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.