Nothing much to report this a.m but as the day evolves I begin to think that a register of some sort is needed to keep track of all the contacts we make today. I think that this entry will however, suffice.
Our phones are on the hop all afternoon with the exception of a repose of an hour or so when we find ourselves hanging in the garden sipping beer, swinging from boughs and reading books; I’m now on to Nelson Mandela’s autobiography Long Walk to Freedom.
It was too hot during the early afternoon to venture outside so we confined ourselves to the house and we soon found ourselves glued to our mobiles. The lads are on at us to go to the beach but despite an abundance of requests from The Three Stooges; J.V, Lionel and Oliver, we stay put stating that we want to conserve energy for whatever tonight brings. Will also calls both of us but as we’re on the phone to other people he doesn’t get through. He leaves his usual mumbo jumbo ramblings on our phones telling us that the sky is blue and the hills are green. No doubt he’ll call again. I get a call from our neighbour requesting our presence at their home tomorrow at midday. Their young French relations are visiting them and we’re invited round for conversation and aperitifs. Antonio gives me a jingle, only one mind. He mustn’t be so desperate for a dance. I don’t return his call.
On the text front Madame Bonne sends me Carnaval greetings. Fergal tells me that he received my Valentine’s card and he lets loose on alcohol-fuelled sentimentality. My brother, Philip, is swotting away for his Junior Certificate mocks but he texts to say that he’s making progress with a CD of Irish songs I requested. Nicola’s sister Pamela texts to give her the lowdown on family situations; Sharon and Keith are getting back together. Our mutual friend Heather reports that she got an earful from her supervisor about being in too low a gear work wise.
The most unusual contact of the afternoon should have been the shortest but it’s isn’t. I recently placed a petit announce in two local papers advertising English lessons. I did it on Nicola’s behalf as she was a little hoarse. Someone calls this afternoon requesting her services; it leaves her a little deaf and confused. The mystery caller rings again and I’m put on to him. His booming barrage is thunderous but his request is distorted. He’s clearly a pervert who picked up the paper and read into the ad a bit too much. He thinks, or wants to think, that he’s talking to prostitutes.
We instantly presume that the lads are making a prank call but he’s just a freak from Martinique – Fort-de-France to be exact. I ask him where he got the number. He tells me that his friend Philip in Ste. Luce gave it to him. When I probe about Philip he clams up. He instantly asks if I work for the police and I assure him I don’t. We have his number and could probably report him to the police then again he could actually be working for them! A former assistant reportedly reported a colleague to the French equivalent of the SPCA as he was unkind to animals!
For the moment however, we play along with Mr. Mystery Caller; we live in Ajoupa-Bouillon in the very North of Martinique, we’re masseuses not hoares and we’re from Canada. We do add, candidly, that we think he’s a freak. I say he’s warped and Nicola tells him to see a psychiatrist. We hang up but he calls for a third time. Nicola answers and talks to him in a proper English accent. “It’s time for tea,” she says; it’s probably the only time she’d ever pretend to be English. This crazy obviously has credit, time and money to burn. When he gets a bit frustrated at trying to speak English he resorts to fowl language. We soon tire of his wild words and hang up. He calls again but we leave him listening to Avril Lavigne; our Canadian singer sister.
It’s now time to head to the garden for some fresh air and some peace and quiet. The evening rolls by and we’re soon rolling up our hammocks, leaving them among the leaves. We plan to get the last bus into town and so we head off to the bus-stop with our cans and plenty of time before the 20,50 arrives. But it doesn’t arrive. Some luder in a white mini-bus pulls up beside us and we think we’re on to a winner but he shakes his head and goes on his way; another odd, gawking local. Did he did it to spite us or was it the sight of us in our heels and hues.
We weigh up our options. If we call Will we’ll have to go to Schoelcher for a few quite ones. We want to shake up the weekend. We contact Cyril the Sailor but he has already had a few. Sensible man. One man who is bound to be dry is Lionel. He’s on guard duty all week. Would it be an inconvenience for him to leave his post? Even though he can’t come out with us he says that he’ll come out and collect us. Such a charming camouflaged creature. Himself and J.V arrive to find Nic and I in high spirits. Lionel is decked out in his sexy short shorts, woolly green socks and polished boots. J.V is in his trademark three-quarter length black pants and black t-shirt. We thank Lionel profusely before slagging his new haircut. J.V is in a spot of bother. He has a spot. I get out the foundation and make him pretty. He takes up Nicola’s purple bag and prances around for a bit as his beautification and rum concoction take effect.
We bundle into the battered white Peugeot 106 and get dropped off at the Mayflower. Lionel tells us to take it easy before himself and J.V head back to base for Oliver and two others. Chrisptohe, Sebastian and Fabian are there when we arrive, so is Cryril the Sailor and his friends Alex and Manu. We’ve a bit of a moral dilemma as to who to sit with but we choose the army lads as they’re our original contacts. Sebastian is his usual friendly, cross-eyed self but Fabian is a mass of mopinness as per usual. He has a little office set up with his gay bum bag and fancy mobile. He texts incessantly for an hour before heading off to meet a Martiniquan maiden. Christophe has also got a local lady; Vanessa. He gets a bit of teasing from the lads but stays composed and scthum. Oliver and two other soldiers soon join our table. Oliver is wearing two t-shirts. His outer one is a map of Greece and he tells us about his travels there.
Ludo and Guelph are the two newest soldiers. Ludo is a stocky, tattooed man with the names of his two children; Chloe and Florian, tattooed taking up an arm each in huge gothic characters. I can see a cheeky devil’s face peering out from a bicep under his tight red t-shirt and the other holds an intricate Celtic band. He has a big silver chain and knuckle dusters to finish off his ensemble. He’s bald and has a bit of a paunch – from beer no doubt. He sees me drinking Leffe and cheers my taste in beer telling me he lives a stones through from the Belgium border; his accent backs this up. I find it so hard to pronounce Guelph’s name that I think I begin to annoy him. Gwwwoooo-deuff. He’s twenty-four and he’s just a normal, but handsome, looking lad in a long-sleeved green Calvin Klein top and jeans. He works with missiles. Ludo works in admin. Guelph and I talk about the rugby and I place a bet with him that Ireland will beat France tomorrow. He says that if Ireland wins the match they’ll will the tournament. I have my full faculties in order so only a pint is at play as we shake on it.
The bar is hopping tonight. The lads must outdo the ladies 20:1. I count five ladies: Nicola, myself, the two bar ladies and one Marine chick. There are three pretty serious looking creatures at the bar and I get chatting to them as I get in some drinks. They are called Philip, Fred and Hervé and they make up a tiny percentage of the 385 Gendarmes who are here from the Metropole for Carnaval. I’m closed to Philip. He’s from Guyane. He doesn’t have green eyes but he looks a bit like Ashley Cole. It turns out his surname is Ashley! I listen intently as he talks in hushed tones about their job here. I’m interested to hear the statistics about confiscated weapons and implements and arrests and how they train for such incidents.
There’s a surprisingly large portion of locals here tonight. Most are weirdos. So strange in fact that they make the mental marine lads by the DJ seem sane. There is an old man wearing a pair of dungarees and a flak-jacket. Himself and J.V seem to bond with a bottle of whiskey. Stophe, the guitarist from Le Terminal, is out with his friend who I find out owns the rip-off rate Cyber Café beside Leader Price. They’re the epitome of sobriety in their quiet corner sipping drinks and observing the dance floor which has started to heave. There’s a flowery woman’s wicker hat doing the rounds and the freaky, lanky marine tries to swipe it off everyone. By the end of the night Henri, a greying local in his sixties, is wearing the wicker wonder. He talks perfect English and he reveals that he was an English teacher in Lycée Technique.
It’s soon time for the Mayflower to set sail. Michel ushers people out and he intervenes in some suspected sinister selling outside the door. Nic, Olivier, J.V, Sebastian, Christophe, Guelph and I end up in Lil Buddha. The music is average but the dancing is good and the night rolls to a close in no time. The last half an hour sees Olivier, J.V and Nic asleep on the sofa. They rouse just in time for the final set and we all set off in opposite directions. Nic and I get the cheapest taxi ride home ever. I yap away about Carnaval, costumes, work and weather – an effect of the night’s takings more so than a conscious effort to appease the fare. When we get home we’ve only clocked up €14 each. In fairness there’s no meter but motor-mouth probably did shorten the journey.
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