Coconuts - Samedi, 16.12.06

Samedi 16.12.06 Coconuts

It doesn’t feel like Christmastime here; not enough busy bodies clogging up the streets with their shopping bags. And so, in an attempt to add some seasonal spice to our stay Nic and I go on a money-spending marathon. It really wouldn’t be Christmas without a major shopping spree.

Fort-de-France has plenty of shops and bargain stops. We hit town before midday and zip around the shops so quickly you’d think there was a swarm of mosquitoes following us. Well, some of God’s annoying creations soon do start following us. I suppose it’s my fault. I’ve bought a new pair of heels and I carry myself so much better when I’m in them. I decide to wear put them on. This town is the perfect place to break-in shoes; all the cracks in the paths and suspicious splashes on the streets form a challenging assault course so it’s a good practise run for a night out too.

The midday heat ensures we don’t linger too long in the streets and it doesn’t take us long to purchase our wares and wears. The sun is beating down. I can also hear some beats down the other end of the paved pedestrian street; it’s the dodgy drummer I met in Leader Price a few weeks back. He’s wearing a long, stripy, multi-coloured kaftan and a square black hat. He’s looks tubby alongside his lanky beating, bleating band mates. He doesn’t spy me and we wobble onwards to find somewhere for lunch. The quiche and chips place is open and we dine upstairs in the cool quietness until some school kids behind us start getting rowdy. We’re a little bit hyper too and decide to make a call to our army comrades. I use Nicola’s phone and speak to Christophe to arrange a rendez-vous for tonight. He seems clueless – thinking I’m Nicola. Suddenly Mario’s voice appears online and I throw the phone back to Nicola. I eventually end up back with Mario as Nicola is at pains to understand his lisping lingo. He sprays bleatings and greetings my way before arranging to meet us in town later on in the day.

Since the buses are so erratic on Saturday’s we’ve time to kill before the next one and we head to the cyber café. A Belgium friend, Lavinia, has sent me an application form she would appreciate being tidied-up and no sooner have I done it than the stupid computer shuts-down. I also get a smart-arse email from a certain computer whiz telling me to resize my attachments. Technology may not be my forte but tinkering about with things can be; when we get home I manage to get my mini shower radio working: I have to prise the back off with a knife just to get the batteries in but hey, I never did want it to work in the shower anyway. Ironically It’s raining men is the first song to tinkle out of it and Nicola and I wile away the afternoon listening to the melodic shower of songs on Cherie FM.

It’s time to check-in at home – in Ireland, so I make my way up to the telephone cabin with my assortment of call cards. Fergal is my first point-of-contact. I get his Dad’s voicemail and leave a message before calling his mobile. He’s just after coming home from college. On at Saturday? Yes, he’s in the middle of exams. My blog seems to be keeping him informed – maybe too much so as he relates my ramblings right back at me! A car pulls up beside the phone box and a man gets out. I sense that he wants to use the phone and I make a call-me sign to which he nods his head. There’s not much happening in Howth so I say my farewells and let the stranger make his quick call. I hang around looking longingly at our neighbours glistening pool while the stranger phones the unknown. My next two calls go to Cavan. My siblings Susan and Philip are at home and we have a three-way conversation about school, college, work and everything else besides. Mum and Dad are partying at Ruth Rowntree’s house – I’m not the only one with that name! I chance calling Auntie Daphne and Co. She’s at home and I talk to her and Joyce before my credit runs out and I run back home…

We had planned to spend our night mingling with natives; there was a Chanté Noël in Ravine Nouzar and we had planned to have Will over for dinner beforehand, but Coconuts club sounds more inviting. A night on the tiles with other assistants sounds more like our kind of fun. It has been a long time since I’ve been in a real club – and Coconuts does not disappoint. Will however, seems to be away from his phone all day. We don’t want to leave him in the lurch so I’m appointed to leave a message saying that Nicola is ill and we’re calling off our cooking and carolling.

Our neighbour, William, is home. We scramble up the grassy knoll to his door. I’m in my heels, wearing a head torch and Nicola’s sliding along beside me with her skirt hitched up to her haunches. We invite William around for a quick drink hoping he’ll give us a lift into town however, male unperceptiveness, or William’s sheer stinginess, prevails and our hidden agenda falls through. We down our drinks, turf him out and get the bus into town.

It’s the latest I’ve ever gotten the bus in and it’s not without nocturnal annoyances. The bus rambles by a floodlit pitch en route into town. There are five local guys hanging around outside the wire fence. The bus is going so slow that two of them come up to our window and rest their elbows on it while chatting away to us. Nic shuts her window – almost crushing her man’s hand. They yell abuse at us as we respond in English to their crazy talk.

It’s almost 21,00 by the time the bus chugs into Fort-de-France. Town’s at its most menacing. Shadows lurk where the prostitutes work and hobos sleep in the deep darkness of alcoholic slumber. We take it in turns taking out money from the ATM. The street down to the main night strip is deserted. All that can be heard is the clip-clopping of culchies. We can see the lights of KFC in the distance. I feel like chicken tonight – not frog’s legs. You know they don’t actually eat grenouilles here; the critters serve their purpose in night-time chorus’ rather than in people’s guts. We turn the corner after KFC, shimmy past some scooter-mad lads and hop on board the Mayflower to start our pilgrimage. There are a few touristy types in the bar but they’re soon replaced by action men. The three musketeers appear; Sebastian, Christophe and Mario. They’re all chat about their day – not! We drag information out of them while they supply us with alcohol.

Things are starting to get lively in the bar but we decide to make tracks and head to Coconuts, about 45 minutes away, at Rivière Salée. Its €10 entry, and Nicola and I gasp at the price-list hanging outside the ticket desk; €10 for a bottle of Heineken… €100 for a bottle of rum. Anyway, it’s Christmas and it’s time to celebrate. Angela, an assistante from England, is having a farewell bash as she’s leaving after Christmas. We’re all out for a boogie and a good time and that’s exactly how the story goes. David texts to say he’s staying in the IUFM with his run-fuelled inmates. Most of his Metropole buddies don’t like Coconuts as it’s seen as a Boite Blanche (whitey territory). Au contraire, there seems to be a good mixture of souls… and spirits. Mario treats us to a bottle of Saint James rum and our hostess settles us in a corner where some other army dudes are already located. Mario introduces us to the military men: Laurent (Sergeant); Mike (Aeroplane operative); Patrick (Admin.); Pascal (Corporal); Charlie (Corporal); Lionel (chef); Serge (sleaze). They’re from France but are over here for their formation – or whatever other name their mission goes by.

I spy Adi and Angela and introduce them to our troop. Angela is fixated with Christophe but she doesn’t get near him. Sebastian takes a shine to Adi. She’s looks like an angel in a floaty white dress, sparkly earrings and silver pumps. I mingle with Maria, Ceri, Martin and Andy before hitting the dance floor.

The company’s cool, great tunes are being blared and everyone’s in good form. It’s a proper night out all round. Gethin and his rugby chums come muscling in well after midnight; we go crazy as we bop and hop around the dance floor.

There are various show dancers on mini stages; some in sparkly, gem-encrusted outfits, others in leather ensembles and several in Flintstone-style fur get-ups. They bump and grind all night while the hostesses slink around topping up our cordial jugs and ice buckets. It’s Angela’s party and she doesn’t waste any time getting on one of the dance platforms to strut her stuff.

It’s inevitable that zouk music will be played but it gives an excuse to sit down, take a breather and mingle with the military. Most of the guys are sound though there are some occupational oddities: Laurent is the boss though he’s sound; Mike’s like a child and he gets exited at everything; Pascal likes to strut his stuff; Patrick is quiet but fun; Charlie is charming and up for a laugh; Lionel is serene yet serious, and he doesn’t drink – I think he’s on sentry duty; and Serge, with his arm in a cast after a brawl in Montpellier, is a sleaze.

The night is over all too soon. The glasses are cleared. Nic and I get invitations to the New Year’s Eve party; cocktails flowing, buffet, champagne reception come midnight, fireworks display. Tickets are €120 a pop or €200 for a couple. It’s a pity we’ll be in Trinité for New Year as it seems like a good gig, though it’s probably just as well as its insanely dear.

Most of us get up for a final dance-off. Mario mopes in the corner. He’s Christophe’s responsable. I don’t think he can bear to see him have a good time with civilians. Christophe is locked – flexing his muscles for my camera. The lights become a bit brighter and we decide to hit the road. Mario is Bob – designated driver, so that probably doesn’t help his mood one bit as he has to put up with our nattering all the way home.

We get home in no time at all – though it’s not quick enough for my liking as I’m longing for my bed and some peace from Mario’s love struck lisping. I hurry my excuses, thanks and goodbyes, slip through the gate and hop into bed. I won’t put up with fanatical Frenchmen; I may be a civilian but I’m barely civil. I’ve had a super night and Super pain-in-the-bum Mario won’t ruin my night or my dreams…