Lundi 25.12.06 It’s Christmas – hang loose
C’est Noël sur la Terre chaque jour, car Noël, ô mon frère c’est l’amour
It’s Christmas Day ! I could sing carols all day. Well, in a way I do. Nic, David and I have set up a Yuletide Jukebox; one of us requests a song and the others sing it. It may be a bit juvenile but we’re still full of last night’s festive fuel.
We exchange presents at the breakfast table. David gives us ladies a big box of Lindt chocolate and we give him a novelty Irish tea-towel. I’ve made a Cadbury’s selection box for Nic and filled it with lots of goodies: chocolate of course; a signed copy of Aimée Cesaire’s play La Tragédie du Roi Christophe, an Allianstar CD and a purple tote bag she had been coveting some weeks ago. I get a super cool snorkel and mask and some gingerbread treats.
We all call home throughout the morning. My lot have just finished their turkey and sprouts and are insanely jealous that we’ll be on the beach later. Nicola’s sister calls her and her little niece, Naomi, is on the phone too to wish her Aunt a Happy Christmas. David’s brother has just gotten engaged and he spends ages talking to all his Aunts, Uncles and relations who are already gathered at his home in Scotland. While David’s up at the phone box Nicola zips off to collect Christophe. Nic’s away longer than expected and I begin to think that perhaps Fergal, my man, is actually flying in today and they’ve both gone to collect him. Of course it’s not so but when Nicola comes back and announces that she has brought some visitors – plural, I deceive myself for another instant. However, Christophe and Chevalier are our guests for the day. We sit them on the terrace, offer them chocolate and give them some Guinness.
Our picnic is soon prepared. The car is packed and we’re off to Prêcheur, along the North-Western coast of Martinique. We lay out our feast and tuck into succulent turkey, savoury stuffing, creamy potatoes, fried rice, yummy yam, honey-roasted ham, buttered peas and roasted banana-jaune. There’s always room for dessert and we finish off with lemon meringue pie courtesy of Mammy Rowntree, David and myself. Go team!
All that’s left to do is sit in the sun on the sandy shore or hang from our high-pitched hammocks. It’s time to let it all hang out; some people are more prone to that than others. The Frenchies are mad to get into the sea. Chevalier rides the waves on his flat-boarded stomach. The waves are indeed wild and us ladies frequently loose our tops giving the lads a peak when the waves crest. Oh, les vagues… We leave the lads to lap up the salty sunshine and head for our hammocks. Some locals in the parking lot have their sound-system turned up. The music isn’t loud enough to be intrusive and the sultry sounds really create just the right mood for Christmas in the Caribbean.
Suddenly, out of the blue ocean there comes an agonising scream. It’s a chilling, aching shriek. Everything is still for an instant. The waves stop rolling, the music ceases, cheery Christmas chit-chat stops abruptly and the soft wind holds it’s breath as the painful cry slices through the air again and again. There’s a lady chest-deep in the sea grasping her arm. Two people are alongside her in an instant; they seem confused and stunned as they approach her. They remain motionless by her side for a few seconds before they haul her ashore. As they emerge from the water they’re seen to half-drag, half-support her on to the sandy shore. Everyone is transfixed in their places; on beach mats, on towels, in sand-pits, in hammocks, at picnic tables. Two ladies gather around the wounded woman and start rubbing her right arm vigorously. Slowly, a group begin to assemble around the trio. The screaming slowly ceases and is replaced by deep choked sobbing sounds.
David and I are in our hammocks. Chevalier is lying beside us. Nicola and Chris are on the beach. Chevalier speculates that it’s a jellyfish. Nicola thinks the rough waves crushed the ladies arm. Whatever the perpetrator was it hasn’t fully immobilised the lady as she’s soon seen wandering about through the trees. It only takes 20 minutes for the ambulance to arrive. The lady hops in the back in her bikini and wrap and she’s seen off by a crowd of 20-odd people who have assembled around the red and orange mobile medical motor.
That’s the drama over for the day. And the day is coming to an end too. We pack our things and follow another car, with a bottle on its roof, out of the woodchip lined drive and on to the main road which, this far North, is nothing more than a lane-way.
We’re going to head home and have a civilised tea of smoked salmon, dill and cream cheese on crackers, followed by a stir-fry of mange-tout beans and asparagus, and finished off with a few Irish coffees and toffees, but first of all we’ve to call in at the Army barracks to wish Manu a Joyeux Noël. The poor chap hasn’t has any time off in the past week and he will continue to work straight through to January 4th when they leave. He’s delighted to see us all. We’ve brought him a present – one of our blow-up Santa Claus’ who has become a bit of a celebrity of late with his cows lick, big blue eyes, facial hair and light-hearted humour. We’ve some Christmas dinner over for him and he tucks in while we have some celebratory rums and goyave concoctions. Chevalier prefers his own ball-buster beverage but we decline least we make an ass of ourselves.
Tin Man and Bob the Bug-Eyed Builder are out in style tonight. Chris is getting a bit merry too. There’s some gangsta’ rap on the box and he starts into it: “Smack that!” he sings as he sways back and forth like the minted, suited man he’s mocking.
There’s a rap on the door. Our antics are curtailed as Mario and Sebastian enter. They’re both dressed in dark jeans and tight black t-shirts. What cuillères ! I’d rather talk about weeping vags’ or ruptured vags’ with David than converse with Mister Mèche, but its Christmas and we’re civil. We’re too civil. In fact, we’re three civilians. Mario gives Manu a word of warning about having us over too late but we’re just on our way… literally and figuratively. As much as I don’t see eye-to-eye with Mister Mèche poor David can’t wait to get home – away from all this homo-erotic behaviour. He thinks James would have appreciated it more…
The fresh mountain air soon sobers us up. We’ve bonded well over the pass week though I’m sure the whiskey has helped us out a bit. I plop bits of mouth-watering smoked salmon into my mouth between sips of Glenfiddich. Ummm. Scottish whiskey and Scottish salmon. French toast and French beans. Irish coffee and Irish toffee. What a nice way to end the day J
C’est Noël sur la Terre chaque jour, car Noël, ô mon frère c’est l’amour
It’s Christmas Day ! I could sing carols all day. Well, in a way I do. Nic, David and I have set up a Yuletide Jukebox; one of us requests a song and the others sing it. It may be a bit juvenile but we’re still full of last night’s festive fuel.
We exchange presents at the breakfast table. David gives us ladies a big box of Lindt chocolate and we give him a novelty Irish tea-towel. I’ve made a Cadbury’s selection box for Nic and filled it with lots of goodies: chocolate of course; a signed copy of Aimée Cesaire’s play La Tragédie du Roi Christophe, an Allianstar CD and a purple tote bag she had been coveting some weeks ago. I get a super cool snorkel and mask and some gingerbread treats.
We all call home throughout the morning. My lot have just finished their turkey and sprouts and are insanely jealous that we’ll be on the beach later. Nicola’s sister calls her and her little niece, Naomi, is on the phone too to wish her Aunt a Happy Christmas. David’s brother has just gotten engaged and he spends ages talking to all his Aunts, Uncles and relations who are already gathered at his home in Scotland. While David’s up at the phone box Nicola zips off to collect Christophe. Nic’s away longer than expected and I begin to think that perhaps Fergal, my man, is actually flying in today and they’ve both gone to collect him. Of course it’s not so but when Nicola comes back and announces that she has brought some visitors – plural, I deceive myself for another instant. However, Christophe and Chevalier are our guests for the day. We sit them on the terrace, offer them chocolate and give them some Guinness.
Our picnic is soon prepared. The car is packed and we’re off to Prêcheur, along the North-Western coast of Martinique. We lay out our feast and tuck into succulent turkey, savoury stuffing, creamy potatoes, fried rice, yummy yam, honey-roasted ham, buttered peas and roasted banana-jaune. There’s always room for dessert and we finish off with lemon meringue pie courtesy of Mammy Rowntree, David and myself. Go team!
All that’s left to do is sit in the sun on the sandy shore or hang from our high-pitched hammocks. It’s time to let it all hang out; some people are more prone to that than others. The Frenchies are mad to get into the sea. Chevalier rides the waves on his flat-boarded stomach. The waves are indeed wild and us ladies frequently loose our tops giving the lads a peak when the waves crest. Oh, les vagues… We leave the lads to lap up the salty sunshine and head for our hammocks. Some locals in the parking lot have their sound-system turned up. The music isn’t loud enough to be intrusive and the sultry sounds really create just the right mood for Christmas in the Caribbean.
Suddenly, out of the blue ocean there comes an agonising scream. It’s a chilling, aching shriek. Everything is still for an instant. The waves stop rolling, the music ceases, cheery Christmas chit-chat stops abruptly and the soft wind holds it’s breath as the painful cry slices through the air again and again. There’s a lady chest-deep in the sea grasping her arm. Two people are alongside her in an instant; they seem confused and stunned as they approach her. They remain motionless by her side for a few seconds before they haul her ashore. As they emerge from the water they’re seen to half-drag, half-support her on to the sandy shore. Everyone is transfixed in their places; on beach mats, on towels, in sand-pits, in hammocks, at picnic tables. Two ladies gather around the wounded woman and start rubbing her right arm vigorously. Slowly, a group begin to assemble around the trio. The screaming slowly ceases and is replaced by deep choked sobbing sounds.
David and I are in our hammocks. Chevalier is lying beside us. Nicola and Chris are on the beach. Chevalier speculates that it’s a jellyfish. Nicola thinks the rough waves crushed the ladies arm. Whatever the perpetrator was it hasn’t fully immobilised the lady as she’s soon seen wandering about through the trees. It only takes 20 minutes for the ambulance to arrive. The lady hops in the back in her bikini and wrap and she’s seen off by a crowd of 20-odd people who have assembled around the red and orange mobile medical motor.
That’s the drama over for the day. And the day is coming to an end too. We pack our things and follow another car, with a bottle on its roof, out of the woodchip lined drive and on to the main road which, this far North, is nothing more than a lane-way.
We’re going to head home and have a civilised tea of smoked salmon, dill and cream cheese on crackers, followed by a stir-fry of mange-tout beans and asparagus, and finished off with a few Irish coffees and toffees, but first of all we’ve to call in at the Army barracks to wish Manu a Joyeux Noël. The poor chap hasn’t has any time off in the past week and he will continue to work straight through to January 4th when they leave. He’s delighted to see us all. We’ve brought him a present – one of our blow-up Santa Claus’ who has become a bit of a celebrity of late with his cows lick, big blue eyes, facial hair and light-hearted humour. We’ve some Christmas dinner over for him and he tucks in while we have some celebratory rums and goyave concoctions. Chevalier prefers his own ball-buster beverage but we decline least we make an ass of ourselves.
Tin Man and Bob the Bug-Eyed Builder are out in style tonight. Chris is getting a bit merry too. There’s some gangsta’ rap on the box and he starts into it: “Smack that!” he sings as he sways back and forth like the minted, suited man he’s mocking.
There’s a rap on the door. Our antics are curtailed as Mario and Sebastian enter. They’re both dressed in dark jeans and tight black t-shirts. What cuillères ! I’d rather talk about weeping vags’ or ruptured vags’ with David than converse with Mister Mèche, but its Christmas and we’re civil. We’re too civil. In fact, we’re three civilians. Mario gives Manu a word of warning about having us over too late but we’re just on our way… literally and figuratively. As much as I don’t see eye-to-eye with Mister Mèche poor David can’t wait to get home – away from all this homo-erotic behaviour. He thinks James would have appreciated it more…
The fresh mountain air soon sobers us up. We’ve bonded well over the pass week though I’m sure the whiskey has helped us out a bit. I plop bits of mouth-watering smoked salmon into my mouth between sips of Glenfiddich. Ummm. Scottish whiskey and Scottish salmon. French toast and French beans. Irish coffee and Irish toffee. What a nice way to end the day J
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