Lundi 29.01.07 Are you being served?
I would have been quite disappointed on Friday had I attended Sports Day. It was not the wonderful event anyone had planned; it started late and there was the usual chaos of containing and entertaining 350 kids. When I asked my colleagues today what went wrong they said it was unplanned. In essence the event wasn’t well planned but something unplanned also happened. My Friday was marred by the news of our friend Gethin’s injury and his imminent return to Wales. The day at Dillon also brought bad news for the staff and 350 pupils of Chateauboeuf; Madame Bois, who had just undergone two hours of surgery on Thursday, woke on Friday to find that her sister had died. The whole school was in mourning and the following morning the country was too when a Martiniquan radio personality, Albert, also died.
Needless to say but there’s a sombre mood hanging in the air today. My lesson plan for this week involves animals yet again. This time around however it’s mostly copy book work. Each kid chooses an animal and we start a class dialogue session:
Have you got a dog?
R Yes, I have.
R Yes, I have a dog
Q No, I haven’t. I have a snake.
Q No, I haven’t got a dog. I have a snake
The questions are answered according to what animal cut-out the pupil choose. So as not to waste class time actually guessing what animal the other has I put up three options: an elephant, a cow, a hamster.
I then ask the kids about their own pets. I feel that some of them only respond in the negative to avoid reeling off long lists of livestock. A few however, answer in the affirmative and by elongating the truth we soon find out that Janis (who’s only pets were formally ants) now has a falcon and a whale; Luc’s two cats and three fish have turned into tigers and piranhas; and Caroline has upgraded from a horse and a hamster to a unicorn and a mongoose!
Have you got any pets?
R Yes, I have a dog and two hamsters.
Have you got a pet?
Q No, I haven’t.
Q No, I haven’t got any pets.
I then elaborate on some of the many uses of this question – Have you got….? I once again explain the difference between an and a, and I develop on the usage of the words any and some.
Have you got a banana?
Q No, I haven’t (got a banana).
Have you got an apple?
R Yes, I have (an apple).
Have you got any sweets?
Q No, I haven’t got any sweets.
R Yes, I have some sweets.
Madame Thaly is out so half her class are with Madame Acina. I divide the animals into three categories as I did with the other classes; Pets, Farm Animals, Wild Animals, and we play multiple games before winding down by copying the names of a few choice creatures in our copybooks. The Jungle Jukebox is once again in action and I sing Who’s the King of the Jungle while the children grin and giggle before finally joining me in my crooning.
I’m in town with plenty of time to kill before I meet Nic and David for lunch. How long has it been since I sent a letter to Crédit Mutuel requesting a credit card? Only a fortnight actually but I’m surprised they’re not laying out my options or force-feeding me platinum plasticness. But am I really surprised? No. I drop into HQ again. The same fuzzy-haired, fuzzy-brained lady greets me and listens to my queries. She tells me to put it in writing. But I did already! I have a copy to hand. I sign it and give it over with a faint smile and faint faith in Martinique’s financial services and its employees.
You can however, always rely on the local lad consortiums to check out your assets in a jiffy. Where are you going lovely lady? Are you going to the beach? Be careful in the sun today, princess. Thank goodness for the sunshine and the sunny disposition of these shady sharks; they both brighten up any day.
Three daily specials are ordered in La Croisière. Chicken with mixed vegetables sounds sufficient for an early lunch. Their definition of vegetables however, is quiet loose; a paltry melange of celery chunks, carrot pieces and shredded lettuce lurk among the crispy chicken legs. They failed to tell us that there was pasta on the side – not that we don’t want it, but Nic can’t eat it. Her dish is sent back and it returns with a mountain of rice and a forest of broccoli. It soon disappears with a flan coco closing in behind it.
Alex, the waiter, chats about his weekend and asks about our antics after our sighting a fortnight ago. We tell him how we could have taken the bus home that morning to Tivoli. We also tell him that we’re on the lookout for new accommodation across the bay and he offers to ask a regular, who deals in property, to help us out. The stripy-topped hostess later comes over and asks if we can help her translate the menu. Pani Pwoblem. They’ve always been very hospitable and friendly and I’m sure a few drops of run will be added to our glasses of coke in future.
It’s soon TaxiCo time and we bundle into the Ducos mini-bus with about ten other pilgrims. The driver agrees to drop us off at Rue du Tunnel. Twenty minutes later, and €2 less, we’re left at the foot of Jesus at Lazaret. We spy some goats by the roadside and I start to wonder if Edith has indeed made a recent house call.
Gethin’s front door is open. We call in. He replies a few seconds later and we shuffle into the high-ceilinged, open-plan space and follow his voice down the corridor to find him placed awkwardly in front of a computer screen. His foot is swathed in bandages and his crutches lie on the floor in the sign of a cross. Hellos and sweaty hugs are exchanged before moving into Gethin’s room so he can stretch out. Nic and I give him his gifts. He’s chuffed.
His responsable and the staff in his school have been very concerned and have shown great kindness towards him lately. Elizabeth, his responsable, dropped by before lunch and while we’re there another teacher calls in too. She comes bearing cards and gifts and promises.
Water is put on the boil. David and Gethin watch the rugby and talk football while Nic and I head launch into baby talk as we head outside to play with the baby of the family; Foxy, a Labrador puppy.
Gethin’s gaff may be cool and airy but the kitchen is a pig-sty. There’s a long counter along one wall and it is laden with dirty dishes, take-away trays, mouldy fruit, dirty rags and lots of other unhygienic oddities. We find, and clean, three cups. David sips his black tea from a glass with a tissue wrapped around it to stop the Burn Factor. The grubbiness of the place is so that Nicola throws of the Tetley teabags into what she presumes is the bin but in fact turns out to be a cool box with open packets of baby food and biscuits. The real bin is overflowing beside the rusty fridge. There’s a stale smell from the fridge. We don’t trust the open carton of milk. We open another just to be safe; after all, not everyone is flying home First Class with Air France to Orly and transferring straight to London only to be taxied home. It pays to have health assurance – especially with a policy which covers a 400km taxi journey from London to Anglesey!
The only thing stopping Gethin getting home is medical clearance. He can’t fly with a cast due to the risk of thrombosis but he needs to get his foot set by Thursday. He must therefore get the all-clear-to-fly from the Air France doctor before Wednesday so he can go home and get plastered. If not he’ll be sitting pretty in plâtre, in Ducos, for the next six weeks. By the time we leave that evening nothing has been set in stone. His Dad has been on the blower telling him about the planned flight arrangements. That Welsh nattering boggles the brain but Gethin, the generous Galle that he is, clears things up for us and gives each of us a bookmark with the longest Welsh town name and its translation:
Llanfairpwllgwyngyllgogerychwyrndrobwllllantysiliogogogoch
Church|mary|hollow|white|hazel|near|the|rapid|whirlpool|church|saint’s name|cave|red
It’s time to go. We say goodbye and exchange sweaty hugs once more. We make our way to the TaxiCo shelter and wait... Two TaxiCos pass us by; one is full and the other supposedly only goes to Lamentin. We’re deciding whether to walk, skip or jump back to Fort-de-France when a silver jeep pulls up. Gerard is our knight in shining steel. We tell him about our house call and he tells us he’s just on his way back from Lamentin hospital after visiting his friend with a broken ankle!
Gerard’s a restaurateur. He gives us cards for Au creux des vagues in Trinité. We tell him of our travels around Trinité over Christmas and he gives us advice on future excursions. A weeklong boat trip around the Grenadines is recommended as is a day (specifically Monday) spent in Ducos during Carnival as the best bands are out there then. We’re dropped in town and we wave Gerard off. We’ve been left right at the bus-stop. A No.22 and a No.13 creep up the street but we decide to take time out from road rage and head for a few bevvies in a boulevard bar. More travel talk is on the cards. David tells us about his weekend jaunt to Tartane with Sam, Elizabeth and Carson. And Sunday saw him at Ti Sable in Anse d’Arlets with Rodolfo and Phil. More futuristic trips are also brought up; Australia is flung in there, Texas holds our attention for a while and there’s a drizzling of Canada to top it all off.
The No.22 arrives and we leave wee Daveed to take shelter. The narky driver on our bus almost refuses to sell me a ticket but I’ve money to hand and there’s no way he’s make me walk down to the BIG RED BUS in the dark. My good husband, John, is on our bus. Nicola recently pointed out that his lips are weird and I can’t help thinking about Jackie Stallone every time I see him.
I call up to Arlette and Richard to pay our rent. They’re sitting together on the couch watching TV. Such a cute old couple. I tell them about our friend and impress them with some more Créole when I tell them that he’s a bit down cast and needed cheering up. Plis fos! Tchienbé réd!
Le Grand Bleu is our entertainment for tonight. Almost three hours of dolphins, diving and dodgy Italian accents. I enjoy the stunning, staggering cliffs and expanses of sparkling sea while Nicola fantasies about the Chris look-a-like! It’s a while until we’re diving under the sheets but it’s even longer until I reach the depths of unconsciousness…
Wednesday, January 31, 2007
A beginners guide to Czech - dimanche, 28.01.07
dimanche 28.01.07 A beginners guide to Czech
It’s time to check in at home. I ring Fergal first. His Dad is doing as well as he can after his Tracheotomy. Fergal seems more in touch with my family than I am. He met with my sister, Roberta, during the week to exchange gifts and gossip. Roberta is in third year of medicine. She has to do electives this year. For whatever reason she was late signing up for her options and she got landed with Feminism and An introduction to the Czech Republic. Fergal’s million-miles-away mutterings first make me think he says chess not Czech. Roberta has been to Prague so she has a headstart there at least. I think Feminism may pose more of a challenge as she supposedly has to keep a diary throughout the course; that’ll possibly be the hardest element of the course for her!
I phone home next and get put on loudspeaker and multiple phones as I relay my news and views of late. Dad is interested in the mechanisms of my new camera. Mum keeps me posted with family and town affairs and she tells me to watch the post as there’s a little something winging its way to me. Pip is on a quest to find the proper Irish music for my kids and other than that he’s not so chatty. I launch into taunting sister mode and ask him what plans he has for St. Valentine’s Day. He goes all coy and mutters something incomprehensible before passing me on to Mum again. She tells me to take some Panadol and drink plenty – but not alcohol.
Arlette later comes down to mammy us. Firstly she gives out to us for talking into the wee hours last night; as it happens her leg was troubling her and she had a restless night so we didn’t really keep her awake. However, as well as giving out she gives us clean bed linen and some plantains.
Nicola thinks that she thought we had friends over and that’s the reason she’s down in a flash this morning. Our suspicious minds are a great cause of amusement. Arlette also complains about the smoke infusion which often drifts up to her veranda. Nicola was puffing on some stinky cigar last night and her regular fag drags are pretty noxious too so I’m not surprised Arlette is venting all. I think she’s part of some anti-smoking campaign. Nicola has been harangued twice in the past fortnight by anti-smoking types. The first time she was waiting at the bus-stop when a man stopped his car beside her and launched into an almost demonic rage about the concerns and consequences of smoking. Only yesterday Nicola was followed down the street by a crazy, gangly shirt-wearing woman who opened into a similar tirade trance once she alighted and lit up. As Arlette and I later make our way to her herb plot for some basilique, menthe and citronnelle she yet again complains about the smoke infusion. I empathise and even display my own aversion in Créole – much to her added delight. Soon Nic and I are settling down to a different infusion; mint tea. It’s sweet and smoke free. Nicola admits that she doesn’t like the taste from her Mayflower fags so maybe we’re getting somewhere at last…
Will hasn’t been on the blower today. Will he? Won’t he? He doesn’t call at all which is probably just as well as I can barely hear, breathe or talk due to my bunged up orifices. Scepticism opens me up as Nicola and I question whether or not he told Edith about Gethin. Gethin has a shattered ankle. Edith has a mental problem. Both Gethin and Edith have history. This saga is chronicled in the latest ROWANTREE DVD. Gethin’s getting a DVD from us after all. It’s a hoot and we’ll hopefully get to see his reaction when we visit him tomorrow in Ducos.
Arlette reappears after entertaining a bunch of squawking friends. Her plate of accras and Richard’s bowls of maïs concoctions will keep us quiet anyway. Arlette makes no attempt to hide her misgivings about Richard’s cooking. I tell her about the snake I saw in Anse Mitan and she once again is tossed into disbelief. Possibly an eel (muron), or a moray eel (anguille), but probably not a snake she tells me.
We’re missing out on the Redoute commune pre-Carnival party tonight. Poor Arlette is missing out on a ball at the marché in Fort-de-France. All the ladies will be dressed up in traditional costumes. She tells us she loves to dance – like Zouk but usually Bélé and especially not Dance Hall!
She tells us that Fred and Verner will be returning in a few weeks but for the next two nights there’s another new neighbour next door. This place is beginning to house as multicultural and multifaceted persons as the characters I’m reading about in A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian – I can’t wait for a heel-wearing, lycra-clad, beehive-styled bottled-blonde to appear next door! My own hair colour is changing. It has taken on an overall reddish tint with wispy blonde hues. The fact that I’ve put Bob Fisk’s digest aside in favour of some easily polished off paperback could also be due to this tress transformation.
If I could be transformed into a log I wonder would I sleep like one…
It’s time to check in at home. I ring Fergal first. His Dad is doing as well as he can after his Tracheotomy. Fergal seems more in touch with my family than I am. He met with my sister, Roberta, during the week to exchange gifts and gossip. Roberta is in third year of medicine. She has to do electives this year. For whatever reason she was late signing up for her options and she got landed with Feminism and An introduction to the Czech Republic. Fergal’s million-miles-away mutterings first make me think he says chess not Czech. Roberta has been to Prague so she has a headstart there at least. I think Feminism may pose more of a challenge as she supposedly has to keep a diary throughout the course; that’ll possibly be the hardest element of the course for her!
I phone home next and get put on loudspeaker and multiple phones as I relay my news and views of late. Dad is interested in the mechanisms of my new camera. Mum keeps me posted with family and town affairs and she tells me to watch the post as there’s a little something winging its way to me. Pip is on a quest to find the proper Irish music for my kids and other than that he’s not so chatty. I launch into taunting sister mode and ask him what plans he has for St. Valentine’s Day. He goes all coy and mutters something incomprehensible before passing me on to Mum again. She tells me to take some Panadol and drink plenty – but not alcohol.
Arlette later comes down to mammy us. Firstly she gives out to us for talking into the wee hours last night; as it happens her leg was troubling her and she had a restless night so we didn’t really keep her awake. However, as well as giving out she gives us clean bed linen and some plantains.
Nicola thinks that she thought we had friends over and that’s the reason she’s down in a flash this morning. Our suspicious minds are a great cause of amusement. Arlette also complains about the smoke infusion which often drifts up to her veranda. Nicola was puffing on some stinky cigar last night and her regular fag drags are pretty noxious too so I’m not surprised Arlette is venting all. I think she’s part of some anti-smoking campaign. Nicola has been harangued twice in the past fortnight by anti-smoking types. The first time she was waiting at the bus-stop when a man stopped his car beside her and launched into an almost demonic rage about the concerns and consequences of smoking. Only yesterday Nicola was followed down the street by a crazy, gangly shirt-wearing woman who opened into a similar tirade trance once she alighted and lit up. As Arlette and I later make our way to her herb plot for some basilique, menthe and citronnelle she yet again complains about the smoke infusion. I empathise and even display my own aversion in Créole – much to her added delight. Soon Nic and I are settling down to a different infusion; mint tea. It’s sweet and smoke free. Nicola admits that she doesn’t like the taste from her Mayflower fags so maybe we’re getting somewhere at last…
Will hasn’t been on the blower today. Will he? Won’t he? He doesn’t call at all which is probably just as well as I can barely hear, breathe or talk due to my bunged up orifices. Scepticism opens me up as Nicola and I question whether or not he told Edith about Gethin. Gethin has a shattered ankle. Edith has a mental problem. Both Gethin and Edith have history. This saga is chronicled in the latest ROWANTREE DVD. Gethin’s getting a DVD from us after all. It’s a hoot and we’ll hopefully get to see his reaction when we visit him tomorrow in Ducos.
Arlette reappears after entertaining a bunch of squawking friends. Her plate of accras and Richard’s bowls of maïs concoctions will keep us quiet anyway. Arlette makes no attempt to hide her misgivings about Richard’s cooking. I tell her about the snake I saw in Anse Mitan and she once again is tossed into disbelief. Possibly an eel (muron), or a moray eel (anguille), but probably not a snake she tells me.
We’re missing out on the Redoute commune pre-Carnival party tonight. Poor Arlette is missing out on a ball at the marché in Fort-de-France. All the ladies will be dressed up in traditional costumes. She tells us she loves to dance – like Zouk but usually Bélé and especially not Dance Hall!
She tells us that Fred and Verner will be returning in a few weeks but for the next two nights there’s another new neighbour next door. This place is beginning to house as multicultural and multifaceted persons as the characters I’m reading about in A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian – I can’t wait for a heel-wearing, lycra-clad, beehive-styled bottled-blonde to appear next door! My own hair colour is changing. It has taken on an overall reddish tint with wispy blonde hues. The fact that I’ve put Bob Fisk’s digest aside in favour of some easily polished off paperback could also be due to this tress transformation.
If I could be transformed into a log I wonder would I sleep like one…
Bird flu - samedi, 27.01.07
samedi 27.01.07 Bird flu
Another assistante is having a farewell do today. The Canadians are drifting. Heather never returned from her trip to Mexico and Sam is leaving next weekend so she’s having a bit of a gathering at Les Salines today. Karla and Kyla are said to be considering leaving after February as they both have jobs lined up at home in the States.
If I hadn’t got a class this morning I’d be off on a TaxiCo to either Anse Trabaud for the farewell or to another nearby beach with James and his gaggle of Spaniards. But this morning duty, or more so, money talks English with Madame Bonne’s daughters Euryle and Kelli-Ann. Madame Bonne herself isn’t in. Her husband tells me she’s at the hairdressers as he hands me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and places a white envelope with payment and compensation on the table in front of me. Do Black people pay-up using white envelopes and White people with brown ones?
Mr Bonne-Francil works for the fisheries board here and he tells me of his trip to Ireland a few years ago. He landed in Donegal. I ask if whether he caught a cold or some cod but he assures me that the July weather was kind to them. I wanted to fill Jacqueline in on the state of affairs in the assistantship realm but instead I’m giving the low-down on the French presidential race. It turns out that Ségolène Royal visited Euryle’s school yesterday. I also find out that Ségo actually attended this school when she lived in Martinique and she also spent a stint at the Rectorat. Although Ségo makes la une (the front page) of France-Antilles les gros titres (headlines) circulated around town on the characteristic orange France-Antilles bulletin paper tell of a hold-up in MacDo! Braquage à McDo: un surprenant complice. I immediately think of Nicola and that strange MacDo worker woman I met at the bus yesterday. Nicola has a meeting at MacDo this morning with some lady and her son, who is visiting Ireland in a few weeks. They end up at Deli France where poor Nic can’t eat a thing. However, the lady later buys her a melon and gives her some prospective private students’ details so all round it’s a productive way to spend the morning!
Nic and I meet for lunch in the gay café – Cyber Délice. I think the air-con is too effective today because we’ve been out in the heat half an hour and I’m still chilled. The sky seems threatening and we’re feeling a bit bunged up so we decide to abandon our plans to hit Anse Mitan across the bay and head home with mounting head colds. God must have been on a bit of a binge lately as the heaven’s open the instant we step off the bus. We arrive home sodden despite having our brollies at full mast. My nose is both blocked and runny and I’m sneezing so much I’m actually beginning to loath what should be an upshot of this force of nature! I retreat to bed with a sore head and a wad of tissues. How can I be dosed in the Caribbean? I didn’t suffer the big freeze this winter so the big sneeze is payback I guess.
I later rouse from my stuffy sleep. My tuna salad lunch has long been propelled along my intestines by the sneezing fits so I rustle up a fry and have numerous cups of Lyons Gold Blend to mend me. Of course stronger stuff is needed and as I’m not particle to solitary sipping sessions I wait until Nicola rises before offering up some whiskeys. We skip the hot whiskeys and just pour letting the alcohol and ailments exude from our pores. Will rings to see if we’re up for a few drinks in town. We tell him we’re house bound. We’re not quite on the ground when Chloé calls. She’s all dressed-up with nowhere to go so we invite her over. She texts a while later saying she can’t find her way. We’re not surprised as she’s a bit hesitant and irresolute about the simplest of things. There’s nothing we can do but carry on and talk away until both our heads and both bottles of whiskey seem clearer. The glass is indeed cleaner on the Irish side.
Another assistante is having a farewell do today. The Canadians are drifting. Heather never returned from her trip to Mexico and Sam is leaving next weekend so she’s having a bit of a gathering at Les Salines today. Karla and Kyla are said to be considering leaving after February as they both have jobs lined up at home in the States.
If I hadn’t got a class this morning I’d be off on a TaxiCo to either Anse Trabaud for the farewell or to another nearby beach with James and his gaggle of Spaniards. But this morning duty, or more so, money talks English with Madame Bonne’s daughters Euryle and Kelli-Ann. Madame Bonne herself isn’t in. Her husband tells me she’s at the hairdressers as he hands me a glass of freshly squeezed orange juice and places a white envelope with payment and compensation on the table in front of me. Do Black people pay-up using white envelopes and White people with brown ones?
Mr Bonne-Francil works for the fisheries board here and he tells me of his trip to Ireland a few years ago. He landed in Donegal. I ask if whether he caught a cold or some cod but he assures me that the July weather was kind to them. I wanted to fill Jacqueline in on the state of affairs in the assistantship realm but instead I’m giving the low-down on the French presidential race. It turns out that Ségolène Royal visited Euryle’s school yesterday. I also find out that Ségo actually attended this school when she lived in Martinique and she also spent a stint at the Rectorat. Although Ségo makes la une (the front page) of France-Antilles les gros titres (headlines) circulated around town on the characteristic orange France-Antilles bulletin paper tell of a hold-up in MacDo! Braquage à McDo: un surprenant complice. I immediately think of Nicola and that strange MacDo worker woman I met at the bus yesterday. Nicola has a meeting at MacDo this morning with some lady and her son, who is visiting Ireland in a few weeks. They end up at Deli France where poor Nic can’t eat a thing. However, the lady later buys her a melon and gives her some prospective private students’ details so all round it’s a productive way to spend the morning!
Nic and I meet for lunch in the gay café – Cyber Délice. I think the air-con is too effective today because we’ve been out in the heat half an hour and I’m still chilled. The sky seems threatening and we’re feeling a bit bunged up so we decide to abandon our plans to hit Anse Mitan across the bay and head home with mounting head colds. God must have been on a bit of a binge lately as the heaven’s open the instant we step off the bus. We arrive home sodden despite having our brollies at full mast. My nose is both blocked and runny and I’m sneezing so much I’m actually beginning to loath what should be an upshot of this force of nature! I retreat to bed with a sore head and a wad of tissues. How can I be dosed in the Caribbean? I didn’t suffer the big freeze this winter so the big sneeze is payback I guess.
I later rouse from my stuffy sleep. My tuna salad lunch has long been propelled along my intestines by the sneezing fits so I rustle up a fry and have numerous cups of Lyons Gold Blend to mend me. Of course stronger stuff is needed and as I’m not particle to solitary sipping sessions I wait until Nicola rises before offering up some whiskeys. We skip the hot whiskeys and just pour letting the alcohol and ailments exude from our pores. Will rings to see if we’re up for a few drinks in town. We tell him we’re house bound. We’re not quite on the ground when Chloé calls. She’s all dressed-up with nowhere to go so we invite her over. She texts a while later saying she can’t find her way. We’re not surprised as she’s a bit hesitant and irresolute about the simplest of things. There’s nothing we can do but carry on and talk away until both our heads and both bottles of whiskey seem clearer. The glass is indeed cleaner on the Irish side.
Pulling teeth on Sports day - Vendredi, 26.01.07
Vendredi 26.01.07 Pulling teeth on Sports day
It’s Sports Day in Chateauboeuf today. I don’t have class but I’m between two minds whether to go as I remember how much fun we had at our own Primary School Sports Day. I thoroughly enjoyed those events – especially the teeth-extracting Oatfield Emeralds, though I doubt races of the sack or potato and spoon sort will feature here. It’s touching 30°C. I don’t fancy watching kids passing out one another or just passing out in this heat. I have a vision of each class being made to do collective time-trialled laps and sprints under the sweating sun. My ROWNTREE jersey, O’Neill shorts and ruined runners will have to stay in reserve for another season.
Nic has an early start. I decide to go visit David at the IUFM. Of course I’ve made my intentions very clear; internet usage and intellectual stimulation only. His alien ideas give me the willies.
David’s a bit out of sorts today. Firstly, I think I woke him up when I rang to say I was outside. Though I had got a text from him this morning saying I could come over in the afternoon so he was aware of my upcoming space invasion. He tells me he was cleaning his room but it looks like a tip anyway. He goes off to do his washing while I log-on and do my thing. When he returns he displays his origami skills – and the depths of his boredom, by folding his laundry just like the Japanese. Neatly folded clothes are standard but ironed socks and jocks are taking things too far; he could get committed for that. Maybe he just wanted someone to talk to and bring him out of his boredom but there I was selfishly, yet somewhat unwittingly, typing and tapping away. He skips a class which seems very unlike him but I’m in oblivion overload and don’t take this on board...
He jokes that he could become a serial killer with so much time on his hands to contemplate things. “Yes, I could murder a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes right now,” I retort. Yes. I’m well aware that Mrs Steven’s is probably beyond that sort of wit but I just can’t help it. He shows me some family and college pictures and reads some extracts from Dahl’s The Twits, which in this Scot’s translation has been renamed The Eejits. It’s more confusing than funny but I’ll probably borrow it some day.
David’s now gazing out the window observing the comings and goings of the IUFM’s residents. I think stalking would be a better boredom-killing pursuit for him than being a Ted Bundy hatchet man. He may be off on a hack soon – on a boat, as a crew member for a friend’s friend’s friend. For the moment however he seems more occupied with shifting smoking evidence than hauling things overboard. Smoking is a killer. So is boredom. And procrastination. I had first hand experience of this during the Leaving Cert. Put Sixth Years in the same prep room and inevitably they’ll be up to all sorts of divilment. An epitomic example will be illustrated here in photographs once I return home. It’s titled Boredom at it’s Best; three hours of hard work, once black-bored and a few packets of multicoloured chalk. Those were the days….
Sports Day opportunities and suggestions come in all shapes and forms today. I get to meet the much-lauded and applauded French finer Sebastian who, much to my disappointment, is only dragging a cigarette when I see him and not ladies as I’d been told. He tells me I can participate in their team tactics just the way I am, barefoot or as the goalie. I tell him I’d rather be the football than let anyone score against me. It’s getting late and dark so I leave the guys to dribble and score with the group of equally ill-dressed, ladies who have just wandered unto the campus.
“Break a leg,” are my tactless, tacticless parting words. The day has been marred by news that our Welsh friend, Gethin, is going home for good due to an ankle injury. He broke his wrist just before Christmas at a rugby match in Diamant and two months later he finds himself lying, crying and dying on the same churned-up field clutching his milky pins and cursing calcium deficient calves. We can’t even throw a farewell party for him as he’s housebound and bed bound. He’ll be homeward bound by the end of the week.
His insurance is covering his flight but it can’t hide his disappointment. Gethin came to Martinique a lad with his umbilical cord painfully stretching all the way from Anglesey. He’ll be in pain again when he leaves but this time he’ll leave a man. He came back here after spending Christmas in Wales and he was full of confidence and hope for the remainder of his time here. He changed for the best when he changed his mind and decided to come back and take another run at Martinique. Or another run at a Martiniquan in studs and shorts as the story goes.
There’s another tour de cyclisme in town this weekend. I go on a cross-country route to get to the bus-stop. At least there’s no loopy Guadeloupean lady leaping around beside me like there was this morning in Post-Colon; the hills were alive with the sound of her wild musings about MacDo.
The bus journey, as per usual, is not without its characters. A lady sits beside me on the bus. Her son sits behind her. He makes such a fuss over his mother; leaning over to talk to her, rubbing her shoulders and caressing her hair. Could his name be Oedipus? Even though he’s about 14 he would possibly still sit in her lap. However, I can see she’s reaching boiling point. She’s tries to keep her temper under wraps by gently telling him to leave her alone; that is until he tries to pass her bag forward to her. With the winding of the road he misjudges his swing and it smacks her across the face. She’s alright but it gives her the chance to snap at him. With her giving him the cold shoulder he starts peering over mine. I’m trying to figure out how this Digicel Twins à vie scheme works. He pipes up that such-and-such a code should be entered. I give him my phone and he fixes it. Voila! His mother is suddenly gleaming. At least his over helpfulness was put to good use.
I spied JP outside La Croisière earlier in the day. I texted Nic on the off chance that we’d meet each other but she ended up mistaking her bus beau for J.P and retreated home. Imagine being at home, in Ireland, and having some stranger come up to you on the street asking: Ça va? You’d be miffed and caught on the hop. Well that’s exactly how her French fancy fella reacted with his automated English response: Eh,… I am fine thank you. And you? Nicola has probably frightened the poor chap off her radar altogether. She must have used a similar stunt with Fred and Verner this morning. They’ve left, and there’s nothing left in the house to suggest that their one week work assignment in Corsica provides them with a return ticket to Martinique - or more specifically Post-Colon.
Nicola and I have our own travel plans to be getting on with and we spend the evening making goodbye goodies for Gethin and planning our Paddy’s Day Guinness fest in Montserrat. For Gethin we have a little Irish souvenir tin into which we each place a written note for each month that he’ll be absent. If we had a whiskey for each absent assistant we’d be well on our way to wherever it is one goes when they’re on their way… Here’s a little ditty I wrote for Getty:
Always remember, never forget, that David and I both lost that bet!
You went home, on the mend, and your stay in Paradise came to an end.
I hope you recover in Anglesey. Have your fun by the sea.
Ireland and Wales are not so far and once we’re all home we’ll meet for a jar!
The big looming cruise ship toots three times and we watch it steer into the sunset just as our Welsh friend will when he leaves Boulevard Général de Gaulle for Le Pays de Galles.
It’s Sports Day in Chateauboeuf today. I don’t have class but I’m between two minds whether to go as I remember how much fun we had at our own Primary School Sports Day. I thoroughly enjoyed those events – especially the teeth-extracting Oatfield Emeralds, though I doubt races of the sack or potato and spoon sort will feature here. It’s touching 30°C. I don’t fancy watching kids passing out one another or just passing out in this heat. I have a vision of each class being made to do collective time-trialled laps and sprints under the sweating sun. My ROWNTREE jersey, O’Neill shorts and ruined runners will have to stay in reserve for another season.
Nic has an early start. I decide to go visit David at the IUFM. Of course I’ve made my intentions very clear; internet usage and intellectual stimulation only. His alien ideas give me the willies.
David’s a bit out of sorts today. Firstly, I think I woke him up when I rang to say I was outside. Though I had got a text from him this morning saying I could come over in the afternoon so he was aware of my upcoming space invasion. He tells me he was cleaning his room but it looks like a tip anyway. He goes off to do his washing while I log-on and do my thing. When he returns he displays his origami skills – and the depths of his boredom, by folding his laundry just like the Japanese. Neatly folded clothes are standard but ironed socks and jocks are taking things too far; he could get committed for that. Maybe he just wanted someone to talk to and bring him out of his boredom but there I was selfishly, yet somewhat unwittingly, typing and tapping away. He skips a class which seems very unlike him but I’m in oblivion overload and don’t take this on board...
He jokes that he could become a serial killer with so much time on his hands to contemplate things. “Yes, I could murder a bowl of Crunchy Nut Cornflakes right now,” I retort. Yes. I’m well aware that Mrs Steven’s is probably beyond that sort of wit but I just can’t help it. He shows me some family and college pictures and reads some extracts from Dahl’s The Twits, which in this Scot’s translation has been renamed The Eejits. It’s more confusing than funny but I’ll probably borrow it some day.
David’s now gazing out the window observing the comings and goings of the IUFM’s residents. I think stalking would be a better boredom-killing pursuit for him than being a Ted Bundy hatchet man. He may be off on a hack soon – on a boat, as a crew member for a friend’s friend’s friend. For the moment however he seems more occupied with shifting smoking evidence than hauling things overboard. Smoking is a killer. So is boredom. And procrastination. I had first hand experience of this during the Leaving Cert. Put Sixth Years in the same prep room and inevitably they’ll be up to all sorts of divilment. An epitomic example will be illustrated here in photographs once I return home. It’s titled Boredom at it’s Best; three hours of hard work, once black-bored and a few packets of multicoloured chalk. Those were the days….
Sports Day opportunities and suggestions come in all shapes and forms today. I get to meet the much-lauded and applauded French finer Sebastian who, much to my disappointment, is only dragging a cigarette when I see him and not ladies as I’d been told. He tells me I can participate in their team tactics just the way I am, barefoot or as the goalie. I tell him I’d rather be the football than let anyone score against me. It’s getting late and dark so I leave the guys to dribble and score with the group of equally ill-dressed, ladies who have just wandered unto the campus.
“Break a leg,” are my tactless, tacticless parting words. The day has been marred by news that our Welsh friend, Gethin, is going home for good due to an ankle injury. He broke his wrist just before Christmas at a rugby match in Diamant and two months later he finds himself lying, crying and dying on the same churned-up field clutching his milky pins and cursing calcium deficient calves. We can’t even throw a farewell party for him as he’s housebound and bed bound. He’ll be homeward bound by the end of the week.
His insurance is covering his flight but it can’t hide his disappointment. Gethin came to Martinique a lad with his umbilical cord painfully stretching all the way from Anglesey. He’ll be in pain again when he leaves but this time he’ll leave a man. He came back here after spending Christmas in Wales and he was full of confidence and hope for the remainder of his time here. He changed for the best when he changed his mind and decided to come back and take another run at Martinique. Or another run at a Martiniquan in studs and shorts as the story goes.
There’s another tour de cyclisme in town this weekend. I go on a cross-country route to get to the bus-stop. At least there’s no loopy Guadeloupean lady leaping around beside me like there was this morning in Post-Colon; the hills were alive with the sound of her wild musings about MacDo.
The bus journey, as per usual, is not without its characters. A lady sits beside me on the bus. Her son sits behind her. He makes such a fuss over his mother; leaning over to talk to her, rubbing her shoulders and caressing her hair. Could his name be Oedipus? Even though he’s about 14 he would possibly still sit in her lap. However, I can see she’s reaching boiling point. She’s tries to keep her temper under wraps by gently telling him to leave her alone; that is until he tries to pass her bag forward to her. With the winding of the road he misjudges his swing and it smacks her across the face. She’s alright but it gives her the chance to snap at him. With her giving him the cold shoulder he starts peering over mine. I’m trying to figure out how this Digicel Twins à vie scheme works. He pipes up that such-and-such a code should be entered. I give him my phone and he fixes it. Voila! His mother is suddenly gleaming. At least his over helpfulness was put to good use.
I spied JP outside La Croisière earlier in the day. I texted Nic on the off chance that we’d meet each other but she ended up mistaking her bus beau for J.P and retreated home. Imagine being at home, in Ireland, and having some stranger come up to you on the street asking: Ça va? You’d be miffed and caught on the hop. Well that’s exactly how her French fancy fella reacted with his automated English response: Eh,… I am fine thank you. And you? Nicola has probably frightened the poor chap off her radar altogether. She must have used a similar stunt with Fred and Verner this morning. They’ve left, and there’s nothing left in the house to suggest that their one week work assignment in Corsica provides them with a return ticket to Martinique - or more specifically Post-Colon.
Nicola and I have our own travel plans to be getting on with and we spend the evening making goodbye goodies for Gethin and planning our Paddy’s Day Guinness fest in Montserrat. For Gethin we have a little Irish souvenir tin into which we each place a written note for each month that he’ll be absent. If we had a whiskey for each absent assistant we’d be well on our way to wherever it is one goes when they’re on their way… Here’s a little ditty I wrote for Getty:
Always remember, never forget, that David and I both lost that bet!
You went home, on the mend, and your stay in Paradise came to an end.
I hope you recover in Anglesey. Have your fun by the sea.
Ireland and Wales are not so far and once we’re all home we’ll meet for a jar!
The big looming cruise ship toots three times and we watch it steer into the sunset just as our Welsh friend will when he leaves Boulevard Général de Gaulle for Le Pays de Galles.
Chinese please - Jeudi, 25.01.07
Jeudi 25.01.07 Chinese please
I start my classes with an animal related song today: Who’s the King of the Jungle?
Who’s the King of the Jungle?
Ouh. Ouh.
Who’s the King of the Sea?
Bauba. Bauba. Bau.
Who’s the King of the Universe, the garden, field and tree?
I’ll tell you…
L-I-O-N
Lion. Yes!
He’s the King of the Jungle.
Ouh. Ouh.
But he’s not the King of the Sea.
Bauba. Bauba. Bau.
He’s not the King of the Universe, the garden, field or tree.
Bauba. Bauba. Bau.
Ouh. Ouh.
The younger kids really go wild for this song. I actually get requests from Madame Acina’s class to do the Ouh. Ouh. Song. I’ve already got my aides stuck to the other side of the blackboard so I open up and start singing, motioning to the cut-outs and generally acting-the-ape.
I run the risk of turning into a juke-box so I close the blackboard flaps and commence with colours and shapes as I had intended. The kids know most of the colours but there are a few stragglers I have to pin-point. We listen and repeat, listen and touch, match the tags to the colours, play Hide&Seek and rematch my mismatched tags until we’re blue, red, green, yellow, orange, white, black, brown, pink and purple in the face.
Today’s dialogue is minimal but I ask them their name before doing a task. When they respond I give an order such as: Touch the red circle. Point to the yellow square. Give me the white triangle. We then divide into two teams for a speed round of listen, think and touch. I get the two competing pupils to turn their backs to the board and only when they are certain that they know the answer do they turn and touch. Madame Acina’s class have the Pink Porky Pig and Baa Baa Black Sheep teams while Madame Thaly’s group choose Pretty Polly Parrot and Slimy Slippery Snake.
I end the lesson by running through the different habitats where animals live and I bring in relevant vocab to help them understand the newest song. We go through the actions and the class ends with a final rendition of Who’s the King of the Jungle? One little girl in Catherine’s class comes up at the end and asks me if we can learn a song about pets. She doesn’t have one in mind but between Old MacDonald and Co. I’m sure I can make up one…
I have an easy time with the CM2 classes too. It’s out with the copybooks today as I divide the animals into three groups: Pets: Farm Animals: Wild Animals. Each child gets an animal.
I ask: Who has the hamster? The owner replies: I’ve got it, before presenting it whatever way they choose; I have a fish: It is a sheep: The giraffe is brown and orange. They place the animal in the correct group, look for the tag in the pile and then I go through the plural for each animal. I highlight the tricky ones and explain the changes as well as explaining why we say an elephant as opposed to a elephant. A banana. An apple. An egg.
In their copies they copy down the groupings, the animals and their plurals. Of course some can not just copy things directly from the board but I suppose sneaking around with a red pen is part of my job.
While the pupils are transcribing I get to have a natter with the teachers. Madame Caruge is proud of her class. They behave so well, work diligently and are respectful of their peers and teachers – unlike other classes she adds. She has trained them to work amid noise and disruption. The lunch vans and messengers pass by their class every waking hour and they seem oblivious to these external distractions. There are two beings however who cause internal distractions. They aren’t disruptive and in fact the pupils have learnt to live with their rustlings, their cooing and their flighty ways; two pigeons sit on top of the cupboard each day observing the class. They don’t have a nest but they’ve got the best seats in town as they huddle together amongst paper crowns and ornamental twigs taking in leaves and lessons.
I’m supposed to have a meeting with Jossylene tomorrow but the kids have Sports Day which means I don’t have class. I tidy up the essay she asked me to fix and slide it under Claude’s door before trying to call her. I send her a text; filling her in on the whereabouts of her file, and jokingly quoting a future fee for my sub-editing services!
Its Chinese for lunch today. My cow-pow beef looks a bit underdone but it goes down well. Nicola has some slimy chicken chow-pow but it disappears too. One of the girls behind the counter seems to know some other assistants and we briefly linger on the steps talking to her before the monosodium glutamate kicks in and we kick off. Nic buys some sickly sweet drink which should be diluted with a gallon of water before drinking it. I take a swig and silently pray that there are no beehives about; sugar to the hips, bees to the lips. We pass a specialist food store and Nic pops in to inquire about glutton-free, gluten-free, for-a-fee bread while I window shop with her just-lit fag in my hand. There’s a blow-up Mario Santa Claus doll in the window next door and I resist letting off some of his hot air with the smouldering fag.
Back at the ranch we give Will a jingle. He has had a cold and I swear after talking to him for a minute I can feel my own sinuses swelling already. We plan to go out at the weekend. No prizes for guessing where but if it serves a hot whisky we could all be saved.
We put on a DVD - Changing Lanes, and opt for the English version; Samuel L. Jackson may be a credible actor but Ben Affleck still needs an interpreter.
I don’t need anyone to tell me how drowsy I feel. I head to bed. Nic and I are communicating with cough and sneeze signals all night. Cough-cough. Splutter-splutter. Ah-chooo.
I start my classes with an animal related song today: Who’s the King of the Jungle?
Who’s the King of the Jungle?
Ouh. Ouh.
Who’s the King of the Sea?
Bauba. Bauba. Bau.
Who’s the King of the Universe, the garden, field and tree?
I’ll tell you…
L-I-O-N
Lion. Yes!
He’s the King of the Jungle.
Ouh. Ouh.
But he’s not the King of the Sea.
Bauba. Bauba. Bau.
He’s not the King of the Universe, the garden, field or tree.
Bauba. Bauba. Bau.
Ouh. Ouh.
The younger kids really go wild for this song. I actually get requests from Madame Acina’s class to do the Ouh. Ouh. Song. I’ve already got my aides stuck to the other side of the blackboard so I open up and start singing, motioning to the cut-outs and generally acting-the-ape.
I run the risk of turning into a juke-box so I close the blackboard flaps and commence with colours and shapes as I had intended. The kids know most of the colours but there are a few stragglers I have to pin-point. We listen and repeat, listen and touch, match the tags to the colours, play Hide&Seek and rematch my mismatched tags until we’re blue, red, green, yellow, orange, white, black, brown, pink and purple in the face.
Today’s dialogue is minimal but I ask them their name before doing a task. When they respond I give an order such as: Touch the red circle. Point to the yellow square. Give me the white triangle. We then divide into two teams for a speed round of listen, think and touch. I get the two competing pupils to turn their backs to the board and only when they are certain that they know the answer do they turn and touch. Madame Acina’s class have the Pink Porky Pig and Baa Baa Black Sheep teams while Madame Thaly’s group choose Pretty Polly Parrot and Slimy Slippery Snake.
I end the lesson by running through the different habitats where animals live and I bring in relevant vocab to help them understand the newest song. We go through the actions and the class ends with a final rendition of Who’s the King of the Jungle? One little girl in Catherine’s class comes up at the end and asks me if we can learn a song about pets. She doesn’t have one in mind but between Old MacDonald and Co. I’m sure I can make up one…
I have an easy time with the CM2 classes too. It’s out with the copybooks today as I divide the animals into three groups: Pets: Farm Animals: Wild Animals. Each child gets an animal.
I ask: Who has the hamster? The owner replies: I’ve got it, before presenting it whatever way they choose; I have a fish: It is a sheep: The giraffe is brown and orange. They place the animal in the correct group, look for the tag in the pile and then I go through the plural for each animal. I highlight the tricky ones and explain the changes as well as explaining why we say an elephant as opposed to a elephant. A banana. An apple. An egg.
In their copies they copy down the groupings, the animals and their plurals. Of course some can not just copy things directly from the board but I suppose sneaking around with a red pen is part of my job.
While the pupils are transcribing I get to have a natter with the teachers. Madame Caruge is proud of her class. They behave so well, work diligently and are respectful of their peers and teachers – unlike other classes she adds. She has trained them to work amid noise and disruption. The lunch vans and messengers pass by their class every waking hour and they seem oblivious to these external distractions. There are two beings however who cause internal distractions. They aren’t disruptive and in fact the pupils have learnt to live with their rustlings, their cooing and their flighty ways; two pigeons sit on top of the cupboard each day observing the class. They don’t have a nest but they’ve got the best seats in town as they huddle together amongst paper crowns and ornamental twigs taking in leaves and lessons.
I’m supposed to have a meeting with Jossylene tomorrow but the kids have Sports Day which means I don’t have class. I tidy up the essay she asked me to fix and slide it under Claude’s door before trying to call her. I send her a text; filling her in on the whereabouts of her file, and jokingly quoting a future fee for my sub-editing services!
Its Chinese for lunch today. My cow-pow beef looks a bit underdone but it goes down well. Nicola has some slimy chicken chow-pow but it disappears too. One of the girls behind the counter seems to know some other assistants and we briefly linger on the steps talking to her before the monosodium glutamate kicks in and we kick off. Nic buys some sickly sweet drink which should be diluted with a gallon of water before drinking it. I take a swig and silently pray that there are no beehives about; sugar to the hips, bees to the lips. We pass a specialist food store and Nic pops in to inquire about glutton-free, gluten-free, for-a-fee bread while I window shop with her just-lit fag in my hand. There’s a blow-up Mario Santa Claus doll in the window next door and I resist letting off some of his hot air with the smouldering fag.
Back at the ranch we give Will a jingle. He has had a cold and I swear after talking to him for a minute I can feel my own sinuses swelling already. We plan to go out at the weekend. No prizes for guessing where but if it serves a hot whisky we could all be saved.
We put on a DVD - Changing Lanes, and opt for the English version; Samuel L. Jackson may be a credible actor but Ben Affleck still needs an interpreter.
I don’t need anyone to tell me how drowsy I feel. I head to bed. Nic and I are communicating with cough and sneeze signals all night. Cough-cough. Splutter-splutter. Ah-chooo.
The hills are alive with the sound of Beyonce - Mercredi, 24.01.07
Mercredi 24.01.07 The hills are alive with the sound of Beyonce
Match today’s event, action or occurrence to the relevant person:
Who left a v-mail asking if I would give a talk about Ireland to their pupils?
Who called for the second time to tell me I don’t have a rendez-vous today?
Who is paying assistants to give talks on different aspects of their culture?
Who did I receive ‘A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian’ from today?
Who spent the morning cleaning the house and relaying ant powder?
Who told us their father was brought into hospital at the start of the week?
Whose favourite colours are now black and blue?
Who is probably making a ‘Welcome to UCD’ banner for Bill Bryson today?
******************************************************************
Fergal - My boyfriend
Sharon - Nic’s cousin who just moved back to Portlaoise.
Heather - Nic’s friend who is now my friend too.
Me, myself, I - Cereal cleaner. Lather lover. Secret sponger.
Michele - Friend from previous workplace
Carol Pommier - English teacher at Convent de Cluny
Crédit Mutel - My bank in Fort-de-France
Madame D’Orny - English teacher in Lycée Cluny
Match today’s event, action or occurrence to the relevant person:
Who left a v-mail asking if I would give a talk about Ireland to their pupils?
Who called for the second time to tell me I don’t have a rendez-vous today?
Who is paying assistants to give talks on different aspects of their culture?
Who did I receive ‘A Short History of Tractors in Ukrainian’ from today?
Who spent the morning cleaning the house and relaying ant powder?
Who told us their father was brought into hospital at the start of the week?
Whose favourite colours are now black and blue?
Who is probably making a ‘Welcome to UCD’ banner for Bill Bryson today?
******************************************************************
Fergal - My boyfriend
Sharon - Nic’s cousin who just moved back to Portlaoise.
Heather - Nic’s friend who is now my friend too.
Me, myself, I - Cereal cleaner. Lather lover. Secret sponger.
Michele - Friend from previous workplace
Carol Pommier - English teacher at Convent de Cluny
Crédit Mutel - My bank in Fort-de-France
Madame D’Orny - English teacher in Lycée Cluny
King David - Mardi, 23.01.07
Mardi 23.01.07 King David
I’m only in school five minutes when my mobile rings. It’s Jossylene my responsable. I instantly think she wants to change our meeting again but she mutters something about correcting an essay. She says she can’t get to school but will give it to Claude, who happens to be her neighbour. At that instant he walks into the library and a while later I find a pink folder on my desk with a 26-page business research essay on French transnational subsidiaries in Brazil. Exciting stuff. I should have been in Martiniquan mode and flashed a fee for my services. It can wait.
Madame Bois is out this week so I’ve a free first period. I stay in the library and read until the school nurse appears to set up shop. Children file in and out as they’re weighed, measured and quizzed about all things healthy, hygienic and wholesome. So many kids seem to take chocolate milk with their cereal – even if the cereal already contains chocolate. One little girl admits to only having fruit for breakfast and she gets informed about balanced diets and good eating habits. I eavesdrop so much I find I’ve been re-reading the same two pages for almost half an hour. Elizabeth appears and I finally put the dog-eared book aside as we chat away. Elizabeth has been on the lookout for a new job, as a school secretary, ever since I met her. She admits that teaching is tough and she wants a change of scene. I can empathise with her and I’m sure many other teachers would to.
Elizabeth pops in to see Madame Dau. She was out towards the end of last week but she’s back and looking surprisingly prettier, younger and relaxed dressed-down in a pink and white sports ensemble. She’s normally dolled-up, well-heeled and over-accessorised but this casual look suits her better.
My first class of the day is with Mr. Carval. Christophe has been landed with some of Dominique’s class today. Usually, even with Dominique in the classroom her brood are unruly though it’s discouraging to see them act in a similar fashion when they’re put up by other classes. Of course the bitchy bunch is up to their usual tricks. Poor Nelly is up the front, mingling with Christophe’s crowd, while the five jackals are cackling down the back even before I enter the class. It’s only 9,00 and Christophe already looks spent. As it happens I don’t have enough cut-outs to go around everyone. Christophe’s group are priority and so I tell the cacklers rather bluntly to carry on with other work. They’re not impressed but they stay silent throughout the class. Nelly is left to participate but she seems to get some stick from the others too. She’s possibly a bit too diligent for everyone else’s’ liking.
My other two classes, with Madame Lucy Pamphile and Madame Catherine Edragas so swimmingly. The children are occupied with their worksheets for the final quarter hour. Well, those who haven’t lost their sheets are content but there’s always one or two, or five in my last class, who have mislaid their work. Catherine is worried that some of her children are not up to speed. I reassure her that language acquisition relies on repetition but I resist adding that absenteeism doesn’t really help the whole process. I agree to slow things down to accommodate the weaker students.
I’m almost dying of the hunger when I reach Pointe Simone. Fortunately I get a set on the bus. We’re just turning unto the road when I catch a glimpse of Gethin. He’s in jeans and runners – the mad yoke must be sweltering; himself, myself and Nicola are meeting David for lunch at Rond Point. I arrive to find Nic and the Birthday Boy smoking on their hunkers beside the trolley stall. Gethin appears minutes later.
We get filled in on the scandal from Bea’s birthday bash over the weekend. A local fisherman made a fortune that night by ferrying the 50-odd revellers to and from the island. Judging from the pictures on Face Book a lot of alcohol was washed down; and a lot of action was witnessed too Gethin tells us. He got his share. He hooked up with Jasmine, the newest LDN assistante. However, he has no sooner returned from a midnight swim than she had drifted into Rodolfo’s arms. Tsk. Tsk.
David and Karla didn’t have such a cosy time on Montagne Pelée as the mist lead them up the route. David has pictures of Karla clenching her teeth as she clings to the crater and in others David is shrouded in a cloud of clinging dampness. At least my short-armed rain-jacket came in handy.
The chat stops when we reach the canteen counter. There are almost too many things on the menu but Nic and I have been here so often we know what we want: chicken, pureed potatoes, vegetable gratin and lentils drizzled with that zingy garlic sauce. My meal however, goes cold as I wait by the till to direct the guys and pay for David’s birthday banquet. He can’t manage to finish the feast of fish but he somehow finds a space for the rum-laced chocolate cake. Gethin distracts him while Nic and I light the candles and assemble his gold crown. The poor guy turns as red as the cherry on Nic’s rice pudding when we sing Happy Birthday in the packed dining hall and we turn him into a Burger King Birthday Boy by placing the cardboard coronet on his haloed hair-defying head. King David. Some people at the table beside us even wish him Bon Anniversaire as they leave. David too has to leave. He has a class at 14,00 in Schoelcher. It nearly seems like the perfect excuse to run out on us but we make him agree to meeting for drinks in the Mayflower later on.
The Three Stooges go to Deli France for post-feast coffee. Gethin is in a shopping mood; he seems to be flashing the cash since he got back from Wales. Nic and I leave him to check out the wares in Sports 2000 but within no time he’s on the blower telling us to come over and see the deals. 40% OFF. We see the deals alright but we can’t see Gethin. He soon appears from a randomly placed cubicle in blue Quicksilver board shorts. Many other items are examined before we go but when we reach Fort-de-France Gethin still has the urge to splurge. We settle for one drink in the Mayflower before he announces that he’s hitting the shops for a while before David appears. It’s such as role reversal with Nic and I beering and him browsing. He’s in a strange mood and it’s confirmed when he calls to say he is meeting his landlady’s daughter and getting a lift home within the hour. He lives in Ducos. The TaxiCos will soon be leaving but we could have easily put him up, though it’s probably as well we didn’t as I could be €5 poorer…
David comes for drinks. We have the craic but David’s smile cracks when the newest army dudes enter, approach our table and embrace us. They sit across the room with their bottle of whisky so all’s calm, well as calm as a place is when its topped up with testosterone. There’s a pool tournament down the back and to get to the toilets you have to weave in and out of the onlookers. One guy stops me on my way back from the bog. His name is Nick and he’s from Brazil. He’s in construction; and self-destruction by the look of him.
The hunger is on us so we traipse off to the nearest eatery – MacDo. Oh no… Things turn a bit crazy. We start ordering food as if we’re on a drinking binge. Round 1: Nic has a Nine Nugget meal; David gets a Double Bacon Burger Meal; and I have a Big Mac Meal. Round 2: Another Nine Nugget deal; and Carmel Sundaes. Round 3: More damn nuggets… I think the barbeque sauce is the undoing of us all. Somehow we waddle outside and we soon find ourselves back in the Mayflower for some reverse absorption action.
All too soon we have to head home. A taxi is called. David and Nicola head up the street to the ATM while I stand by the taxi. Sebastian the speckled soldier comes out for a smoke and starts chatting to me. I hear a stifled scream from Nicola; some dirty rat just got chased across her path by a fat cat. David has to overstep a sleeping drunk to get to the ATM machine but I don’t hear him scream. David is soon lying like the liquefied luder, Nic is chasing men in her drowsy dreams and I’m nodding off to the MacDo theme tune and the effects of sugar-loaded barbeque sauce.
I’m only in school five minutes when my mobile rings. It’s Jossylene my responsable. I instantly think she wants to change our meeting again but she mutters something about correcting an essay. She says she can’t get to school but will give it to Claude, who happens to be her neighbour. At that instant he walks into the library and a while later I find a pink folder on my desk with a 26-page business research essay on French transnational subsidiaries in Brazil. Exciting stuff. I should have been in Martiniquan mode and flashed a fee for my services. It can wait.
Madame Bois is out this week so I’ve a free first period. I stay in the library and read until the school nurse appears to set up shop. Children file in and out as they’re weighed, measured and quizzed about all things healthy, hygienic and wholesome. So many kids seem to take chocolate milk with their cereal – even if the cereal already contains chocolate. One little girl admits to only having fruit for breakfast and she gets informed about balanced diets and good eating habits. I eavesdrop so much I find I’ve been re-reading the same two pages for almost half an hour. Elizabeth appears and I finally put the dog-eared book aside as we chat away. Elizabeth has been on the lookout for a new job, as a school secretary, ever since I met her. She admits that teaching is tough and she wants a change of scene. I can empathise with her and I’m sure many other teachers would to.
Elizabeth pops in to see Madame Dau. She was out towards the end of last week but she’s back and looking surprisingly prettier, younger and relaxed dressed-down in a pink and white sports ensemble. She’s normally dolled-up, well-heeled and over-accessorised but this casual look suits her better.
My first class of the day is with Mr. Carval. Christophe has been landed with some of Dominique’s class today. Usually, even with Dominique in the classroom her brood are unruly though it’s discouraging to see them act in a similar fashion when they’re put up by other classes. Of course the bitchy bunch is up to their usual tricks. Poor Nelly is up the front, mingling with Christophe’s crowd, while the five jackals are cackling down the back even before I enter the class. It’s only 9,00 and Christophe already looks spent. As it happens I don’t have enough cut-outs to go around everyone. Christophe’s group are priority and so I tell the cacklers rather bluntly to carry on with other work. They’re not impressed but they stay silent throughout the class. Nelly is left to participate but she seems to get some stick from the others too. She’s possibly a bit too diligent for everyone else’s’ liking.
My other two classes, with Madame Lucy Pamphile and Madame Catherine Edragas so swimmingly. The children are occupied with their worksheets for the final quarter hour. Well, those who haven’t lost their sheets are content but there’s always one or two, or five in my last class, who have mislaid their work. Catherine is worried that some of her children are not up to speed. I reassure her that language acquisition relies on repetition but I resist adding that absenteeism doesn’t really help the whole process. I agree to slow things down to accommodate the weaker students.
I’m almost dying of the hunger when I reach Pointe Simone. Fortunately I get a set on the bus. We’re just turning unto the road when I catch a glimpse of Gethin. He’s in jeans and runners – the mad yoke must be sweltering; himself, myself and Nicola are meeting David for lunch at Rond Point. I arrive to find Nic and the Birthday Boy smoking on their hunkers beside the trolley stall. Gethin appears minutes later.
We get filled in on the scandal from Bea’s birthday bash over the weekend. A local fisherman made a fortune that night by ferrying the 50-odd revellers to and from the island. Judging from the pictures on Face Book a lot of alcohol was washed down; and a lot of action was witnessed too Gethin tells us. He got his share. He hooked up with Jasmine, the newest LDN assistante. However, he has no sooner returned from a midnight swim than she had drifted into Rodolfo’s arms. Tsk. Tsk.
David and Karla didn’t have such a cosy time on Montagne Pelée as the mist lead them up the route. David has pictures of Karla clenching her teeth as she clings to the crater and in others David is shrouded in a cloud of clinging dampness. At least my short-armed rain-jacket came in handy.
The chat stops when we reach the canteen counter. There are almost too many things on the menu but Nic and I have been here so often we know what we want: chicken, pureed potatoes, vegetable gratin and lentils drizzled with that zingy garlic sauce. My meal however, goes cold as I wait by the till to direct the guys and pay for David’s birthday banquet. He can’t manage to finish the feast of fish but he somehow finds a space for the rum-laced chocolate cake. Gethin distracts him while Nic and I light the candles and assemble his gold crown. The poor guy turns as red as the cherry on Nic’s rice pudding when we sing Happy Birthday in the packed dining hall and we turn him into a Burger King Birthday Boy by placing the cardboard coronet on his haloed hair-defying head. King David. Some people at the table beside us even wish him Bon Anniversaire as they leave. David too has to leave. He has a class at 14,00 in Schoelcher. It nearly seems like the perfect excuse to run out on us but we make him agree to meeting for drinks in the Mayflower later on.
The Three Stooges go to Deli France for post-feast coffee. Gethin is in a shopping mood; he seems to be flashing the cash since he got back from Wales. Nic and I leave him to check out the wares in Sports 2000 but within no time he’s on the blower telling us to come over and see the deals. 40% OFF. We see the deals alright but we can’t see Gethin. He soon appears from a randomly placed cubicle in blue Quicksilver board shorts. Many other items are examined before we go but when we reach Fort-de-France Gethin still has the urge to splurge. We settle for one drink in the Mayflower before he announces that he’s hitting the shops for a while before David appears. It’s such as role reversal with Nic and I beering and him browsing. He’s in a strange mood and it’s confirmed when he calls to say he is meeting his landlady’s daughter and getting a lift home within the hour. He lives in Ducos. The TaxiCos will soon be leaving but we could have easily put him up, though it’s probably as well we didn’t as I could be €5 poorer…
David comes for drinks. We have the craic but David’s smile cracks when the newest army dudes enter, approach our table and embrace us. They sit across the room with their bottle of whisky so all’s calm, well as calm as a place is when its topped up with testosterone. There’s a pool tournament down the back and to get to the toilets you have to weave in and out of the onlookers. One guy stops me on my way back from the bog. His name is Nick and he’s from Brazil. He’s in construction; and self-destruction by the look of him.
The hunger is on us so we traipse off to the nearest eatery – MacDo. Oh no… Things turn a bit crazy. We start ordering food as if we’re on a drinking binge. Round 1: Nic has a Nine Nugget meal; David gets a Double Bacon Burger Meal; and I have a Big Mac Meal. Round 2: Another Nine Nugget deal; and Carmel Sundaes. Round 3: More damn nuggets… I think the barbeque sauce is the undoing of us all. Somehow we waddle outside and we soon find ourselves back in the Mayflower for some reverse absorption action.
All too soon we have to head home. A taxi is called. David and Nicola head up the street to the ATM while I stand by the taxi. Sebastian the speckled soldier comes out for a smoke and starts chatting to me. I hear a stifled scream from Nicola; some dirty rat just got chased across her path by a fat cat. David has to overstep a sleeping drunk to get to the ATM machine but I don’t hear him scream. David is soon lying like the liquefied luder, Nic is chasing men in her drowsy dreams and I’m nodding off to the MacDo theme tune and the effects of sugar-loaded barbeque sauce.
Animal antics - Lundi, 22.01.07
Lundi 22.01.07 Animal antics
Today is David’s birthday. Nic and I had offered to meet him for lunch but we’re putting it off till tomorrow as he’s on top of the world today. Well, he’s on top of Montagne Pelée. Himself and Karla are two assistants who manage to get by with minimal workloads so they’re indulging in their four day weekend; if you can call getting up at 6,00 and climbing a fog-filled mountain indulgence. Nic and I gave David a DVD for his birthday. It’s no ordinary gif’ as we made it ourselves with clips and pictures from our time here. It tells the story of how he, this young Scottish lad, came to Martinique, met two lovely Irish girls and finally became converted to the Irish way of life – David, or Daithí as he’s now known, also gets turned into a Leprechaun and there’s a complementary Irish/English dictionary to help him translate what the Irish say from day to day. It was a hoot to make and we split our sides every time we watch it – I’m now waiting in my surgery gown for my twentieth round of stitches!
Actually school is a little like what I imagine surgery to be like: you prep yourself; go in for the operation; and come out either mended or ended. Today is a bit of a strain with the older years. Incidentally Madame Bois is in hospital this week for an operation and her colleagues have divided her class between them. Madame Caruge and Mr Duval have the better behaved students so even though I things go slower as there are more pupils to participate they all co-operate.
This week we’re continuing with colours and animals; pets, farm animals and wild animals. Class starts with Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes as the kids love to omit different words each time. I launch into the lesson with colours. I have coloured cut-out shapes and matching tags so we go through them and pair up the colours. I then mix up the tags as they close their eyes and I choose people to come up and re-match the words and the coloured shapes. I then go around the class asking each child to:
Show me something red (in the classroom).
I then pick up items and ask them:
What colour is it?
To which they reply:
It is red. It is red and green.
We then go through the following questions and responses:
Have you got a pet?
Have you got any animals?
R Yes, I have a dog.
What colour is it?
It is black and brown.
The dog is black and brown.
Have you got a tiger?
Q No, I haven’t.
I have a dog.
Firstly, we go through the dialogue orally and then I stick the words on the blackboard and form the sentences. I draw a line where the animal and colours should be. I get them to ask me the questions and I concoct my own answers by sticking an animal in the space and choosing two colour tags.
I also explain how useful the structure of these questions and responses are as they can be adapted to ask for, or about, most things;
Have you got any sweets? Have you got glasses? Have you got a pen?
Next the different animal cut-outs are distributed among the pupils so they have one each. I go around the classroom asking each student the above questions. They reply, affix their animal to the board, choose two relevant colour tags to describe their animal and also stick them in the sentence spaces.
The colour tags all stay in one word pool but once a student places his animal in the place of the previous one the removed creature goes to another blackboard and the student has to write the animal’s name beside it. It’s a good way to practise the alphabet but with some slower students the activity seems to drag; however, slowly, but surely, chip becomes sheep, fich evolves into fish and turtel changes back into turtle.
My younger pupils partake in un sondage, or survey. I draw a massive grid with markings on the y-axis and the eight pets along the x-axis. First off we repeat the names of the pets and then I get pupils to match the name tags to the pet. We then count to twelve and I explain plurals: one dog, two dogs; one rabbits, three rabbits; one mouse, four mice; one fish, ten fish. Finally, for our survey, I ask each student:
Have you got a pet?
Q No, I haven’t.
R Yes, I have a dog.
R Yes, I have a dog, two cats and ten fish.
If a child says they have one dog I draw a box above the animal and write 1 inside it. Likewise if the same child also has five rabbits I draw a box above Benjamin Bunny and write 5 in it. Some children take great liberties with their choice of animals. One guy ends up with two parrots, one dog, four cats, 10 fish, one hamster, one turtle, five rabbits and one mouse. At least he’s exercising his number and animal vocabulary. Another boy has one cat, four dogs and thirty fish. The lone cat must have a field-day in that house. Of course some kids don’t have conventional pets as such. A little guy has a goat and two sheep, and he tells me he had two cows but they died. They were fried sonny…
Madame Acina’s lot have 64 pets between them, with only three of the 19 kids not having any animals at all. There are only eight kids in Madame Thaly’s class today. I did hear on the radio this morning that some nearby collèges recently had a lot of sick pupils due to suspected canteen contaminations. Catherine assures me that the flu is doing the rounds here. Between the five girls and three boys present they have 22 pets but three of them don’t have any. One girl has seven hens which don’t make the survey. Maybe they’ll make dinner later…
With Madame Acina’s group we later progress onto the second part of last week’s worksheet. The following sentences appear on the worksheet for this exercise. I form the sentences on the board and we repeat them:
Have you got a pet?
Q No, I haven’t.
R Yes, I have a dog.
The worksheet contains a grid with two columns. The first column is to be filled with the name of a friend and the second column is for your friend’s pets. So, if Maleka has a cat and two dogs you fill it in as follows: MALEKA (1st column)
1 CAT _ 2 DOGS (2nd column)
Madame Thaly’s group didn’t get around to the first colouring exercise last time so we rework with colours and animals before reading through the sentences: The parrot is blue and yellow. The kids have been told to mark the word with the corresponding colours as all the visual aides will be packed up at the end of class. The kids shade in Pretty Polly, sharpen colouring pencils and soon start squawking that the animals have flown from the blackboard jungle.
I decide to head straight home after school. I reckon I can survive on spuds for lunch this once. I tidy up my photos for my Blog; it needs some pictures to jazz it up, and to make up for the lack of entries over the holidays.
Nicola returns home later in the evening. She asks if I remember the Christmas party we were invited to at Lycée Schoelcher which we didn’t attend. I distinctly remember being in Cyber Delice and deciding not to bother trekking up the hill in the midday heat. It turns out it was a surprise party for Nicola to welcome her to Martinique! One of her teachers asked her today why she didn’t go. Supposedly all her colleagues turned up. It wasn’t her fault that she wasn’t there. She wasn’t explicitly told that she had to be there or that it was for her. That one display of Martiniquan hospitality will probably not be matched. If they have farewell party for her she may not be there either!
David texts to thank us for his birthday present. He’s chuffed. We actually stick it on again to get another few laughs out of it. Fred calls around but he doesn’t seem to appreciate our Irish humour. One thing he does grasp is animals. He has to ask what I’m teaching the children this week. He tells me he likes animals too as he takes out his phone and shows me the almost undistinguishable head of a hog – in a plastic bag. He hunts. Oh dear. Deer. I get an eyeful of three fawns spread out on the grass and other more graphic pictures follow. The bollox kills animals for fun. Neither Nic nor I want to hear the gory details. It’s soon time to shut up shop and shut Fred up. I’m not an animal activist but it’s unpleasant to think about Bambi getting blasted and Thumper being bumped off. Pleasant pheasant dreams.
Today is David’s birthday. Nic and I had offered to meet him for lunch but we’re putting it off till tomorrow as he’s on top of the world today. Well, he’s on top of Montagne Pelée. Himself and Karla are two assistants who manage to get by with minimal workloads so they’re indulging in their four day weekend; if you can call getting up at 6,00 and climbing a fog-filled mountain indulgence. Nic and I gave David a DVD for his birthday. It’s no ordinary gif’ as we made it ourselves with clips and pictures from our time here. It tells the story of how he, this young Scottish lad, came to Martinique, met two lovely Irish girls and finally became converted to the Irish way of life – David, or Daithí as he’s now known, also gets turned into a Leprechaun and there’s a complementary Irish/English dictionary to help him translate what the Irish say from day to day. It was a hoot to make and we split our sides every time we watch it – I’m now waiting in my surgery gown for my twentieth round of stitches!
Actually school is a little like what I imagine surgery to be like: you prep yourself; go in for the operation; and come out either mended or ended. Today is a bit of a strain with the older years. Incidentally Madame Bois is in hospital this week for an operation and her colleagues have divided her class between them. Madame Caruge and Mr Duval have the better behaved students so even though I things go slower as there are more pupils to participate they all co-operate.
This week we’re continuing with colours and animals; pets, farm animals and wild animals. Class starts with Head, Shoulders, Knees and Toes as the kids love to omit different words each time. I launch into the lesson with colours. I have coloured cut-out shapes and matching tags so we go through them and pair up the colours. I then mix up the tags as they close their eyes and I choose people to come up and re-match the words and the coloured shapes. I then go around the class asking each child to:
Show me something red (in the classroom).
I then pick up items and ask them:
What colour is it?
To which they reply:
It is red. It is red and green.
We then go through the following questions and responses:
Have you got a pet?
Have you got any animals?
R Yes, I have a dog.
What colour is it?
It is black and brown.
The dog is black and brown.
Have you got a tiger?
Q No, I haven’t.
I have a dog.
Firstly, we go through the dialogue orally and then I stick the words on the blackboard and form the sentences. I draw a line where the animal and colours should be. I get them to ask me the questions and I concoct my own answers by sticking an animal in the space and choosing two colour tags.
I also explain how useful the structure of these questions and responses are as they can be adapted to ask for, or about, most things;
Have you got any sweets? Have you got glasses? Have you got a pen?
Next the different animal cut-outs are distributed among the pupils so they have one each. I go around the classroom asking each student the above questions. They reply, affix their animal to the board, choose two relevant colour tags to describe their animal and also stick them in the sentence spaces.
The colour tags all stay in one word pool but once a student places his animal in the place of the previous one the removed creature goes to another blackboard and the student has to write the animal’s name beside it. It’s a good way to practise the alphabet but with some slower students the activity seems to drag; however, slowly, but surely, chip becomes sheep, fich evolves into fish and turtel changes back into turtle.
My younger pupils partake in un sondage, or survey. I draw a massive grid with markings on the y-axis and the eight pets along the x-axis. First off we repeat the names of the pets and then I get pupils to match the name tags to the pet. We then count to twelve and I explain plurals: one dog, two dogs; one rabbits, three rabbits; one mouse, four mice; one fish, ten fish. Finally, for our survey, I ask each student:
Have you got a pet?
Q No, I haven’t.
R Yes, I have a dog.
R Yes, I have a dog, two cats and ten fish.
If a child says they have one dog I draw a box above the animal and write 1 inside it. Likewise if the same child also has five rabbits I draw a box above Benjamin Bunny and write 5 in it. Some children take great liberties with their choice of animals. One guy ends up with two parrots, one dog, four cats, 10 fish, one hamster, one turtle, five rabbits and one mouse. At least he’s exercising his number and animal vocabulary. Another boy has one cat, four dogs and thirty fish. The lone cat must have a field-day in that house. Of course some kids don’t have conventional pets as such. A little guy has a goat and two sheep, and he tells me he had two cows but they died. They were fried sonny…
Madame Acina’s lot have 64 pets between them, with only three of the 19 kids not having any animals at all. There are only eight kids in Madame Thaly’s class today. I did hear on the radio this morning that some nearby collèges recently had a lot of sick pupils due to suspected canteen contaminations. Catherine assures me that the flu is doing the rounds here. Between the five girls and three boys present they have 22 pets but three of them don’t have any. One girl has seven hens which don’t make the survey. Maybe they’ll make dinner later…
With Madame Acina’s group we later progress onto the second part of last week’s worksheet. The following sentences appear on the worksheet for this exercise. I form the sentences on the board and we repeat them:
Have you got a pet?
Q No, I haven’t.
R Yes, I have a dog.
The worksheet contains a grid with two columns. The first column is to be filled with the name of a friend and the second column is for your friend’s pets. So, if Maleka has a cat and two dogs you fill it in as follows: MALEKA (1st column)
1 CAT _ 2 DOGS (2nd column)
Madame Thaly’s group didn’t get around to the first colouring exercise last time so we rework with colours and animals before reading through the sentences: The parrot is blue and yellow. The kids have been told to mark the word with the corresponding colours as all the visual aides will be packed up at the end of class. The kids shade in Pretty Polly, sharpen colouring pencils and soon start squawking that the animals have flown from the blackboard jungle.
I decide to head straight home after school. I reckon I can survive on spuds for lunch this once. I tidy up my photos for my Blog; it needs some pictures to jazz it up, and to make up for the lack of entries over the holidays.
Nicola returns home later in the evening. She asks if I remember the Christmas party we were invited to at Lycée Schoelcher which we didn’t attend. I distinctly remember being in Cyber Delice and deciding not to bother trekking up the hill in the midday heat. It turns out it was a surprise party for Nicola to welcome her to Martinique! One of her teachers asked her today why she didn’t go. Supposedly all her colleagues turned up. It wasn’t her fault that she wasn’t there. She wasn’t explicitly told that she had to be there or that it was for her. That one display of Martiniquan hospitality will probably not be matched. If they have farewell party for her she may not be there either!
David texts to thank us for his birthday present. He’s chuffed. We actually stick it on again to get another few laughs out of it. Fred calls around but he doesn’t seem to appreciate our Irish humour. One thing he does grasp is animals. He has to ask what I’m teaching the children this week. He tells me he likes animals too as he takes out his phone and shows me the almost undistinguishable head of a hog – in a plastic bag. He hunts. Oh dear. Deer. I get an eyeful of three fawns spread out on the grass and other more graphic pictures follow. The bollox kills animals for fun. Neither Nic nor I want to hear the gory details. It’s soon time to shut up shop and shut Fred up. I’m not an animal activist but it’s unpleasant to think about Bambi getting blasted and Thumper being bumped off. Pleasant pheasant dreams.
Fort de Prance - dimanche, 21.01.07
dimanche 21.01.07 Fort de Prance
I start to stir around midday. The heat usually makes it too unbearable to stay undercover much later though I nod off for another while until I’m awoken by the beep-beep of an incoming message. It’s David. He’s planning to head into town. It’s a cracking day outside and I’d rather get blisters than bedsores so I text back saying I’ll be in later. I softly call Nicola but there’s no reply. She’s supposed to meet up Thomas the German this afternoon but I doubt it’ll come about as she still hasn’t made any motions by the time I leave the house. The buses are really erratic and unreliable on Sundays and I’m beginning to regret not taking a lift with the local lad who asked where I was going when a lime green Twingo pulls up. A lady sticks her head out the window and asks if I’m going into town. We’re soon weaving down the road as she tells me about all the festivities we’ve to watch out for; there’s even a day to celebrate crêpes coming up before Carnival time.
I’m dropped off in town and I trundle down Boulevard General de Gaulle past dozing flowerpot men – homeless guys asleep in the flowerbeds in the middle of the street. This part of town is eerily quiet but I can hear the sound of tambours in the distance. No doubt some groups are preparing for Carnival on this fine day.
I meet David in what seems to be the only open eatery. He has already eaten. The hunger is on me so I order some poulet boucanée from the vendor outside and I’m soon tucking into chicken and chips while I tell David about the brilliant night he missed out on!
We decide to go exploring. There’s a church on a green, tree-covered hill not so far away and we decide to take a Sunday stroll up to it. We really don’t know how to get to it but we follow a few narrow streets until we find a grassy path which looks like it could lead us to Calvary, or La Calvaire as this landmark is called. The path takes us past ramshackle houses and dog-guarded gardens and over galvanised roofs and roof-top deckchairs before the trees and bristly bushes appear. The path is gravely in parts and it soon feels more like a holy hike than a sunny stroll as our sandaled feet take to the beaten track. David’s heading to Montagne Pelée tomorrow so this should be good training – though I think the sandals and jeans should go!
We soon reach a flower-laden shrine, with red and white candles, carved out of a large rock at a bend on this pilgrim’s path. The trail snakes higher and steeper until we can see the steeple emerging from the hill above, and an assortment of white crosses scattered among the yew-like trees surrounding this place of worship. The hill is too vertical to climb straight up so we take the stone steps up one side of the holy hill. You wouldn’t want to have vertigo though once you reach the top you can forget everything and take in the view of Fort-de-France and all around about. It’s a surprisingly exciting sight as you take in the city sprawl in all its raw and soaring glory.
The church turns out to be a towering shrine with a small candle adorned altar. If you gutted it out it’d be little more than a white and blue bandstand though I don’t think Jesus, on his cross, would look down too kindly upon modern day Martiniquan melodies. Though who knows what he gazes upon once the sun sets. I’m sure the local lads and ladies aren’t getting on their knees to make contact with the blessed virgin…
We take in the view and sit for a bit on the elevated walkway outside the shrine before making our way past meditating Martiniquans praying and chanting as they rise and fall along the overgrown rocky route.
We got a good view of Fort-Louis from our cloud-clipping standpoint and we decide to see if it can be explored from the tarmac as well as the treetops. Unfortunately there’s no sign of life (though what would you expect with it being a Sunday and it being right beside La Savane), and the faded sign above the fastened wooden gates gives little hope or information. The sea looks extra inviting this evening and I go for a paddle while David suns himself and takes to town planning. Some of the ideas would surely be welcomed but I don’t think the Martiniquan’s would fancy erecting a monument of a modest man wielding an umbrella in memory of this Scot’s schemes. Though if they’re really going to erect an observation tower by Pointe Simone then I guess anything is possible. Just about anything is possible alright. A lady and a young girl pass behind us. We wonder where they could be going as there’s only the fortified fort and a little lawn past this paddling pool. Our curiosity is rewarded as we catch sight of them arrosing and fertilising the land. Nice. Not. We up and leave – without leaving a trail, and walk along the waterfront before deciding to obey our thirst.
Marjorie and Bea are outside MacDonald’s with a group of guys. It’s reassuring to know they got back from their island adventure in one piece but being burnt is not a nice look. David, the strange Scot that he is, doesn’t like ice-cream but I get an M&M McFlurry while he has a strawberry milkshake. For some reason I usually feel more parched after an ice-cream and so water is in order too. We sit in the square outside the Saint-Louis Cathedral. There’s a guy washing himself in the fountain with bottled water. It’s not a holy fountain but I’m sure he’s feeling refreshed and clean nonetheless.
The day is coming to an end so we head to the bus. There’s a gigantic poster of a Martiniquan musical group on the path and I decide to take it; it’ll brighten up my room and keep out the midday heat. We continue our closing circuit by taking a tour by the river to see what else we can spy in the final hour of sunlight. There’s a funny fountain shrine across an ornate iron bridge but we both spy a dodgy looking dude on the other side and quietly scuttle by. It’s great to have these silent Sunday’s to explore the city though it’s a pity so many weirdoes and gangsters have similar plans. We later find out that there was a fight in La Savane which ended in one guy receiving a fatal shot. The other antagonist settled the score by being scored and is now lying in a hospital bed with slashes and gashes across his back and chest.
My bus-stop is not the nicest place to hang about at after dark but thankfully David stays with me till the bus comes. The sky is doing strange things. It warps from burnt orange into charcoal grey. God suddenly starts to wring out the clouds. We’re thankful for the bus shelter and my delayed bus most likely saved Dave from the sudden soakage. At least he now has my rain-jacket to save him should it pick up again. I sit behind a girl and her kid. The girl’s hair is dyed bright red but her black roots are showing. She’s talking to three young guys. Two of them are in regular street gear but one of them is dressed totally in red and white. He has a bandana around his neck; like the cowboy he is. I saw many people dressed similarly on Saturday night so I presume he has been at band practice. I’m right; he sits down next to me and I ask him so. His name is Johan. He goes to Lycée Acajou. I make him guess where I’m from. His first guess is France but I give him some hints. “It’s green and full of Leprechauns and Guinness,” I tell him. I know by the look on his face that it’s on the tip of his tongue but he asks for help from his goldie-chain gang. The guys are delighted with my Créole reserve and they alight with checks flung my way. I don’t get much further on the bus as there are cars parking along the verge and the bus waits for them. I get out and walk. I’m only a minute from my stop.
Back at home Nicola is up and out with Jane Eyre on the terrace. Fred pops around for a few drinks. This time its Nicola’s washing which is on the line. Fred gets an eyeful! I retreat to my room for a while to plan my lessons for the week. Heather rings a while later. I chat to her for a bit before coming back out to the cool night and cool beers. I’m feeling the cold much more these nights but it’s not long before Fred puts some colour on our cheeks with his mobile magic; he’ll either have pleasant visions during the night or he’ll just have blurred vision for the rest of his life!
I start to stir around midday. The heat usually makes it too unbearable to stay undercover much later though I nod off for another while until I’m awoken by the beep-beep of an incoming message. It’s David. He’s planning to head into town. It’s a cracking day outside and I’d rather get blisters than bedsores so I text back saying I’ll be in later. I softly call Nicola but there’s no reply. She’s supposed to meet up Thomas the German this afternoon but I doubt it’ll come about as she still hasn’t made any motions by the time I leave the house. The buses are really erratic and unreliable on Sundays and I’m beginning to regret not taking a lift with the local lad who asked where I was going when a lime green Twingo pulls up. A lady sticks her head out the window and asks if I’m going into town. We’re soon weaving down the road as she tells me about all the festivities we’ve to watch out for; there’s even a day to celebrate crêpes coming up before Carnival time.
I’m dropped off in town and I trundle down Boulevard General de Gaulle past dozing flowerpot men – homeless guys asleep in the flowerbeds in the middle of the street. This part of town is eerily quiet but I can hear the sound of tambours in the distance. No doubt some groups are preparing for Carnival on this fine day.
I meet David in what seems to be the only open eatery. He has already eaten. The hunger is on me so I order some poulet boucanée from the vendor outside and I’m soon tucking into chicken and chips while I tell David about the brilliant night he missed out on!
We decide to go exploring. There’s a church on a green, tree-covered hill not so far away and we decide to take a Sunday stroll up to it. We really don’t know how to get to it but we follow a few narrow streets until we find a grassy path which looks like it could lead us to Calvary, or La Calvaire as this landmark is called. The path takes us past ramshackle houses and dog-guarded gardens and over galvanised roofs and roof-top deckchairs before the trees and bristly bushes appear. The path is gravely in parts and it soon feels more like a holy hike than a sunny stroll as our sandaled feet take to the beaten track. David’s heading to Montagne Pelée tomorrow so this should be good training – though I think the sandals and jeans should go!
We soon reach a flower-laden shrine, with red and white candles, carved out of a large rock at a bend on this pilgrim’s path. The trail snakes higher and steeper until we can see the steeple emerging from the hill above, and an assortment of white crosses scattered among the yew-like trees surrounding this place of worship. The hill is too vertical to climb straight up so we take the stone steps up one side of the holy hill. You wouldn’t want to have vertigo though once you reach the top you can forget everything and take in the view of Fort-de-France and all around about. It’s a surprisingly exciting sight as you take in the city sprawl in all its raw and soaring glory.
The church turns out to be a towering shrine with a small candle adorned altar. If you gutted it out it’d be little more than a white and blue bandstand though I don’t think Jesus, on his cross, would look down too kindly upon modern day Martiniquan melodies. Though who knows what he gazes upon once the sun sets. I’m sure the local lads and ladies aren’t getting on their knees to make contact with the blessed virgin…
We take in the view and sit for a bit on the elevated walkway outside the shrine before making our way past meditating Martiniquans praying and chanting as they rise and fall along the overgrown rocky route.
We got a good view of Fort-Louis from our cloud-clipping standpoint and we decide to see if it can be explored from the tarmac as well as the treetops. Unfortunately there’s no sign of life (though what would you expect with it being a Sunday and it being right beside La Savane), and the faded sign above the fastened wooden gates gives little hope or information. The sea looks extra inviting this evening and I go for a paddle while David suns himself and takes to town planning. Some of the ideas would surely be welcomed but I don’t think the Martiniquan’s would fancy erecting a monument of a modest man wielding an umbrella in memory of this Scot’s schemes. Though if they’re really going to erect an observation tower by Pointe Simone then I guess anything is possible. Just about anything is possible alright. A lady and a young girl pass behind us. We wonder where they could be going as there’s only the fortified fort and a little lawn past this paddling pool. Our curiosity is rewarded as we catch sight of them arrosing and fertilising the land. Nice. Not. We up and leave – without leaving a trail, and walk along the waterfront before deciding to obey our thirst.
Marjorie and Bea are outside MacDonald’s with a group of guys. It’s reassuring to know they got back from their island adventure in one piece but being burnt is not a nice look. David, the strange Scot that he is, doesn’t like ice-cream but I get an M&M McFlurry while he has a strawberry milkshake. For some reason I usually feel more parched after an ice-cream and so water is in order too. We sit in the square outside the Saint-Louis Cathedral. There’s a guy washing himself in the fountain with bottled water. It’s not a holy fountain but I’m sure he’s feeling refreshed and clean nonetheless.
The day is coming to an end so we head to the bus. There’s a gigantic poster of a Martiniquan musical group on the path and I decide to take it; it’ll brighten up my room and keep out the midday heat. We continue our closing circuit by taking a tour by the river to see what else we can spy in the final hour of sunlight. There’s a funny fountain shrine across an ornate iron bridge but we both spy a dodgy looking dude on the other side and quietly scuttle by. It’s great to have these silent Sunday’s to explore the city though it’s a pity so many weirdoes and gangsters have similar plans. We later find out that there was a fight in La Savane which ended in one guy receiving a fatal shot. The other antagonist settled the score by being scored and is now lying in a hospital bed with slashes and gashes across his back and chest.
My bus-stop is not the nicest place to hang about at after dark but thankfully David stays with me till the bus comes. The sky is doing strange things. It warps from burnt orange into charcoal grey. God suddenly starts to wring out the clouds. We’re thankful for the bus shelter and my delayed bus most likely saved Dave from the sudden soakage. At least he now has my rain-jacket to save him should it pick up again. I sit behind a girl and her kid. The girl’s hair is dyed bright red but her black roots are showing. She’s talking to three young guys. Two of them are in regular street gear but one of them is dressed totally in red and white. He has a bandana around his neck; like the cowboy he is. I saw many people dressed similarly on Saturday night so I presume he has been at band practice. I’m right; he sits down next to me and I ask him so. His name is Johan. He goes to Lycée Acajou. I make him guess where I’m from. His first guess is France but I give him some hints. “It’s green and full of Leprechauns and Guinness,” I tell him. I know by the look on his face that it’s on the tip of his tongue but he asks for help from his goldie-chain gang. The guys are delighted with my Créole reserve and they alight with checks flung my way. I don’t get much further on the bus as there are cars parking along the verge and the bus waits for them. I get out and walk. I’m only a minute from my stop.
Back at home Nicola is up and out with Jane Eyre on the terrace. Fred pops around for a few drinks. This time its Nicola’s washing which is on the line. Fred gets an eyeful! I retreat to my room for a while to plan my lessons for the week. Heather rings a while later. I chat to her for a bit before coming back out to the cool night and cool beers. I’m feeling the cold much more these nights but it’s not long before Fred puts some colour on our cheeks with his mobile magic; he’ll either have pleasant visions during the night or he’ll just have blurred vision for the rest of his life!
Lil Buddha - Samedi, 20.01.07
Samedi 20.01.07 Lil Buddha
I should have forgotten to get up this morning. Only four hours of sleep and I’m up to head into Fort-de-France for a private lesson with Madame Bonne’s girls. I can’t believe I’m up but I can’t believe I’m up so early and out at Madame Bonne’s house an hour in advance only to find that they aren’t home; they forgot to call me last night to say they’d be visiting their Gran. Does everyone in Martinique visit their Granny on Saturday? I’m beginning to think its code for something. It’s Murphy’s Law. I’d be late if I did have a class. Madame Bonne apologises profusely and offers to pay me anyway. I leave a pink Post-it on her apartment door reminding her to call me during the week to confirm all’s going ahead next Saturday.
There’s something in the air which reminds me about such things as leaving Irish college or camp. It’s that eerie stillness of the morning time when the air just seems to hang. It’s not staleness it’s just as if the day is waiting with baited breath. I’m actually glad I’m out and about. As day starts to filter up the streets Fort-de-France takes on a more cheery character.
I walk back down from Mont Gerard inhaling the wafting smell of poulet boucané as I saunter through the whirling smoke coming from the giant roadside barbecue. I help an old lady with the window on the bus. It’s already heating up and the wild wind tousles my hair. I gaze out the window at the passers-by. Some resemble the characters from I video I had as a child – The Little Dutch Windmill, as tubby, chubby lipped locals roam about with tottering towers of fruit, linen and other wares on their heads. Others are skeletal Blackman, like the voodoo variety in the game Misfits; some in faded pinstripe suits and others in torn trousers with bare torsos. It’s not even 10,00 by the time I reach town. The instant I’m off the bus the smell from a Chinese invades my senses. Monosodium glutamate must come in spray form these days. The fountains around the Atrium make me think that I’m in some European city. Each European city seems to have a water feature which attracts tourists though the Atrium’s trickling spouts aren’t a patch on gargoyles, pissing boy statues or opulent fountains.
Since I’m here I may as well drop into the Atrium. I sign myself and Nicola up for membership as there are Wednesday film viewings and regular spectacles, shows and exhibitions. Today there’s a sand art exhibition by a Martiniquan artist, Hervé de Lislefermes. The sand is built up to give the paintings a 3D quality. Some of the painted sand pieces are going for €3000. I have my eye on one for a modest €800. It’s a brightly coloured ploughed field scene with a farmer and his steeds tilling the soil.
From the topographical layout of Martinique to the island’s demographical makeup I head into the Portrait-Pays photo exhibition by Jean-Luc De Layuarigue which contains about 30 4ft² black and white portraits of personalities and people in Martinique. Elegant old ladies puff on cancer sticks, couples stand in their homes; by the TV, by the silverware or with their families, personalities and political figures strike a pose, and distillery owners are displayed with their greased cogs and wheels; Blacks, Whites and all in between feature. There’s also a projection of De Layuarigue’s complete catalogue of portraits, and between that and the published book I’m kept there for another while as I flick through the various faces and forms which make up the Martinique of today.
It has been a while since I updated my Blog so I head to Cyber Délice, the cool, day cyber café. The friendly owner gives me a complementary drink; Long Horn – they sponsor a Martiniquan driver in this year’s Dakar Rally. The drink’s not unlike Red Bull but its less sickly perfume and more sweet strawberry. Two hours later I log off; my eyes are burning from the glare of the screen and the coolness of the café has practically numbed my fingers. One of the assistantes, Bea, is celebrating her birthday on an island just of Cap Chevalier. The fact that the only boat to the island is at 17,00 is a bit odd. I did fancy the idea of hanging up my hammock and sleeping under the stars though it seems like more hassle than its worth and anyone I contact is undecided or just going to the beach for the day; James is at the beach across the bay in Trois Ilets, Karla and Ceri are planning on beaching and Fran and Co. are unsure about their plans.
Fort-de-France is heating up. It takes me longer to get to Leader Price than usual. Carnival is fast approaching and there are more music makers along the way. The wooden merry-go-round is in action and there are four guys under the eves beating out some zany zouk vibes as children hop on the faded pastel horses, carts and parrots. Further down the way, along the pedestrian sweet, there’s another musical group gathering a crowd. The main mic maestro is in a wheelchair and the others are cradling tambour bélé, lavwa and other rain-drains.
I’m heading to the bus-stop with my packed plastic bags when I hear a toot-toot and a Ruth! Ruth! It’s Charlie the cheery, horny bus-driver wishing me a nice day. When I get to the bus-stop however, it’s The Grump who’s taking our tickets. Nicola doesn’t seem to have stirred when I get home but she soon appears to tell me about Arlette’s balancing skills. Supposedly she passed by with bananas on her head, shoulders and cradled in her t-shirt. Fred, our new neighbour, also made an appearance. He invited us to the beach. Nicola was a bit worse for wear this morning and she was also a bit wary of him. He is a Frenchman in Martinique after all!
David rings and asks whether we’re heading to Bea’s beach do. He’s a bit bitter that he can’t go, due to lack of transport or available lifts – he has a four day weekend so it wouldn’t matter to him if he was stranded on the island for a few days. He still hasn’t opened his present. Nik and I are itching for him to look at it. It’s class. And, there’s a class in Irish-English lingo as an added bonus.
I have a siesta and get up in time for tea; tuna and cheese filled baked potatoes. We’re debating whether to head into Schoelcher or just venture into town. We pop into MacDo for desert. Michel, from the Mayflower, is in for a Chicken Mythic feast but he can’t hack the queue and heads to the pizzeria after giving us this trademark sweaty cheek kisses.
The town is hopping. There are carnival preparations in town tonight and we find ourselves by the waterfront. Various groups are practising their routines in the streets. Cross-dressers, lycra-clad lads, bandana bandits and girls with little more than a smile on are parading about to the beat of drums, maracas and whistles. It’s deafening but thankfully once we’re in the Mayflower we can talk in peace as the doors are not just bullet-proof but sound-proof too!
The Mayflower has however, always been occupied by the armed forces. Tonight is no exception as they’re out in force. Nic and I are having a quiet drink when five lads land beside us. They’ve got bottles of whiskey doing the rounds. They don’t look like army material but sure enough they’re here from the Métropole for a few months of training. They’re not located at the same military base as the previous crew but they’re in a totally different league to Christophe, Mario, Manu and Chevalier. Though there is a Christophe in this group too. At 20 he’s a spindly, large-eared youngster who has spent too much time in the sun. Fabian, Nicolas, Sebastian and Oliver make up the rest of the motley crew. Only Nicolas looks like he could hack the army life. The others seems like they’ve been plucked from farmyards or quaint, romantic towns. Fabian is a 19 year old gadget orientated spoilt brat; Sebastian and Oliver are both ten years his senior. Sebastian is a techno-house-trance-dance head. He’s up dancing at every instant and even if Shakira is playing he’s still doing his robot dance. He has a ring on his right hand and he tells me it’s for his three-year old son, Philip. He’s not involved with the child’s mother. Oliver is sound. He’s black from Paris and has a girlfriend. It’s Nicolas’ 27th birthday today and so they’re out for a wild night. He’s married – four months on the gold band wagon. We have a few beers and boogies with the guys and decide to continue the celebrations at Little Buddha down the road. We’re filing by La Croisière when we spy Alex, the waiter, and the main hostess in the doorway. The lady gives us a knowing smile and mockingly shakes her finger at Nik and I reminding us not to drink too much beer. Beer. No. Whiskey. Perhaps.
Little Buddha is a club similar to Coconuts but thankfully there’s no entrance fee. €140 for a puny bottle of Jack Daniels though is more than the nutters at Trois Rivières were charging but c’est parti! Its party time and Sebastian gets out the credit card. A gigantic ice-filled silver bucket is brought to the table. The tiny bottle of JD is just about visible amid the frosted glasses, unmarked bottles of coke and spitting sparkler.
There’s a couple from the navy who have followed us from the Mayflower. They don’t dance. They’re stuck to one another in the corner and mind our bags. The couch cubicles are ample for our party of nine. Velvet and tulle in deep purples and burgundy decorate each space. The dance floor is a low dark wood platform with a colossal grey stone Buddha and tall candle sticks at one end. Smaller stone Buddha figurines are hung about the bar and partitions. The fact that we seem to spend more time on the dance floor is a sign that the music was to our liking. Of course, when you’ve been on the gargles for the past nine hours you’re sure to dance to anything – and with anyone! I can’t believe it when someone tells me it’s 6,00. By this stage we’ve already ordered a taxi but we could have got the bus home if our limbs weren’t aching – and if we weren’t in Fort-de-France’s post-party zone. Our taxi actually catches up with the bus as it pulls in at our stop in the hills!
I should have forgotten to get up this morning. Only four hours of sleep and I’m up to head into Fort-de-France for a private lesson with Madame Bonne’s girls. I can’t believe I’m up but I can’t believe I’m up so early and out at Madame Bonne’s house an hour in advance only to find that they aren’t home; they forgot to call me last night to say they’d be visiting their Gran. Does everyone in Martinique visit their Granny on Saturday? I’m beginning to think its code for something. It’s Murphy’s Law. I’d be late if I did have a class. Madame Bonne apologises profusely and offers to pay me anyway. I leave a pink Post-it on her apartment door reminding her to call me during the week to confirm all’s going ahead next Saturday.
There’s something in the air which reminds me about such things as leaving Irish college or camp. It’s that eerie stillness of the morning time when the air just seems to hang. It’s not staleness it’s just as if the day is waiting with baited breath. I’m actually glad I’m out and about. As day starts to filter up the streets Fort-de-France takes on a more cheery character.
I walk back down from Mont Gerard inhaling the wafting smell of poulet boucané as I saunter through the whirling smoke coming from the giant roadside barbecue. I help an old lady with the window on the bus. It’s already heating up and the wild wind tousles my hair. I gaze out the window at the passers-by. Some resemble the characters from I video I had as a child – The Little Dutch Windmill, as tubby, chubby lipped locals roam about with tottering towers of fruit, linen and other wares on their heads. Others are skeletal Blackman, like the voodoo variety in the game Misfits; some in faded pinstripe suits and others in torn trousers with bare torsos. It’s not even 10,00 by the time I reach town. The instant I’m off the bus the smell from a Chinese invades my senses. Monosodium glutamate must come in spray form these days. The fountains around the Atrium make me think that I’m in some European city. Each European city seems to have a water feature which attracts tourists though the Atrium’s trickling spouts aren’t a patch on gargoyles, pissing boy statues or opulent fountains.
Since I’m here I may as well drop into the Atrium. I sign myself and Nicola up for membership as there are Wednesday film viewings and regular spectacles, shows and exhibitions. Today there’s a sand art exhibition by a Martiniquan artist, Hervé de Lislefermes. The sand is built up to give the paintings a 3D quality. Some of the painted sand pieces are going for €3000. I have my eye on one for a modest €800. It’s a brightly coloured ploughed field scene with a farmer and his steeds tilling the soil.
From the topographical layout of Martinique to the island’s demographical makeup I head into the Portrait-Pays photo exhibition by Jean-Luc De Layuarigue which contains about 30 4ft² black and white portraits of personalities and people in Martinique. Elegant old ladies puff on cancer sticks, couples stand in their homes; by the TV, by the silverware or with their families, personalities and political figures strike a pose, and distillery owners are displayed with their greased cogs and wheels; Blacks, Whites and all in between feature. There’s also a projection of De Layuarigue’s complete catalogue of portraits, and between that and the published book I’m kept there for another while as I flick through the various faces and forms which make up the Martinique of today.
It has been a while since I updated my Blog so I head to Cyber Délice, the cool, day cyber café. The friendly owner gives me a complementary drink; Long Horn – they sponsor a Martiniquan driver in this year’s Dakar Rally. The drink’s not unlike Red Bull but its less sickly perfume and more sweet strawberry. Two hours later I log off; my eyes are burning from the glare of the screen and the coolness of the café has practically numbed my fingers. One of the assistantes, Bea, is celebrating her birthday on an island just of Cap Chevalier. The fact that the only boat to the island is at 17,00 is a bit odd. I did fancy the idea of hanging up my hammock and sleeping under the stars though it seems like more hassle than its worth and anyone I contact is undecided or just going to the beach for the day; James is at the beach across the bay in Trois Ilets, Karla and Ceri are planning on beaching and Fran and Co. are unsure about their plans.
Fort-de-France is heating up. It takes me longer to get to Leader Price than usual. Carnival is fast approaching and there are more music makers along the way. The wooden merry-go-round is in action and there are four guys under the eves beating out some zany zouk vibes as children hop on the faded pastel horses, carts and parrots. Further down the way, along the pedestrian sweet, there’s another musical group gathering a crowd. The main mic maestro is in a wheelchair and the others are cradling tambour bélé, lavwa and other rain-drains.
I’m heading to the bus-stop with my packed plastic bags when I hear a toot-toot and a Ruth! Ruth! It’s Charlie the cheery, horny bus-driver wishing me a nice day. When I get to the bus-stop however, it’s The Grump who’s taking our tickets. Nicola doesn’t seem to have stirred when I get home but she soon appears to tell me about Arlette’s balancing skills. Supposedly she passed by with bananas on her head, shoulders and cradled in her t-shirt. Fred, our new neighbour, also made an appearance. He invited us to the beach. Nicola was a bit worse for wear this morning and she was also a bit wary of him. He is a Frenchman in Martinique after all!
David rings and asks whether we’re heading to Bea’s beach do. He’s a bit bitter that he can’t go, due to lack of transport or available lifts – he has a four day weekend so it wouldn’t matter to him if he was stranded on the island for a few days. He still hasn’t opened his present. Nik and I are itching for him to look at it. It’s class. And, there’s a class in Irish-English lingo as an added bonus.
I have a siesta and get up in time for tea; tuna and cheese filled baked potatoes. We’re debating whether to head into Schoelcher or just venture into town. We pop into MacDo for desert. Michel, from the Mayflower, is in for a Chicken Mythic feast but he can’t hack the queue and heads to the pizzeria after giving us this trademark sweaty cheek kisses.
The town is hopping. There are carnival preparations in town tonight and we find ourselves by the waterfront. Various groups are practising their routines in the streets. Cross-dressers, lycra-clad lads, bandana bandits and girls with little more than a smile on are parading about to the beat of drums, maracas and whistles. It’s deafening but thankfully once we’re in the Mayflower we can talk in peace as the doors are not just bullet-proof but sound-proof too!
The Mayflower has however, always been occupied by the armed forces. Tonight is no exception as they’re out in force. Nic and I are having a quiet drink when five lads land beside us. They’ve got bottles of whiskey doing the rounds. They don’t look like army material but sure enough they’re here from the Métropole for a few months of training. They’re not located at the same military base as the previous crew but they’re in a totally different league to Christophe, Mario, Manu and Chevalier. Though there is a Christophe in this group too. At 20 he’s a spindly, large-eared youngster who has spent too much time in the sun. Fabian, Nicolas, Sebastian and Oliver make up the rest of the motley crew. Only Nicolas looks like he could hack the army life. The others seems like they’ve been plucked from farmyards or quaint, romantic towns. Fabian is a 19 year old gadget orientated spoilt brat; Sebastian and Oliver are both ten years his senior. Sebastian is a techno-house-trance-dance head. He’s up dancing at every instant and even if Shakira is playing he’s still doing his robot dance. He has a ring on his right hand and he tells me it’s for his three-year old son, Philip. He’s not involved with the child’s mother. Oliver is sound. He’s black from Paris and has a girlfriend. It’s Nicolas’ 27th birthday today and so they’re out for a wild night. He’s married – four months on the gold band wagon. We have a few beers and boogies with the guys and decide to continue the celebrations at Little Buddha down the road. We’re filing by La Croisière when we spy Alex, the waiter, and the main hostess in the doorway. The lady gives us a knowing smile and mockingly shakes her finger at Nik and I reminding us not to drink too much beer. Beer. No. Whiskey. Perhaps.
Little Buddha is a club similar to Coconuts but thankfully there’s no entrance fee. €140 for a puny bottle of Jack Daniels though is more than the nutters at Trois Rivières were charging but c’est parti! Its party time and Sebastian gets out the credit card. A gigantic ice-filled silver bucket is brought to the table. The tiny bottle of JD is just about visible amid the frosted glasses, unmarked bottles of coke and spitting sparkler.
There’s a couple from the navy who have followed us from the Mayflower. They don’t dance. They’re stuck to one another in the corner and mind our bags. The couch cubicles are ample for our party of nine. Velvet and tulle in deep purples and burgundy decorate each space. The dance floor is a low dark wood platform with a colossal grey stone Buddha and tall candle sticks at one end. Smaller stone Buddha figurines are hung about the bar and partitions. The fact that we seem to spend more time on the dance floor is a sign that the music was to our liking. Of course, when you’ve been on the gargles for the past nine hours you’re sure to dance to anything – and with anyone! I can’t believe it when someone tells me it’s 6,00. By this stage we’ve already ordered a taxi but we could have got the bus home if our limbs weren’t aching – and if we weren’t in Fort-de-France’s post-party zone. Our taxi actually catches up with the bus as it pulls in at our stop in the hills!
Cruelty to animals - vendredi, 19.01.07
vendredi 19.01.07 Cruelty to animals
There’s a guy who can’t stop sneezing on the bus this morning. He sneezes five times in a row and after that the already erratic route is punctuated with sudden sneezes. By the time we arrive in Fort-de-France I think everyone is just about ready to throttle him; an old lady throws him daggers, two woman stare at him incredulously and a baby starts to cry as we approach the town.
His sneezing must have caused some change in the atmosphere and subsequently stirred up the winds because when I arrive at Chateauboeuf there’s a pile of apples scattered under the tree at the entrance. The apples are like none I’ve ever tasted before. Dominique gives me one during her class and I have it during break as I talk to Elizabeth, the Martiniquan assistante. It’s a pomme d’eau and I soon have sweet juice running down the sides of my mouth. It’s sweet yet refreshing though I’m sure Dominique would like to poison a few and give them to some select pupils. One guy is giving her guff. She lands a large book on his desk and tells him to transcribe the chapter of the illustrated Robert dictionary containing the word aggressive.
Some of the kids really are very catty towards each other. It’s a pity I’m doing animals because one girl, who is a little overweight, falls foul of some jokes when I produce the elephant. I hand the cut-out to a girl, who I always thought was quiet sweet, but on her way up to the blackboard she purposely drops it on Nelly’s lap. I immediately see where this is going but the damage has been done. Nelly goes to move to the blackboard; she’s either masking her horror or totally oblivious to the taunts. I swiftly take the cut-out off her and give it back to Miss Méchant telling her that I gave it to her not Nelly. The hippo is up next and although it could all be repeated it isn’t which surprises me a bit.
At one point during the class some pupils break out in a chorus of incessant monkey sounds. Here, for some reason, monkey actions or sounds do not have any racial connotations but when I tell the kids to calm down telling them that the animals stay in the jungle, not the classroom, some of them look like they would tear me down in an instant. My implicit psycho-analysis comes to an end when the less suspecting students break into a chorus of The Lion King. My skin is saved.
Franco-Germanic relations are beings nourished a lot in Martinique lately. The German teachers who came to visit the school in November have been in contact with Dominique and after break her pupils will be working on an art project to send to their German comrades. I’m asked to translate a few instructions and so by the time I get to the bus-stop the char to Pointe Simone is long gone. I’m standing at the shelter, shaded from the midday sun, when a white jeep beeps at me. Madame Bonne has a similar one but it’s not her. The tinted windows don’t help either and I dismiss it as some Caribbean chancer who has taken a liking to my stripy pink top and pasty pins. However, I seem to have forgotten just how persistent these locals can be. The safari jeep returns and pulls into the bus lane beside me. The horn beeps and I can now see the driver beckoning me. He’s a turbaned, grey bearded black man. His white turban is a huge tottering extension of his massive face and the vastness of his bushy, thick beard balances his profile – and probably just about stops him from toppling over! I know he’s fishing for me but I ask the man sheltered beside me if he knows who it is. Perhaps it’s for him. The Beard doesn’t roll down the window nor does he get out of the jeep, and a minute later he has given up and is back on the scent as he hunts for another white woman to accessorise his white wheels and white mound of material. Nicola later tells me that this same man drove alongside one morning as she walked to Lycée Schoelcher. When she back-tracked his went so far as to reverse down the road after her!
I go on the look for some envelopes. The Post Office stocks them but they don’t have plain ones. They only have pre-paid ones and at that they don’t have European ones, only Métropole. I eventually stumble into a musty, ésotérique souvenir shop. There are homemade cards and decorated envelopes in the window so I presume they have undressed envelopes too. There’s a spiritual theme running through the wares and there’s a highly spirited man running the shop; no doubt he has some spirits running through his veins too. He shows me a selection of envelopes and I buy a handful. I’m soon setting up office in La Croisière as I stuff the envelopes with letters to various departments and bodies regarding my plans for St. Patrick’s Day. Emails have already been sent so this follow-up will hopefully spark some replies.
We meet Jean-Paul for lunch. His girlfriend is enjoying Martinique but she will soon return to the continent to find a job. London is a possible location. She works with stocks and shares. The only stock exchange goings-on in Martinique involve bananas and rum so there’s not much keeping her here – other than JP of course. JP is off diving this evening. He went for the first time last week when he did the baptême and today he’ll be in at the deep end. Seafood is on the menu today and both Nic and I have the poisson de Colombo. JP has crabs. It would be nasty to get one of those in your wetsuit; you would be itching to surface and surfacing to itch.
Nik goes back to school and I reluctantly head to the Post Office. The queues are normally so long that people actually begin to feel chilled by the time they get to the desk; at least the air-con is doing its job properly! I don’t feel like queuing in Leader Price after the chilly reception in the Post Office. Instead I head for the bus and I begin to thaw in the afternoon heat.
Walking down Chemin de l’Acajou Pays the locality seems to take on an almost magical quality. It’s so bright that the sunny haze makes the countryside look like an ancient land of dragons; the little trails of evaporating heat, which float from the forests, could make one believe that the cast of Shriek are indeed living in the hills. The sounds are also enchanting; I can hear ladies singing sweet and low, the wind chimes are dreamlike and the tinkling of water is so soft that it could send me to sleep if I stopped walking. Even the birds seem to have hushed in this moment of total tranquillity. I savour the serenity. It will not last.
By the time I venture up the road again the frogs and crickets have taken over; replacing chimes with incessant chirping and sleep-inducing gurgling with vibrating droning. Nicola and I decide to add to the ambiance and we launch into some spiritual songs as we wait for the bus. The French say that singing brings rain but thankfully it only brings the bus. The young, horny bus driver, Charlie, is on our route tonight. Nicola and I are the only people on board for the last leg of the journey. Charlie seems to be showing off; he’s belting it along the narrow, winding roads and he yells back to us when he’s not on his mobile. He asks where we’re going, and of course he wants to join us. As we approach Tivoli the gangs of guys become denser; they are a bunch of thickos alright. Charlie, being a local lad, has to stop at every group along the way. Incidentally our bus starts to seem more like a hoare bus than a tour bus as guys leer in the windows at us and pop their heads in the door to wish us bonsoir. We even taxi around Fort-de-France with the door open getting the occasional hiss and cat-call.
There’s a cycling competition in town tonight so the centre is cordoned off for this tour de cyclisme. To our horror Charlie drops us off a long way from where we usually get off – well in heels it seems long, but we pick up the pace when we see a crazy crack hoare cracking her knuckles as we pass by. Eh, does she think we’re going to take her men? Should I tell her I’m a wee Cavan hoare? We soon see the cyclists in action and thankfully we neither get run over by a fluorescent, skin-tight peddler nor throttled by a similarly styled slapper. Slap her.
We reach the haven which is Le Terminal. Leffe is on tap and Nicola is on tape after her skirt got snagged. There’s live music here tonight but we find out that it’s a one-man show. David joins us and we give him his birthday present. There’s not much of a gathering here and the Leffe tastes a bit odd so as per usual we head to the Mayflower. But before we go, and while Nicola’s in the toilet, the guitarist serenades David and I with a Ronan Keating song which I can’t remember for some reason… You say it best when you say nothing at all.
We’ve only just settled with our drinks in the Mayflower when zee jermans appear. I must say that Thomas is looking dashing. Maybe it’s the company he’s keeping which makes him look extra nice. Well, with the likes of Hardy and Kuss in tow it wouldn’t be hard. Kuss is only 24 year’s old but his facial hair, long ponytail and weathered face clock him closer to thirty. Hardy is indeed hardy but even with his ruddy face, shiny bald head and bullish build he doesn’t seem to fit his 44 years. He was married for 19 years and he has been divorced for three; he revels in revealing that he has a Lithuanian and Taiwanese lady waiting for him in Germany. Kuss’ full name is Kuss Konan Kruger. His nickname is one which should not be mentioned in black company and especially in black majority countries. However, KKK is hushed about the table as we introduce one another. Nicola’s too wrapped up in Thomas to be concerned about our present company. David and I exchange many befuddled glances throughout the night as we converse, or try to rather, with these strange, strange creatures. When the Mayflower closes up we decide to head back to Le Terminal. We take a detour through Pointe Simone as there are a few café-vans set up. I stop at a stall to get a slab of coconut cake. I offer it around but nobody wants a bite so I end up saving the rest for the road.
David soon decides to head and I’m left to entertain the Bavarian boys. KKK tells me about his hunting expeditions and how he’d skewer a turtle. He would also like to feed his girlfriends little pets to a snake. I’m more surprised to hear that he has a girlfriend than I am about some snake’s upcoming meals. I end up getting the two guys to do animal charades. It’s not as childish as they sound as they’re pretty obscure animals and they’re doing things animals don’t usually do. I don’t think I should elaborate. Thomas is not as innocent as he seems. He passes comment on some girl with glasses; he starts showing off with his English and calls her a fucking four-eyed bitch. His charm count is depleting. He tells us of some other language mishaps; like when he helps visitors with their life-jackets adding: I want to please you. Supposedly the lovely captain, who welcomed us so warmly when we boarded the ship, is now being unbearably narky. I suppose life at sea does make one more agitated.
The guitarist saves me from the Germans. His name is Stoph – as in Christophe. His surname, Carole, is easy to remember too. He’s from the Métropole but he lives in Martinique, in Saint Thérèse to be precise. I pass it on the bus on my way to Chateauboeuf. He tells me I know Martinique better than he does and I presume he’s just testing my geography skills when he asks if I want to go to Morne Rouge with him tomorrow – to see his Granny of course. When I was in Brussels I went to a friend’s Gran’s house too so maybe this is just one of those oddities that will plague me wherever I go. Stophe doesn’t follow us home anyway. We’re only crawling into bed at 3,30. Nik forgot to give the pictures of our ship visit to Thomas. Very convenient that. Another rendezvous will have to be planned. She better not forget that. And, could she possibly have forgotten about Chris so soon? Pas possible.
There’s a guy who can’t stop sneezing on the bus this morning. He sneezes five times in a row and after that the already erratic route is punctuated with sudden sneezes. By the time we arrive in Fort-de-France I think everyone is just about ready to throttle him; an old lady throws him daggers, two woman stare at him incredulously and a baby starts to cry as we approach the town.
His sneezing must have caused some change in the atmosphere and subsequently stirred up the winds because when I arrive at Chateauboeuf there’s a pile of apples scattered under the tree at the entrance. The apples are like none I’ve ever tasted before. Dominique gives me one during her class and I have it during break as I talk to Elizabeth, the Martiniquan assistante. It’s a pomme d’eau and I soon have sweet juice running down the sides of my mouth. It’s sweet yet refreshing though I’m sure Dominique would like to poison a few and give them to some select pupils. One guy is giving her guff. She lands a large book on his desk and tells him to transcribe the chapter of the illustrated Robert dictionary containing the word aggressive.
Some of the kids really are very catty towards each other. It’s a pity I’m doing animals because one girl, who is a little overweight, falls foul of some jokes when I produce the elephant. I hand the cut-out to a girl, who I always thought was quiet sweet, but on her way up to the blackboard she purposely drops it on Nelly’s lap. I immediately see where this is going but the damage has been done. Nelly goes to move to the blackboard; she’s either masking her horror or totally oblivious to the taunts. I swiftly take the cut-out off her and give it back to Miss Méchant telling her that I gave it to her not Nelly. The hippo is up next and although it could all be repeated it isn’t which surprises me a bit.
At one point during the class some pupils break out in a chorus of incessant monkey sounds. Here, for some reason, monkey actions or sounds do not have any racial connotations but when I tell the kids to calm down telling them that the animals stay in the jungle, not the classroom, some of them look like they would tear me down in an instant. My implicit psycho-analysis comes to an end when the less suspecting students break into a chorus of The Lion King. My skin is saved.
Franco-Germanic relations are beings nourished a lot in Martinique lately. The German teachers who came to visit the school in November have been in contact with Dominique and after break her pupils will be working on an art project to send to their German comrades. I’m asked to translate a few instructions and so by the time I get to the bus-stop the char to Pointe Simone is long gone. I’m standing at the shelter, shaded from the midday sun, when a white jeep beeps at me. Madame Bonne has a similar one but it’s not her. The tinted windows don’t help either and I dismiss it as some Caribbean chancer who has taken a liking to my stripy pink top and pasty pins. However, I seem to have forgotten just how persistent these locals can be. The safari jeep returns and pulls into the bus lane beside me. The horn beeps and I can now see the driver beckoning me. He’s a turbaned, grey bearded black man. His white turban is a huge tottering extension of his massive face and the vastness of his bushy, thick beard balances his profile – and probably just about stops him from toppling over! I know he’s fishing for me but I ask the man sheltered beside me if he knows who it is. Perhaps it’s for him. The Beard doesn’t roll down the window nor does he get out of the jeep, and a minute later he has given up and is back on the scent as he hunts for another white woman to accessorise his white wheels and white mound of material. Nicola later tells me that this same man drove alongside one morning as she walked to Lycée Schoelcher. When she back-tracked his went so far as to reverse down the road after her!
I go on the look for some envelopes. The Post Office stocks them but they don’t have plain ones. They only have pre-paid ones and at that they don’t have European ones, only Métropole. I eventually stumble into a musty, ésotérique souvenir shop. There are homemade cards and decorated envelopes in the window so I presume they have undressed envelopes too. There’s a spiritual theme running through the wares and there’s a highly spirited man running the shop; no doubt he has some spirits running through his veins too. He shows me a selection of envelopes and I buy a handful. I’m soon setting up office in La Croisière as I stuff the envelopes with letters to various departments and bodies regarding my plans for St. Patrick’s Day. Emails have already been sent so this follow-up will hopefully spark some replies.
We meet Jean-Paul for lunch. His girlfriend is enjoying Martinique but she will soon return to the continent to find a job. London is a possible location. She works with stocks and shares. The only stock exchange goings-on in Martinique involve bananas and rum so there’s not much keeping her here – other than JP of course. JP is off diving this evening. He went for the first time last week when he did the baptême and today he’ll be in at the deep end. Seafood is on the menu today and both Nic and I have the poisson de Colombo. JP has crabs. It would be nasty to get one of those in your wetsuit; you would be itching to surface and surfacing to itch.
Nik goes back to school and I reluctantly head to the Post Office. The queues are normally so long that people actually begin to feel chilled by the time they get to the desk; at least the air-con is doing its job properly! I don’t feel like queuing in Leader Price after the chilly reception in the Post Office. Instead I head for the bus and I begin to thaw in the afternoon heat.
Walking down Chemin de l’Acajou Pays the locality seems to take on an almost magical quality. It’s so bright that the sunny haze makes the countryside look like an ancient land of dragons; the little trails of evaporating heat, which float from the forests, could make one believe that the cast of Shriek are indeed living in the hills. The sounds are also enchanting; I can hear ladies singing sweet and low, the wind chimes are dreamlike and the tinkling of water is so soft that it could send me to sleep if I stopped walking. Even the birds seem to have hushed in this moment of total tranquillity. I savour the serenity. It will not last.
By the time I venture up the road again the frogs and crickets have taken over; replacing chimes with incessant chirping and sleep-inducing gurgling with vibrating droning. Nicola and I decide to add to the ambiance and we launch into some spiritual songs as we wait for the bus. The French say that singing brings rain but thankfully it only brings the bus. The young, horny bus driver, Charlie, is on our route tonight. Nicola and I are the only people on board for the last leg of the journey. Charlie seems to be showing off; he’s belting it along the narrow, winding roads and he yells back to us when he’s not on his mobile. He asks where we’re going, and of course he wants to join us. As we approach Tivoli the gangs of guys become denser; they are a bunch of thickos alright. Charlie, being a local lad, has to stop at every group along the way. Incidentally our bus starts to seem more like a hoare bus than a tour bus as guys leer in the windows at us and pop their heads in the door to wish us bonsoir. We even taxi around Fort-de-France with the door open getting the occasional hiss and cat-call.
There’s a cycling competition in town tonight so the centre is cordoned off for this tour de cyclisme. To our horror Charlie drops us off a long way from where we usually get off – well in heels it seems long, but we pick up the pace when we see a crazy crack hoare cracking her knuckles as we pass by. Eh, does she think we’re going to take her men? Should I tell her I’m a wee Cavan hoare? We soon see the cyclists in action and thankfully we neither get run over by a fluorescent, skin-tight peddler nor throttled by a similarly styled slapper. Slap her.
We reach the haven which is Le Terminal. Leffe is on tap and Nicola is on tape after her skirt got snagged. There’s live music here tonight but we find out that it’s a one-man show. David joins us and we give him his birthday present. There’s not much of a gathering here and the Leffe tastes a bit odd so as per usual we head to the Mayflower. But before we go, and while Nicola’s in the toilet, the guitarist serenades David and I with a Ronan Keating song which I can’t remember for some reason… You say it best when you say nothing at all.
We’ve only just settled with our drinks in the Mayflower when zee jermans appear. I must say that Thomas is looking dashing. Maybe it’s the company he’s keeping which makes him look extra nice. Well, with the likes of Hardy and Kuss in tow it wouldn’t be hard. Kuss is only 24 year’s old but his facial hair, long ponytail and weathered face clock him closer to thirty. Hardy is indeed hardy but even with his ruddy face, shiny bald head and bullish build he doesn’t seem to fit his 44 years. He was married for 19 years and he has been divorced for three; he revels in revealing that he has a Lithuanian and Taiwanese lady waiting for him in Germany. Kuss’ full name is Kuss Konan Kruger. His nickname is one which should not be mentioned in black company and especially in black majority countries. However, KKK is hushed about the table as we introduce one another. Nicola’s too wrapped up in Thomas to be concerned about our present company. David and I exchange many befuddled glances throughout the night as we converse, or try to rather, with these strange, strange creatures. When the Mayflower closes up we decide to head back to Le Terminal. We take a detour through Pointe Simone as there are a few café-vans set up. I stop at a stall to get a slab of coconut cake. I offer it around but nobody wants a bite so I end up saving the rest for the road.
David soon decides to head and I’m left to entertain the Bavarian boys. KKK tells me about his hunting expeditions and how he’d skewer a turtle. He would also like to feed his girlfriends little pets to a snake. I’m more surprised to hear that he has a girlfriend than I am about some snake’s upcoming meals. I end up getting the two guys to do animal charades. It’s not as childish as they sound as they’re pretty obscure animals and they’re doing things animals don’t usually do. I don’t think I should elaborate. Thomas is not as innocent as he seems. He passes comment on some girl with glasses; he starts showing off with his English and calls her a fucking four-eyed bitch. His charm count is depleting. He tells us of some other language mishaps; like when he helps visitors with their life-jackets adding: I want to please you. Supposedly the lovely captain, who welcomed us so warmly when we boarded the ship, is now being unbearably narky. I suppose life at sea does make one more agitated.
The guitarist saves me from the Germans. His name is Stoph – as in Christophe. His surname, Carole, is easy to remember too. He’s from the Métropole but he lives in Martinique, in Saint Thérèse to be precise. I pass it on the bus on my way to Chateauboeuf. He tells me I know Martinique better than he does and I presume he’s just testing my geography skills when he asks if I want to go to Morne Rouge with him tomorrow – to see his Granny of course. When I was in Brussels I went to a friend’s Gran’s house too so maybe this is just one of those oddities that will plague me wherever I go. Stophe doesn’t follow us home anyway. We’re only crawling into bed at 3,30. Nik forgot to give the pictures of our ship visit to Thomas. Very convenient that. Another rendezvous will have to be planned. She better not forget that. And, could she possibly have forgotten about Chris so soon? Pas possible.
Awaiting the german invasion - Jeudi, 18.01.07
Jeudi 18.01.07 Awaiting the german invasion
Poor Nicola was up at 5,00 only to check her timetable a while later and find out she’s not due in for another five hours. I try not to make too much noise but I reckon that Arlette has already set the precedent, with our recommended daily decibel intake probably matching that of a miners. Anyway between Nic’s whirring fan and stash of Air France earplugs I’m sure she can stifle the sound of me mashing bananas.
I’m tempting fate by eating fig-pommes since the mosquitoes love the way they mingle in your blood. However, man can’t live on banana-jaune alone; desert bananas are sweet and tasty - just as I am to the mosquitoes and mosquito men such as John ‘my good neighbour husband’. He has been out of the picture lately as he was in Paris over Christmas to see his child and play in some concert-cafés. Or so he tells me at the bus-stop later in the day when I’m lugging home some overpriced groceries from Mercure; bag of spuds, packet of choc-chip biscuits, ten slices of gouda cheese and six eggs for €14 – the cheese, at €4.60, was only €1 less than the sack of potatoes. I spy John across the street wearing his trademark army camouflage cap. He also notices me and he crosses over to greet me with a greasy cheek kiss. He asks me about my holidays and I indulge in telling him about my fabulous Christmas before coming back to earth with my tales about what I’m teaching my pupils at the moment:
I was supposed to meet with Jossylene today but she, once again, got distracted. This time it was a project on Germany which she was glued to – literally. Two primary schools in Martinique, one in Schoelcher and another in Lamentin, will be the first two primary schools on the island to take on German as a foreign language and to mark the occasion children from schools in the circonscription have been producing posters and presentations on Germany for the inaugural launch this weekend. German is overtaking Spanish in the language acquisition rates here. English is still on top.
For the remainder of the week I’m still concentrating on animals and time. I use the clock exercise to break-up our animal antic. I’ve added hands to my clock cut-out and so I get the pupils to ask one another: What time is it? as they each change the time and take a turn at answering: It is ___ o’clock. It’s my turn next as I ask:
Cyril, is it 6 o’clock?
Yes, it is 6 o’clock. No, it is __ o’clock.
I get through all the pet, farmyard animal and wild animal cut-outs with the older classes. Each child presents an animal:
It is a dog. It is a giraffe.
The dog is brown and black. The giraffe is orange and brown.
I then go around asking:
Do you have a fish?
The response is:
Yes. I have a fish. or No. I have a ____.
It is red and orange. It is ___ and ____.
Next, the pupils are divided into groups. Each group gets an assortment of animals and I ask:
Who has the snake?
To which the relevant group responds:
We have it.
It is a snake. (holding it up)
This exercise sometimes becomes an individual effort as some groups share out the animals or just become plain possessive.
My cultural piece for this class is to tell the pupils about Ireland’s wild creatures or lack of, especially the lose of our snake population thanks to St. Patrick – we will be learning about him in a few weeks for St. Patrick’s Day. The younger children are told about how spoilt some pets are in Anglophone countries; the presents they get, their presence within a family, the funeral arrangements!
A few of the groups storm through the lesson and we end up having a quiz with me asking questions such as:
Which animal has a long neck?
Which animal gives us milk?
Which animal likes cheese?
Which animal has large ears?
Which animal says ‘baa’?
Which animal carries his house on his back?
Of course I prompt them and I nearly strain a few muscles with the wild actions I pull off to aid them. Some pupils complain that they can not understand but it’s an exercise in listening as well as comprehension and once they’ve hushed themselves they begin to associate milk with milkshake and ears with Head, shoulders, knees and toes…
I concentrate on pets and colours with the younger years as I have a worksheet for them which involves colouring certain animals certain colours. Before we get to the pastel and paper round we play listen and repeat and listen and touch with the six pets and the ten coloured shapes (circle, square, triangle). We also play hide and seek as I remove a cut-out and they have to guess what creature or colour is gone. Eventually the corresponding name tags are added to each cut-out. Together we read through the worksheet sentences: The tortoise is green. The kids have been told to mark the word with the corresponding colours as all the visual aides will be packed up at the end of class. The kids are soon shading, sharpening colouring pencils and shrieking that the animals have disappeared from the board. The tortoise is green. The tortoise is slow.
My good husband John was on Nicola’s bus this morning and he informed her that the strange hairless cat creature we spotted at Sainte-Anne during the holidays was a manicou - it’s a member of the rat family and some people actually eat it. I presume Nicola didn’t consider this fact when she chose to go for lunch in a Chinese with Gethin this evening. Gethin has some nasty blisters on his feet and he rings me to ask what blisters are in French – ampoule (f), cloque (f). Thankfully I’ve finished my pizza at this stage and am now stretched out on the couch getting my chart fix on the Hit Zone.
Poor Nicola was up at 5,00 only to check her timetable a while later and find out she’s not due in for another five hours. I try not to make too much noise but I reckon that Arlette has already set the precedent, with our recommended daily decibel intake probably matching that of a miners. Anyway between Nic’s whirring fan and stash of Air France earplugs I’m sure she can stifle the sound of me mashing bananas.
I’m tempting fate by eating fig-pommes since the mosquitoes love the way they mingle in your blood. However, man can’t live on banana-jaune alone; desert bananas are sweet and tasty - just as I am to the mosquitoes and mosquito men such as John ‘my good neighbour husband’. He has been out of the picture lately as he was in Paris over Christmas to see his child and play in some concert-cafés. Or so he tells me at the bus-stop later in the day when I’m lugging home some overpriced groceries from Mercure; bag of spuds, packet of choc-chip biscuits, ten slices of gouda cheese and six eggs for €14 – the cheese, at €4.60, was only €1 less than the sack of potatoes. I spy John across the street wearing his trademark army camouflage cap. He also notices me and he crosses over to greet me with a greasy cheek kiss. He asks me about my holidays and I indulge in telling him about my fabulous Christmas before coming back to earth with my tales about what I’m teaching my pupils at the moment:
I was supposed to meet with Jossylene today but she, once again, got distracted. This time it was a project on Germany which she was glued to – literally. Two primary schools in Martinique, one in Schoelcher and another in Lamentin, will be the first two primary schools on the island to take on German as a foreign language and to mark the occasion children from schools in the circonscription have been producing posters and presentations on Germany for the inaugural launch this weekend. German is overtaking Spanish in the language acquisition rates here. English is still on top.
For the remainder of the week I’m still concentrating on animals and time. I use the clock exercise to break-up our animal antic. I’ve added hands to my clock cut-out and so I get the pupils to ask one another: What time is it? as they each change the time and take a turn at answering: It is ___ o’clock. It’s my turn next as I ask:
Cyril, is it 6 o’clock?
Yes, it is 6 o’clock. No, it is __ o’clock.
I get through all the pet, farmyard animal and wild animal cut-outs with the older classes. Each child presents an animal:
It is a dog. It is a giraffe.
The dog is brown and black. The giraffe is orange and brown.
I then go around asking:
Do you have a fish?
The response is:
Yes. I have a fish. or No. I have a ____.
It is red and orange. It is ___ and ____.
Next, the pupils are divided into groups. Each group gets an assortment of animals and I ask:
Who has the snake?
To which the relevant group responds:
We have it.
It is a snake. (holding it up)
This exercise sometimes becomes an individual effort as some groups share out the animals or just become plain possessive.
My cultural piece for this class is to tell the pupils about Ireland’s wild creatures or lack of, especially the lose of our snake population thanks to St. Patrick – we will be learning about him in a few weeks for St. Patrick’s Day. The younger children are told about how spoilt some pets are in Anglophone countries; the presents they get, their presence within a family, the funeral arrangements!
A few of the groups storm through the lesson and we end up having a quiz with me asking questions such as:
Which animal has a long neck?
Which animal gives us milk?
Which animal likes cheese?
Which animal has large ears?
Which animal says ‘baa’?
Which animal carries his house on his back?
Of course I prompt them and I nearly strain a few muscles with the wild actions I pull off to aid them. Some pupils complain that they can not understand but it’s an exercise in listening as well as comprehension and once they’ve hushed themselves they begin to associate milk with milkshake and ears with Head, shoulders, knees and toes…
I concentrate on pets and colours with the younger years as I have a worksheet for them which involves colouring certain animals certain colours. Before we get to the pastel and paper round we play listen and repeat and listen and touch with the six pets and the ten coloured shapes (circle, square, triangle). We also play hide and seek as I remove a cut-out and they have to guess what creature or colour is gone. Eventually the corresponding name tags are added to each cut-out. Together we read through the worksheet sentences: The tortoise is green. The kids have been told to mark the word with the corresponding colours as all the visual aides will be packed up at the end of class. The kids are soon shading, sharpening colouring pencils and shrieking that the animals have disappeared from the board. The tortoise is green. The tortoise is slow.
My good husband John was on Nicola’s bus this morning and he informed her that the strange hairless cat creature we spotted at Sainte-Anne during the holidays was a manicou - it’s a member of the rat family and some people actually eat it. I presume Nicola didn’t consider this fact when she chose to go for lunch in a Chinese with Gethin this evening. Gethin has some nasty blisters on his feet and he rings me to ask what blisters are in French – ampoule (f), cloque (f). Thankfully I’ve finished my pizza at this stage and am now stretched out on the couch getting my chart fix on the Hit Zone.
Buns and Frogs legs - Mercredi, 17.01.07
Mercredi 17.01.07 Buns and Frogs legs
Some days I really don’t know how I’ll ever function again in Ireland; in a regular job, a relatively quick-paced working environment, an even faster-paced society and a world which requires some knowledge of current affairs and other goings-on.
Being in Martinique is often like being in my own little oven. If you’re a female and young enough to remember the Little Tykes magic oven that was doing the rounds in the mid-eighties making batches of fairy cakes, then you’re close to what I’m now thinking. You mixed these strange ingredients which, although they came in rather normal packets, seemed somewhat suspicious to the unbaked, naked eye, and after only 15 minutes in a plastic oven (you’ve got to wonder sometimes…) they came out looking relatively tasty, yet not so golden-brown as the cardboard image, but cheerful and fun all the same; little effort, little effect but enough to keep you going.
I’m not saying that my diet here consists of strange buns – though I have been known to concoct some strange bakes and dishes in my time but, it feels like I’m surviving on something similar to these fun buns; it may be good to taste and enjoyable to make but in the end is it doing me any good? Does it satisfy me? I had thought three months of Caribbean cooking would have been an ample order. Could I not have had my fill during 348 meals? Not at the rate things are served, or done, here. If I was a tourist wanting to do all I plan to while I’m here I could have jammed it all into the past three months but living, working and existing here is different and each time you visit your local restaurant you get a bigger slice of the pie…
When you live abroad as apposed to going abroad you often have to let things marinade, soak and simmer before advancing; you assimilate, absorb and observe while being in this place, part of this place. One thing I dispute about my childhood cake creation analogy is that I’m actually turning more brown than anticipated. Oh, and the fact that the pretty pink and yellow Little Tykes oven was plastic and the fact that Martinique also seems such an outwardly attractive, multi-coloured commodity while on closer inspection resembles a badly thought-out, yet scarily functioning prototype niggles me from time to time… How long did that odd oven stay on the market before it was taken off the shelves?
Well, today is my day off, and the weather pattern breaks from it’s usual Wet Wednesday routine as we’re blessed with a scorcher of a day . 34°C. It’s too hot. Us Irish are never happy. I’m up just before midday to have my breakfast but with no will to read, nothing on the TV and the slug of sleep still running through my veins I crawl back into bed just before the mad midday sun starts letting off steam.
The mid-afternoon heat haze is unbearable. No sooner have I sat outside than I start smouldering. I can actually see the heat dancing off me in the reflection of our silver patio chairs. They’re not steel but I do feel like I’m being roasted alive. The shade is just about manageable as even with my shades on the light glares off my book and the sweat gathers and glistens in my body’s the grease creases.
The evening is not so cruel and I get around to sorting out my classes for the rest of the week. Nicola and I contemplate heading into town for dinner but lack of cash, energy and choice prevents us and we make do with a mound of tomato pureed rice, topped off with an onion and cheese smothered burger. Tinned fruit and goyave flavoured ice-cream end the meal which I didn’t even fully want, deserve or need.
I’m tediously cutting out a clock template for my kids when one of our new neighbours pops his head around the corner. I get such a fright but I actually say bonsoir before jumping in my seat. Frederick, has that impish I’ve-been-drinking-all-evening smirk plastered across his face and he relies a little too much on the stability of our wall as he chats away. In true Irish flavour we invite him around for drinks. He scurries back into his apartment to retrieve his glass of rhum agricole before installing himself at the head of our terrace table. He’s already on his way and he opens up more easily than he did with Verner, our other new neighbour and his colleague. There’s also another new neighbour, another French EDF worker, renting out Arlette’s single bedroom; it’s a full house. We enquire about the newbie before draining Frederick of all personal, technical and menial information and plying him with our Jameson reserves.
Frederick is 28 years young – four year’s younger than I’d guessed. Verner is 52. They’re both from Metz in the north-east of France. Frederick has worked as an installation operator in China, Syria, Scotland, French Guyana, Martinique and Corsica. This is his third time in Martinique and he’s heading to Corsica next. When? He’s not exactly sure… It could be two weeks or two months. If it depends on how quickly things get done here I’d safely say the latter. His tales about Corsica set my mind in motion about spending another year as an assistante… For the moment however we’ll have to be content with planning our next trip – to St Lucia. It’s a pity Frederick has only three days holidays during Carnival as he’d like to come along too. I’m sure he’ll have an electrifying time at the EDF – Electrical Deficiency Factory.
Some days I really don’t know how I’ll ever function again in Ireland; in a regular job, a relatively quick-paced working environment, an even faster-paced society and a world which requires some knowledge of current affairs and other goings-on.
Being in Martinique is often like being in my own little oven. If you’re a female and young enough to remember the Little Tykes magic oven that was doing the rounds in the mid-eighties making batches of fairy cakes, then you’re close to what I’m now thinking. You mixed these strange ingredients which, although they came in rather normal packets, seemed somewhat suspicious to the unbaked, naked eye, and after only 15 minutes in a plastic oven (you’ve got to wonder sometimes…) they came out looking relatively tasty, yet not so golden-brown as the cardboard image, but cheerful and fun all the same; little effort, little effect but enough to keep you going.
I’m not saying that my diet here consists of strange buns – though I have been known to concoct some strange bakes and dishes in my time but, it feels like I’m surviving on something similar to these fun buns; it may be good to taste and enjoyable to make but in the end is it doing me any good? Does it satisfy me? I had thought three months of Caribbean cooking would have been an ample order. Could I not have had my fill during 348 meals? Not at the rate things are served, or done, here. If I was a tourist wanting to do all I plan to while I’m here I could have jammed it all into the past three months but living, working and existing here is different and each time you visit your local restaurant you get a bigger slice of the pie…
When you live abroad as apposed to going abroad you often have to let things marinade, soak and simmer before advancing; you assimilate, absorb and observe while being in this place, part of this place. One thing I dispute about my childhood cake creation analogy is that I’m actually turning more brown than anticipated. Oh, and the fact that the pretty pink and yellow Little Tykes oven was plastic and the fact that Martinique also seems such an outwardly attractive, multi-coloured commodity while on closer inspection resembles a badly thought-out, yet scarily functioning prototype niggles me from time to time… How long did that odd oven stay on the market before it was taken off the shelves?
Well, today is my day off, and the weather pattern breaks from it’s usual Wet Wednesday routine as we’re blessed with a scorcher of a day . 34°C. It’s too hot. Us Irish are never happy. I’m up just before midday to have my breakfast but with no will to read, nothing on the TV and the slug of sleep still running through my veins I crawl back into bed just before the mad midday sun starts letting off steam.
The mid-afternoon heat haze is unbearable. No sooner have I sat outside than I start smouldering. I can actually see the heat dancing off me in the reflection of our silver patio chairs. They’re not steel but I do feel like I’m being roasted alive. The shade is just about manageable as even with my shades on the light glares off my book and the sweat gathers and glistens in my body’s the grease creases.
The evening is not so cruel and I get around to sorting out my classes for the rest of the week. Nicola and I contemplate heading into town for dinner but lack of cash, energy and choice prevents us and we make do with a mound of tomato pureed rice, topped off with an onion and cheese smothered burger. Tinned fruit and goyave flavoured ice-cream end the meal which I didn’t even fully want, deserve or need.
I’m tediously cutting out a clock template for my kids when one of our new neighbours pops his head around the corner. I get such a fright but I actually say bonsoir before jumping in my seat. Frederick, has that impish I’ve-been-drinking-all-evening smirk plastered across his face and he relies a little too much on the stability of our wall as he chats away. In true Irish flavour we invite him around for drinks. He scurries back into his apartment to retrieve his glass of rhum agricole before installing himself at the head of our terrace table. He’s already on his way and he opens up more easily than he did with Verner, our other new neighbour and his colleague. There’s also another new neighbour, another French EDF worker, renting out Arlette’s single bedroom; it’s a full house. We enquire about the newbie before draining Frederick of all personal, technical and menial information and plying him with our Jameson reserves.
Frederick is 28 years young – four year’s younger than I’d guessed. Verner is 52. They’re both from Metz in the north-east of France. Frederick has worked as an installation operator in China, Syria, Scotland, French Guyana, Martinique and Corsica. This is his third time in Martinique and he’s heading to Corsica next. When? He’s not exactly sure… It could be two weeks or two months. If it depends on how quickly things get done here I’d safely say the latter. His tales about Corsica set my mind in motion about spending another year as an assistante… For the moment however we’ll have to be content with planning our next trip – to St Lucia. It’s a pity Frederick has only three days holidays during Carnival as he’d like to come along too. I’m sure he’ll have an electrifying time at the EDF – Electrical Deficiency Factory.
Peg Leg - Mardi, 16.01.07
Mardi 16.01.07 Peg Leg
I’m in zombie mode today as tiredness transforms my body into a walking-talking mort-vivant. I should really go to bed earlier on school nights. I didn’t turn off the lights until midnight so I’m paying of my nocturnal on-goings. Thankfully today is not so taxing. After passing on two lifts into town – one from our new neighbours and another from Arlette’s friend – I finally get the 6,20 into town. They must have thought it strange that I didn’t hop in but my explanation; that I wanted to collect my thoughts, must have seemed more odd than offensive. I’m beginning to think I was mad to pass on a comfortable backseat jaunt when I find myself sandwiched between the window and an overindulgent woman who isn’t too liberal with her eau-de-toilette. That’s only the first bus. The second bus holds a smelly toddler. The sheer intensity of pained concentration on the child’s face matches the stench that follows. There may as well be a pile of pooh in the aisle. I smile apologetically at the mother beside me. It wouldn’t do for me to kick up a stink too.
Madame Thaly seeks me out like a missile the moment I set foot in the library. There’s no bad blood between us after yesterdays appeal but it becomes clear that herself and Madame Dau are not on the same side. Within two minutes I’ve reinstated myself to teach CE2 B. It’s unfair on the compliant children to cancel their class and the main perpetrators will miss out if they continue their silliness.
Today it’s the CM2 crowd who are acting up. I’m relieved to see it’s all happening before I set foot in the classroom but the level of viciousness among some of these 11-year olds is frightening to me and clearly upsetting to the teachers. On the extreme end of things we have verbal aggressiveness in the form of personal attacks on someone’s looks and actions; this happens in Dominique’s class. The perpetrator is cautioned but their backchat, Dominique tells me, is worthy of punishment; transcribing the dictionary is a start I guess.
Blood is still boiling in this class as I take to the stage. Since some of the children already say my act yesterday when they were mingled with other classes, I introduce a new exercise where they secretly choose two animals and work in pairs to find out which animals the other has. Do you have a cat? Do you have a hamster? Do you have a horse? Inter-group rivalry is evident as different pairs race oneanother to find out who is the quickest at guessing. It may sound petty, even innocently childish, but the tones, looks and whispers which follow are as menacing as they’re meant to be. The kids like a challenge and I try to break the tension with a variation of Head, shoulders, knees and toes as we omit the word head for the first few goes and eventually succeed without knobbly knees as well.
Christophe’s class seem to be giving him grief too though their inactivity is at the other end of the bad behaviour spectrum. Christophe’s usually the least flustered teacher, but not today. I hover around the door before entering while he scolds them for being lazy, sluggish and unresponsive. The charades seem to reinstall their interest as they excitedly conjure up scenarios. Some of the kids are so expressive and even a simple breakfast scene is hilarious to watch. One scenario takes place in a vet’s clinic. The girl who is the vet loves animals but I’m surprised to hear that she doesn’t actually have any pets. As well as the usual collection of cats and dogs six pupils have turtles as pets and one boy wants a boa constrictor.
The younger kids, in Madame Pamphile’s and Madame Edragas’ class are just as inventive. I’m entertained by cowboys, sheriffs and a mort-vivant (waking dead) in one scene. I’m told it corresponds to evening time as the sun is setting when the cowboys have their showdown. There is also morning-time dog-walkers, a circus matinee and an evening swim to follow. There are some real actors in Madame Edragas’ class. We’re treated to a spectacular night-time mime where the father catches his son sneaking out to a club after the father is alerted by the cat. Two breakfast scenes are also served up with one father being constantly reminded by the mother that its time to bring the kids to school. The other group have a dog who steals the show, and someone’s breakfast!
I meet Monique and Elizabeth at the bus-stop. Elizabeth seems to be having a bad day. I sympathise with her and tell her about my recent Monday morning pigheadedness. I find out from her that another assistant has left; another American. Elizabeth adds that she doesn’t know if the assistant was fired or not. I find it hard to believe that any assistant would be fired but its not improbable.
Nicola and meet up at Rond Point to dine on roasted chicken, pureed potatoes, courgette gratin and lentils followed by coffee and pastries in Deli France. Nicola tells me that she feels one of her schools doesn’t need her so much this term as they’re finding it hard to allocate her classes. However, the other school she teaches in seems to have too many slots for her.
Nicola goes off to buy ant powder for our ant infestation as we’ve been under attack from these mini menaces all during Christmas. I head off to the beauticians for a wax attack and even though I haven’t made an appointment I’m out 20 minutes after I arrive. I get the young, friendly trainee again and we chat away about Christmas and how tired you feel after a holiday. “Wait for Carnival,” she says, “That’s tiring.” Carnival preparations are already underway. The Carnival King and Queen will be chosen during elaborate competitions in the upcoming weeks. Also fireworks and bangers, drums and chanting will be in abundance throughout the forthcoming nights as groups practise for the weeklong celebrations in February. Carnival ends on Ash Wednesday and so the week before that is jam-packed with different parades and activities which become more intense and more elaborate as the end of the Carnival approaches. Violence and crime are also heightened too but that’s a given.
I may have got all my evening errands done in a jiffy but I’m waiting so long for my bus home that I would have plenty of time to get waxed, collect my necklace, buy more bus tickets and browse around the stalls at my leisure before turning up at the bus-stop for the No.22.
Another bus pulls up alongside our shelter and one of the ladies looks exactly like my Aunt Patsy. Her sallow skin, light curled hair, perched glasses, slightly hooked nose and wavering voice could convince me it was her but I’m certain she has never heard of Martinique nor does she speak French.
I witness another smelly toddler experience. I watch a cute little girl in red and white, apple print dungarees trying to flick a piece of paper off her chubby thumb. She returns to her mother and clutches the adult leg as something trickles down her own. At first I think she has spilled apple juice down her front but it’s the erratic trickling and steamy puddle which convince me otherwise. Damn dungarees are probably harbouring something else too…
The bus finally comes. Our randy, finer bus-driver friend is on board. He looks a bit bored too. And tired. I watch him yawning in the huge rear-view mirror and despite ample warning from passengers he often overshoots their stops.
I’m wrecked and lie down for a nap after ringing back the bank and putting the washing on. Arlette’s cackling wakes me some time later; her doctors appointment must have gone well but I can’t help thinking he gave her a canister of laughing gas to numb the pain. Nicola’s soon laying down ant powder to numb the little numbskulls that constantly cross our path. By the evening we’re ant free, and when some other bigger bugs land for refuelling we feed them some of the special white stuff. If that doesn’t put their lights out we resort to the ‘oul brush and pan technique. Poor critters. And our poor splattered floor.
I’m in zombie mode today as tiredness transforms my body into a walking-talking mort-vivant. I should really go to bed earlier on school nights. I didn’t turn off the lights until midnight so I’m paying of my nocturnal on-goings. Thankfully today is not so taxing. After passing on two lifts into town – one from our new neighbours and another from Arlette’s friend – I finally get the 6,20 into town. They must have thought it strange that I didn’t hop in but my explanation; that I wanted to collect my thoughts, must have seemed more odd than offensive. I’m beginning to think I was mad to pass on a comfortable backseat jaunt when I find myself sandwiched between the window and an overindulgent woman who isn’t too liberal with her eau-de-toilette. That’s only the first bus. The second bus holds a smelly toddler. The sheer intensity of pained concentration on the child’s face matches the stench that follows. There may as well be a pile of pooh in the aisle. I smile apologetically at the mother beside me. It wouldn’t do for me to kick up a stink too.
Madame Thaly seeks me out like a missile the moment I set foot in the library. There’s no bad blood between us after yesterdays appeal but it becomes clear that herself and Madame Dau are not on the same side. Within two minutes I’ve reinstated myself to teach CE2 B. It’s unfair on the compliant children to cancel their class and the main perpetrators will miss out if they continue their silliness.
Today it’s the CM2 crowd who are acting up. I’m relieved to see it’s all happening before I set foot in the classroom but the level of viciousness among some of these 11-year olds is frightening to me and clearly upsetting to the teachers. On the extreme end of things we have verbal aggressiveness in the form of personal attacks on someone’s looks and actions; this happens in Dominique’s class. The perpetrator is cautioned but their backchat, Dominique tells me, is worthy of punishment; transcribing the dictionary is a start I guess.
Blood is still boiling in this class as I take to the stage. Since some of the children already say my act yesterday when they were mingled with other classes, I introduce a new exercise where they secretly choose two animals and work in pairs to find out which animals the other has. Do you have a cat? Do you have a hamster? Do you have a horse? Inter-group rivalry is evident as different pairs race oneanother to find out who is the quickest at guessing. It may sound petty, even innocently childish, but the tones, looks and whispers which follow are as menacing as they’re meant to be. The kids like a challenge and I try to break the tension with a variation of Head, shoulders, knees and toes as we omit the word head for the first few goes and eventually succeed without knobbly knees as well.
Christophe’s class seem to be giving him grief too though their inactivity is at the other end of the bad behaviour spectrum. Christophe’s usually the least flustered teacher, but not today. I hover around the door before entering while he scolds them for being lazy, sluggish and unresponsive. The charades seem to reinstall their interest as they excitedly conjure up scenarios. Some of the kids are so expressive and even a simple breakfast scene is hilarious to watch. One scenario takes place in a vet’s clinic. The girl who is the vet loves animals but I’m surprised to hear that she doesn’t actually have any pets. As well as the usual collection of cats and dogs six pupils have turtles as pets and one boy wants a boa constrictor.
The younger kids, in Madame Pamphile’s and Madame Edragas’ class are just as inventive. I’m entertained by cowboys, sheriffs and a mort-vivant (waking dead) in one scene. I’m told it corresponds to evening time as the sun is setting when the cowboys have their showdown. There is also morning-time dog-walkers, a circus matinee and an evening swim to follow. There are some real actors in Madame Edragas’ class. We’re treated to a spectacular night-time mime where the father catches his son sneaking out to a club after the father is alerted by the cat. Two breakfast scenes are also served up with one father being constantly reminded by the mother that its time to bring the kids to school. The other group have a dog who steals the show, and someone’s breakfast!
I meet Monique and Elizabeth at the bus-stop. Elizabeth seems to be having a bad day. I sympathise with her and tell her about my recent Monday morning pigheadedness. I find out from her that another assistant has left; another American. Elizabeth adds that she doesn’t know if the assistant was fired or not. I find it hard to believe that any assistant would be fired but its not improbable.
Nicola and meet up at Rond Point to dine on roasted chicken, pureed potatoes, courgette gratin and lentils followed by coffee and pastries in Deli France. Nicola tells me that she feels one of her schools doesn’t need her so much this term as they’re finding it hard to allocate her classes. However, the other school she teaches in seems to have too many slots for her.
Nicola goes off to buy ant powder for our ant infestation as we’ve been under attack from these mini menaces all during Christmas. I head off to the beauticians for a wax attack and even though I haven’t made an appointment I’m out 20 minutes after I arrive. I get the young, friendly trainee again and we chat away about Christmas and how tired you feel after a holiday. “Wait for Carnival,” she says, “That’s tiring.” Carnival preparations are already underway. The Carnival King and Queen will be chosen during elaborate competitions in the upcoming weeks. Also fireworks and bangers, drums and chanting will be in abundance throughout the forthcoming nights as groups practise for the weeklong celebrations in February. Carnival ends on Ash Wednesday and so the week before that is jam-packed with different parades and activities which become more intense and more elaborate as the end of the Carnival approaches. Violence and crime are also heightened too but that’s a given.
I may have got all my evening errands done in a jiffy but I’m waiting so long for my bus home that I would have plenty of time to get waxed, collect my necklace, buy more bus tickets and browse around the stalls at my leisure before turning up at the bus-stop for the No.22.
Another bus pulls up alongside our shelter and one of the ladies looks exactly like my Aunt Patsy. Her sallow skin, light curled hair, perched glasses, slightly hooked nose and wavering voice could convince me it was her but I’m certain she has never heard of Martinique nor does she speak French.
I witness another smelly toddler experience. I watch a cute little girl in red and white, apple print dungarees trying to flick a piece of paper off her chubby thumb. She returns to her mother and clutches the adult leg as something trickles down her own. At first I think she has spilled apple juice down her front but it’s the erratic trickling and steamy puddle which convince me otherwise. Damn dungarees are probably harbouring something else too…
The bus finally comes. Our randy, finer bus-driver friend is on board. He looks a bit bored too. And tired. I watch him yawning in the huge rear-view mirror and despite ample warning from passengers he often overshoots their stops.
I’m wrecked and lie down for a nap after ringing back the bank and putting the washing on. Arlette’s cackling wakes me some time later; her doctors appointment must have gone well but I can’t help thinking he gave her a canister of laughing gas to numb the pain. Nicola’s soon laying down ant powder to numb the little numbskulls that constantly cross our path. By the evening we’re ant free, and when some other bigger bugs land for refuelling we feed them some of the special white stuff. If that doesn’t put their lights out we resort to the ‘oul brush and pan technique. Poor critters. And our poor splattered floor.
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