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!