I’m hanging on three hours sleep but I have duties to do. Eurielle and Kelli-Ann are due a lesson so I’m at the bus-stop at 8,00 awaiting the bus into town. A lime green Twingo pulls up alongside me and a lady pops her head out the window wondering if I want a lift into town. Why not! Because the buses are infrequent, that’s why. It turns out that the lady is a close neighbour of ours. She lives in No.106 just two minutes from our own home. She mentions that her nephew and his partner are coming next week and she wonders out loud if we’d like to meet them. Why not? I leave her my name and number before getting out. Town is jam-packed and parking is hard to come by so we end up walking through tart territory before hitting the main street.
I’m early for my lesson so I settle myself on the wall outside Madame Bonne’s apartment with Charlotte Brontë’s Le Professor; that’s me! Well, some of the references are familiar as the story unfolds in Brussels and many of the hurdles he, le professor, encounters are similar to those I endured here. I don’t have much time to launch into my read as the toot-toot of a horn startles me. It’s Madame Bonne. She greets me and tells me I can head in as Eurielle is ready. Eurielle has a test on Ireland next week so I quiz her on all things Irish! Her little sister Kelli-Ann is obsessed with her spinning globe so we talk about holidays, countries and nationalities. Madame Bonne is out but her good husband gives me a fresh juice and I sit down with him to watch the end of a Chelsea match before he drives me into town. Wales and Ireland are meeting today for the Six Nations. Ireland win. I’m told it’s a miserable match.
On the way into town Mr Bonne and I pass a group of people in their Sunday best. He says they’re coming from the Protestant church. Oh really?! He asks me if I’m Protestant. Good guess. We spend the rest of the journey talking about the importance of prayer and faith. He and his family are practising Catholics though he tells me times have been tough over the past two years. It’s hard to be fired up about Carnaval as two years ago his nephew was killed in a car crash and last year Jacqueline’s two brothers were killed in a car crash during the Carnaval celebrations. It’s strange how when you get a glimpse of someone’s grief that you see just how humble and human they are. Madame Bonne is an impressionable, even domineering woman but after meeting her family and seeing her with them I saw her for the home bird she is not the business orientated boss she transforms into from 9am – 5pm.
In town I wait by the quays until the others come along. We’ve planned to go to the beach with the army guys we met last night. If we can spend the night with them why not hang out with them during the day too. I spy J.P across the way under a shelter but before I can pop over to him the wind picks up and the rain rushes in. It’s gone just as quickly as it came but so is J.P as his boat arrived during the torrent. As the hour of our appointed rendezvous approaches I pack up my books and comb my mangled tresses with my fingers. I’m all on my lonesome outside the Mayflower when Lionel, the Tahitian, jumps out from nowhere. He tells me that we’ve got wheels. Just then Oliver, the Martiniquan, cruises by in a silver Clio Campus. Nicola arrives and we bundle into the car with Madame Rowan calling shotgun and sitting upfront with Oliver. First off we have to go to the army campus to pick up J.V, a Breton boy. We’ve been here before but we pretend we haven’t. In fact we go in a different entrance so we are a bit miffed initially. They live in a different quarter to the previous recruits. I actually thought this area was off limits to civilians but we’re waved through. We spy young gangly Christophe in his oh-so-sexy non-regulation shorts. He’s heading into town but with J.V now in the back we’re already like sardines. He’ll have to take the BMW; Bay Emm Double Pieds. In other ways he’ll have to walk.
Since we have wheels the lads suggest we go to Rivière Pilote. The beach itself is nothing spectacular but the water is wonderful. There’s a flat rock shelf leading out into the sea but about ten metres out it disappears revealing a three metre drop with fantastic, fearless fish flitting by and interesting urchins hiding among rocks. The water is clear blue, then light blue, then aqua and finally green. It’s mesmerising. I’m glad to have my mask and snorkel. I spend so long in the sea that I begin to become prune like. I take to baking in the sun and leave the others to splash about. Olivier is the first to join me but our peaceful bronzing is disrupted by the rupturing rain clouds. We gather most of the gear and retreat to the EcoTourism hut with the rest of the beach babes and boys. Oliver takes some of the bags back to the car and I return to the sparkly water. J.V and I try to catch lunch while Nicola and Lionel catch their breath with a fag break. Some young locals try to chat me up and they ask if they can borrow my snorkelling gear but I tell them the waters so clear they don’t need any gear. When I return to the beach Nicola has gone to get changed at the car with Oliver. Another shower prompts us three beached whales to join them. We wring our soaked towels and shake our damp selves before sprinting across the lawn towards the car park. We scatter the chickens and geese as we flap past them.
Despite the abundance of free range chickens and colourful fish which we could have easily caught we decide to head on to Sainte Anne for some hassle free sustenance at Croque Pain. The cheery English owner recognises us and we settle down to merguez, beouf haché and chips. Lionel, the lovely lad that he is, insists that ladies don’t pay for anything. He says that in Tahiti women don’t have to pay their way when they’re with men. Well, it isn’t Tahiti but he gets his way in the end despite not evening half finishing his own meal. We offer to buy him ice-cream but he doesn’t want any at all.
The last time we were in Sainte Anne was at Christmas with Fergal, Pam and Dan. This time round we don’t spot any manicous – rat dogs, but our beggar boy friend with no teeth is still hanging around. He’s more emancipated than I last remember; there’s a festival in the town with markets and music and he’s doing the rounds as per usual. Rastafarian. Rasta Fait Rien. Oliver gets a good laugh out of that one. He seems a bit dopey but despite his absentmindedness he seems to be a loveable character. Lionel can be broody – looks and attitude wise. He’s a thinker; a dweller; a bit of a worrier. However he’s thoughtful and gentile. J.V is a bit closed. He’s more brawn than the other two. Irregardless he’s still a sensitive soul - he just doesn’t laugh as much as the others.
We get to pay the lads back with some money for petrol and a few drinks chez nous. They can’t believe we live so far into the hills. On the way up the mountain road they keep asking, like children, if we’re nearly there. They say they’ll come back later and bring us into town. We’re actually surprised to see them reappear just before midnight as we thought the hills would have been too much for them and the Clio. Perhaps they got out and pushed…
The day was enjoyable but we’ve got the guts of a good night on the horizon down the hill, in Fort-de-France. We head to the Mayflower. Ma-noo-yah! (Tahitian for cheers) Yer-mad! (Breton for cheers) Fabian, Christophe and Sebastian are there and we chat for a while before rejoining the other three for whiskey and a dissection of the Martinique mentality. We have a go at Oliver but he sheds some light – however dim, on the situation. He says that it won’t change. It can’t. It’s just the nature of the people here. They get money from the government and through whatever work they have. They maintain their needs and lifestyles as frugally or as freely as they can and for the most part they’re happy that way so why bother change gear. It’s selfless and selfish all at once. Coming from other countries we may point out the flaws and inaccuracies of attitudes and lifestyles but it’s not ours to change. After all it is the Caribbean.
We wrap up the conversation, finish the bottle and pile into the Clio. Oliver is Bob tonight; that’s a Bruxellois term for a designated driver – females are Bobettes. Oliver’s on Vita Malt tonight. It’s a vile cough-medicine tasting concoction in a similar-styled bottle.
We decide to go to Karaoke Café just outside Lamentin. There’s a late night restaurant and there seem to be a few tables still eating down the back. It’s another one of those buy-a-bottle-for-€150-or-a-glass-for-€10 joint. At first it seems a bit dry but not long after purchasing another bottle of whiskey the tables are cleared away, the music picks up and the place starts to warm up as people take to the floor. Good tunes, bad dancing and ugly advances follow but its all part of the spirit of the night. Sebastian and Christophe soon join us. Michel, the bouncer from the Mayflower, also appears. He’s wearing his fluorescent work t-shirt. You can’t miss his massive form or glowing grinding outline on the dance floor. There’s another mover making shapes all over the place. He’s throwing Salsa shapes everywhere and he ends up tossing me into the air like a leaf. I can’t dance Salsa but tonight I can-can. I ask Mr. Salad Tosser if he gives lessons but he doesn’t. His name is Antonio and he lives in Marseille.
We music is wicked. Even the zouk and zouk-love has everyone swaying and sashaying. However, there are some freaky locals trying to make a club sandwich with Nicola and myself – even when we’re dancing with our friends. Just to annoy the pervs Nic and I get together for the zouk fest. It doesn’t work but the tempo quickens and we’re soon back to chart hits and age-old anthems and easily hop and bop away from the beastie boys – or annoying old men as they tend to be. The club soon closes and we find ourselves in the car park contemplating our next move. Antonio and his tanned-man gang are outside too and they try to get us to go to Trinité. It’s too far away we say. Instead we decide to cruise around Fort-de-France. I’m in the front and Oliver tells me I can choose where we’re going. Lil Buddha is my call but it’s closing up. Somehow we spy a club called Waikiki across the way near Point Simone. It looks like a groovy place with a big surfboard sign over the door. However, there’s a big, burly videur outside and I’m certain he won’t let us in. But he does. I’m first in. I notice some people from Karaoke Café but other than that I can’t see a thing. The place is black; both with people and low lighting. It may be dawn outside but it’s dark and dusky here. It’s a bit of a dive and the barstools are mighty wobbly. I dance with Oliver for a bit before buying us cokes at €5 each. The sugar fix is just what I need though Oliver soon tells us that something else, or rather someone else, is looking to fix us up. Supposedly the head of the Martiniquan Mafia is in the house. He doesn’t like Whites so we better hop to. I’m surprised we linger so long after the caution. I get to finish my drink and all before heading for the door. Once again I’m first past the bouncer. Lionel is right behind me and we’re back at the car waiting for the others to appear for what seems like ages. We’re a bit concerned that the other three have not emerged but they eventually do without the sound of gunfire following them. Nicola tells me that the main Mafia man asked them why we were leaving. I don’t think we’ll be in there again – with or without locals.
The guys bring us home and we bring them breakfast! We’ve been ranting on about Irish breakfasts all day but a bastardised version makes it to the table; scrambled eggs, baked beans, fried potato and pasta. J.V wanted pasta so I just put on another pot. There’s also fresh coffee on the way but most of it joins the ketchup stains around our ceramic mugs. Lionel, as per usual, doesn’t eat much. Such a waste! But J.V and I make it disappear with the help of some more beer! I’m knackered. Nicola is nodding off. We tell the guys to clear-up and clear off. They do, though not before they’ve smoked poor Arlette out of her tree. We bid the lads goodbye and finally get to bed at 9,00…
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