Carry-on driving - samedi, 09.12.06

samedi 09.12.06 Carry-on driving

I have my fair share of wheels today. The buses are acting-up again this morning. I’ve been waiting at our bus-stop for almost 40 minutes without any sign of a boxy, white and green Mosaic bus slinking up the mountain. I get a few ominous offers for a lift into town but I let them go on and I even go so far as to say that my friend is getting on the bus on the other side of the hill. Charles pulls up just as I’m peppering, wondering how I’m going to get in in one piece for my private lesson with Madame Bonne’s girls. I’m dropped in to town and as I’ve now time to spare I head to the library. I pass a bridal car which is being adorned with ribbon and flowers. Two hummingbirds, colibris, playfully flutter in front of me as I pass by; a sign from God perhaps and a magical touch to a fairy-tale occasion from Mother Nature.

I’m in need of an English fix. There’s not much of a selection but I hunt down a Scarpetta novel – Trace by Patricia Cornwell. I launch into the book as I wait for a bus. There’s a severe lack of them today and even when one does come we’re delayed by a man who hops on board looking for donations to send disabled children to Barbados. He shakes his bucket and shakes his head as hardly anyone delves into their pockets.

Ten minutes later I’m reaching into my pocket to get my mobile. I’ll be a bit late for Madame Bonne, but hey, it’s the weekend, and it’s the Caribbean. She’s a bit late herself so our apologies cancel out one another. Eurielle, her 14 year-old daughter has a presentation on Harrods next week so I help her with the phraseology and pronunciation as well as giving her some advice on talking in front of a crowd. Some of her classmates have already presented their London landmarks so for most of the second half we work with vocab and phrases she picked up from the other projects. I ask her to construct sentences from the words she gleaned and we go through them together. For the last ten minutes we use my multicoloured hospital, school and building site sketches for more oral work. Kelly-Ann, the younger girl, is a chatty, smiley little tot. She has an array of English books and songbooks: we focus on food, using the phrases;

Do you like ___?
Yes, I do. No, I don’t.
Yes, I like ___. No, I don’t like _____.
I like ____ and_____, but I prefer ______.

Kelly-Ann has little toy baskets in her room with various plastic food and picnic items so we’ve plenty to talk about as we set the table and play with our food. She nods her head up and down as she concentrates and when I prompt her she always thanks me. We also choose a song about bananas which includes colours and animals and it’s not long until I too have to make like a banana and split. Madame Bonne offers to drop me off at the bus-stop as she’s off to the hair-dressers with the girls. She pays me and throws in a star fruit and a few banana-jaune which her mother grew.

Nicola and David are at La Croisière on a mid-day coke binge. They suck it up and we head to the car rental office to get into gear for a weekend in our fostered silver Peugeot 106. We give the car the once over and get going. The traffic is manic though we’re on the Rocade in an instant. By 13,30 we’re Ducos to collect Gethin and get supplies for our road trip to Trinité.

It takes Nicola no time at all to get into left-hand rally mode. I’m her right-hand woman, the co-pilot, while David and Gethin are the pit-stop posse. The guys must have a few flat tires as hissing can constantly be heard from the back – especially whenever we pass by a group of highway hitch-hikers or hookers! The bumpy roads and frequent roundabouting shake-up our easy-listening, drive-time tunes so us girls often have to resort to filling in the gaps. The slow traffic and minuscule might of the motor mean that we hardly ever hit fifth gear even though we take the motorway all the way to Trinité. We experience the joys of Martinique’s crazy prices at the petrol pump; we don’t even fill the tank with €45 – petrol costs €1.39 per litre.

Trinité is a chirpy, curved, sea-front town. The young people skate, rock and roll along the waterfront while the older generations sell their wares by the beach or gather for a natter and a round of chess. We’re only just in Trinité when we spy Marco, another assistant, under a wooden bus shelter. For some reason seeing other assistants in a new location brings incredulous enjoyment – we clock up seven other assistants during the day; Marco, Maria, Alejandro, Sally-Jo, Angela, Adi and Jeremy.

There are hardly any male assistants so sighting Marco is like spying a fabulous reduction in a sale and making a bee-line for it. Of course some people worship our male counterparts more than others… Nicola’s indiscretion is hidden only by her indistinguishable accent as Marco finds it hard to understand her Irish inflections. We head into a deli for a reduced-rate gossip and some even slower service. Once we’re done we head to soak up the sun and we bump into Maria and Alejandro having lunch by the waterfront.

Poor Marco has been out-of-sorts lately as he had the Dengue Fever – Trinité and Schoelcher have experienced outbreaks in recent months. Marco had a mild strain but he had to take a week off school; constant tiredness, dizziness and smooth pink spots are the symptoms, but between the heat, work and mosquitoes most of us could think we’ve been struck down. Gethin thinks so. He’s obviously a stickler for Martiniquan hospital slop - he only just got his cast off. Sally-Jo was also in hospital in Trinité. She had constant migraines and had to get a brain-scan. We later spy her packing up her beach gear as we drive by the sandy cove en route to Tartane.

The road from Trinité to Tartane is lined with deep gullies on either side and to make matters worse it’s as hilly as hell and there’s quiet a bit of traffic; however, our destination is less treacherous. Tartane is a cute, calm beachfront village with plenty of holiday resorts, holiday homes and holiday-makers. Even at this time of year the white:black ratio here is the inverse to that in Fort-de-France. There’s a lazy, laidback vibe and a peaceful, pleasant ambiance. At the Baie de Tartane families, couples and students stretch out on the long, sandy shores, while further up along the Presqu’île de la Caravelle, near Anse L’Etang, it’s surfer mecca.

Nicola and I leave Gethin and David with Adi, Angela and Jeremy and we head off to do some accommodation sleuthing. Le Manguier, on top the hill over looking Tartane and the beach, is our first stop-off. The lady at the reception is as nice as Martiniquan’s come. We tell her we live here and we’re instantly offered a discount. It’s not much and we want to bargain her down a bit so she takes our number and tells us she’ll contact the boss and call us tomorrow with a revised price – she does but it’s too late as we’ve already chosen our lodgings at Paradîles along La Rue de la Distillerie. It’s a quaint, self-contained mini-villa village just 300m from the beach. There’s also a pool and a buffet breakfast but most importantly the price is right. Since our visitors will already be spending hundreds on Christmas flights we’re trying to keep the cost down - this place meets our means.

From December to March it’s the high season here in the Caribbean so most prices are hiked-up; some rooms which would have been €40 per night can easily become €100 overnight – and that’s just a single. C’est l’arnaque! Throughout the evening we view another three places – Résidence Océane, Les Campêches, SurfZone, but for some reason or other they don’t match Paradîles’ prices or services and so we settle for poolside loungers and beach proximity. Bob is the name of the man at the reception. We quiz him, settle on a price and nip off to Trinité to get a few bob for a deposit. Bob’s a witty bloke with a joke (my new name is Ruth Rowntree-Macintosh) or quick quip to tell. Though one thing he mentions when we’ve laid down our deposit is that there’s no smoking on the decking. I presume it’s something to do with the whole place being made of wood but no, he says, it’s to do with his distaste for the smell of smoke.

We zip back into Tartane to get Getty and David - the only Scot in the village. It’s dark already so there’s no rush home. We sit down by the beach bar for a bit before piling into the Peugeot for another rumbling ride up the motorway. Fort-de-France greets us with gaudy neon lights and late night street sights. I try to restrain the guys from hissing at the hookers and fat-mammas outside MacDo but thankfully the tarty, tubby targets don’t pass any remarks. The Ronald MacDonald Republic off the highway is jammers so we head into town to the other American Embassy. I have a large chips, a large iced-tea and two desserts; well the caramel sundae is clearly a dessert but supposedly after picking the gherkins out of my burger it now counts as one too due to the high sugar content.

There are more tourists around town than I thought there’d be – and there are not as many weirdoes, though that doesn’t mean there are none. In the absence of fellow beggars one hobo has the nerve to ask us for €10! Even the homeless are getting greedy here.

We head home with the lads and get ready to hit the town. We’re leaving the car in the mountains as Will is coming to collect us. I don’t know if he’s too happy to see Gethin but if he isn’t he feigns an interest in his ailments and aged-attraction condition. We head to our usual Saturday night haunt – La Feuille de Tôle. We had forewarned Gethin that it was not a club but a beach bar though he still insists on complaining once we get there. Insufferable, selfish, whining git. It’s probably just as well himself and David start chatting to some IFUM students, at least Nic and I can talk to Will and his cronies – in peace, and in French. Etienne and Alain, the two Rasta stooges, are there. And they’ve brought along a mate, Mathieu. He’s from France but has moved here with his girlfriend, eh, wife actually, of two years. He’s 22 and already hitched. She’s 28 and a nurse and laying her life on a plate looking for babies. I’m sure if Mathieu doesn’t help her out she can get one at work – or perhaps there’s an overdue one over there by the bar who would be up for adoption.

Gethin and David eventually make an appearance at our group. They bring their chicks too – Arielle and Sandra. Gethin cosies up to Etienne – at least I don’t have to put-up with ear-licking, listening anymore. He was trying to teach me a Créole song about smoking and he would often light up mid-conversation and launch into a rant-chant in some mumbo-jumbo language. He’s not so hard to understand but he’s hard to read – especially his face. He must be the blackest person around. His facial expressions are lost in the darkness of his skin. His features just merge together and you sometimes have to search for his eyes as his gigantic dark pupils barely leave a speck of space for the whites. Etienne gives Nicola a beady necklace and offers to make Gethin one too. He invites us to a Chanté Noël on Friday night. It’ll be a black Christmas this year.

Nicola and I nip off to the toilet. Patrice and Patricia are working at the bar again tonight and they greet us as they hand over the pee-key. Just as we’re locking the outhouse a guy pops his head over the hedge. My spirits nearly jumped out of my skin; but having just been to the toilet I was saved from any scaredy-cat soiling. The hobo wants to get into the building but we’re under strict orders to hand the key back directly to either of the two P’s. We’re sure he’s a loner stoner and leave him to flush under the bush.

The night rolls on and dawn is not far off. The night time chill is sobering but not so much as a dip in the sea. Gethin and David swipe the base of a wind-surfer and we paddle around the bay a few times before rocking the boat and getting thrown off. Will is a bit distant; he’s on the shore and he’s ignoring our board antics. Nicola and I leave the lads to the board and make for the beach to cheer Will up. I’ve had my fill of sea water and I sit on the sand watching the aquatic antics in front. Nic’s being chased by a big black shark and the two lads are on the board alongside a yacht. A light suddenly streams from one of the portholes. No doubt the guys have woken the neighbours but there are a few chuckles so nobody’s made walk the plank. I head back in for a bit and get on board to show off some Macarena moves and do dodgy surfer impressions. Of course we’re still a bit tipsy and we repeatedly get tipped over but it’s fun nonetheless.

It’s not long until there’s a glow on my cheeks and similar on the horizon. We drag the board ashore and weave our way up the beach to the showers. Our beach gear is untouched, intact. We soon swap the sea for a sea view and exchange the enveloping sea for a swathe of sheets.