla’s house is party central tonight. She lives just outside Saint-Joseph which, by what I’ve heard, is a quite well-to-do part of Martinique. It’s dark by the time we get off at Croisée Abricots and so we don’t get to take in the surrounding mansions and maisons but if Karla’s cute colonial style place at Petit Berry is anything to go by it must be classy location. The lower level is an open-plan living/dining/kitchen space with a dinky winding wooden staircase leading upstairs to the bathroom and bedrooms. Karla and Sarah-Ann shared this place before Sarah went home with Thyroid problems and decided to focus on work as a photo-journalist. Karla rents the place off Marie-Ange Ponremy who is chargée de mission for us assistants and who was at Sainte-Luce for our getogether. Marie-Ange seems like the perfect landlady; she arrives with the cooked turkey, and doesn’t seem at all phased by the extra bodies milling around. I rant about our Madman Arlette. Kyla and Heather also have some reservations about their proprietors.
Gripes aside we tuck into the nibbles and canapés as we wait for the others to come along; but we can’t wait much longer and as Karla carves the turkey we gather around the table and give thanks for various things from rum to sun and from room-mates to the United States. Poor Karla has had a tough week but she’s so modest that it’s not until someone comments on getting some music that she tells us her terrible story. She doesn’t have any music as her I-pod, her camera or her laptop were stolen. Someone broke into her house on Wednesday and stole her stuff. She spent the whole day in the police station and is unsure whether her own insurance will cover the costs. There are suspicions that whoever did it knew the layout of the house as the windows have wooden shutters with latches and other peculiar bolting setups. We’re a bit quiet for a moment but a radio is turned on, rum is poured out and we settle with our plates laden with turkeysaladstuffingbreadfruitgravyguacamolecranberrysaucenachodip and after seconds we launch into pumpkinpiechocolatecakechocolatefondant followed by more rum concoctions.
There are still some lost souls driving around the vicinity. Karla goes off to collect Alejandro and Mark who are lost. Fran, Bex, Alex and Lola arrive after an hour and a half of confused cruising. Kaitlin and her boyfriend, Travis, who is over for a month, can’t make it and so she offered up her cranberry sauce and stuffing which nearly reduces the other Americans to tears - it’s such a selfless act of patriotism I guess. Karla, Kyla and Adi are the only American presents – and wouldn’t you know they all have cars! Fran has one too and herself, along with Bex, Lola, Alex, Ceri, Mark and Angela make up the British posse. Heather and I wave the Canadian and Irish flags respectively. Maria and Alejandro add some sangria-fuelled Spanish merriment while Andy and Martin brim with German joy and beer cheer.
It’s great to meet up with some people who I haven’t seen since Sainte-Luce and others who I see more frequently. The concoctions flow and the conversations roll; from James Bond to Enya, hippy communes to climbing magazines and Spanish acquisition to shaking infants. It’s soon time to shake things up and so we decide to head into Lamentin for some club action. Myself, Mark, Alejandro, Heather and Maria pile into Karla’s car. We barely make it up the hill to the front gate but by the time we reach the crossroads we’ve definitely got our act together as we find ourselves in the middle of a sting operation; there are about twenty gendarmes at the crossing. Somehow they don’t stop us. We reckon the steamed up windows meant they didn’t realise there were four of us squashed like sardines in the back seat. By the time we’ve reached Karaoke Café some of the others are already inside. Us girls have no sooner stepped past the bouncers when we realise that Mark and Alejandro are not being let in as they’re wearing shorts. We do the usual grovelling with the bouncers and they eventually come to the conclusion that if we buy a bottle of champagne for €60 they’ll let us all in. By the time we’ve beat it out among ourselves the price goes up to €100. Coké manman’w! We’re not going to be bribed or screwed over. The others come outside and beg us to come in but we’re not going to give these people any more business, let alone leave the boys outside all night, so we decide to call it a night.
We drop Maria, Alejandro and Mark to Lycée Acajou while Karla, Heather and I head back to base. This time we are stopped by the gun-weilding Metropole patrol. Karla’s driving license, passport, carte gris and visa extension are all produced as they ask us if we’ve any drugs or arms. The black guy in front of us has his boot inspected but we get off in an instant and we’re soon off in an instant into our separate dream worlds.
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