Thank God for the French and their strike happy ways. The teachers are on strike today in France – looking for more pay and less hours. They do more striking than they do work! My school is closed. It’s not an overall striking stance – it’s just not practical to have kids present when half the staff are absent. Nic, however, has class. Two of her classes are cancelled but one teacher is adamant to attend; even though the building is an earthquake risk Lycée Schoelcher is a bastion and foundation of Martiniquan education. Cluny Convent isn’t closed either. I get a voicemail in the early hours asking if I can make another presentation but midday is already a-knockin’ by the time I register the request.
The bus drivers must be in strike mode today too as Nic has to wait ages for the bus and ends up being late for her only class of the day. I get into town on the 13,40 bus and I spy Nic at the ATM beside the stop. We settle opposite McDo as we wait for the lads to appear. Oliver called Nic a few minutes before I landed in town. He said something about J.V being upset because he may not get to see Nicola. Perhaps it was a premonition (eh!) because by the time 15,00 comes round the lads are still elsewhere. We spot young, gangly Christophe across the road and consider calling him over but instead we leave a pink Post-it for the others and head to the cool creaminess of McDo. The queue’s too long so we stay in the shade until we see a white t-shirt, black face and bald head approach us. They get an earful when they arrive – but it’s all in jest. They get a laugh from our note: Salut les mecs! Nic et Ruth à McDo. Bises xo
We’re not at the beach until late afternoon but the sun is still splitting hairs and warping plastic deck-chairs. Ice-cream is the first thing on my mind. Umm J Coconut, Pina Colada or cacahouète? I pick two modest sized tubs for €2.50 and the vendor packs them with peanut ice-cream. Five minutes later Nic and I are suffering from brain-freeze and I risk leaving a puddle of tan-coloured ice-cream in the sand. I don’t think I’ve ever eaten ice-cream so fast in my life. I lie back and leave the runny residue to be soaked up by the sun. I’ve never liked melted ice-cream much but there’s not much left. The others head to the sea and I stay with the bags with the sun-cream soaking into my skin and my skin soaking up the sun. I raise my head every so often to see the four dark dots on the horizon.
J.V and Lionel return first and spread-eagle themselves on the shimmering sand. Oliver has gone walkies. Nicola bobs for bubbles a while longer before returning to get a roasting. I’m nicely toasted so I make my way to the sea and make waves like the little white whale that I am! I lie back in the sea with my eyes closed and the waves lapping at my temples. I soon tire of the tide and head back to the towels. Nicola decides to go for a wander; the last time she was here was five weeks ago and she was with Chris then. Sigh. Five weeks hey! Nic returns to tell us that some lady inquired about her husband, her red face and her beach wear. Her husband, on this occasion, was thought to be Lionel. Her face is a bit burnt and she’s wearing a pretty pink sarong.
Oliver returns with a new beach towel which he spent €27 on. It’s a giant map of Martinique. C’est l’arnaque! He also has a suspicious wet patch on his board shorts which gives the guys an excuse to give him abuse. Poor Oliver has suffered a lot of slagging the past few days. He’s Martiniquan and he’s a soldier but in many ways he’s just a Martiniquan in a soldier’s guise. If he didn’t have his head screwed onto his shoulders it would have floated all the way to Antarctica by now. He wanders off at the most inappropriate times, he’s a terrible flirt and he’s a bit dead-to-the-world. He’s lacking social etiquette and general cop-on – but that doesn’t mean he’s not able or nor willing to take it on. Asides he has a kind, caring nature, is undemanding and likes interaction, even if he sometimes gets on people’s nerves. He has taken to pinching our noses whenever we say something naughty or brash. Nic’s nose is a lot sorer than mine! Il est pincé… In fact Oliver has a pair of tweezers in his wallet; another vain medical military-man. I have a few Irish tourism brochures with me and I add another member to my leaflet lending library as he swots up on Ireland.
We decide what route to take home. Choose a colour – red or brown. Red for the girls and brown for the boys! We loose Oliver for a bit as he heads off to get cash but we all end up in Point du Bout for a few gargles at the Crêperie. It’s my shout. One Leffe, one Heineken, on Whiskey-Coke, one Planteur and one Pina Colada later we’re on our way. The 19,15 boat arrives and we hop on board. I take the seat nearest the door, closest to the dark depths. Everyone’s a bit pensive on the way home. Sea air. Fluttering hair. No cares; well almost. I’ve almost forgotten I’ve school tomorrow. This is the carefree approach to life I imagined we’d have. I’m not fazed about school – number rumba a-plenty will be served up.
Poor Lionel starts a week-long stint of guard duty tomorrow. Like Manu he has to watch the gate of an unoccupied building. It’s not punishment but certainly as a corporal sergeant it’s not desirable either but nonetheless he got drafted into it or rather he pulled the short straw. We tell him we’ll visit and bring him some Irish tea… “Make it coffee,” he says. “And don’t forget the whiskey you Irish alcoholics!” There’s a weathered alcoholic in the Mayflower this evening. It’s David the marine. He’s well marinated and there are still three hours left before his curfew at 23,00. Fabian and Christophe are also propping up the bar. There’s a weird bunch out tonight though it takes one to know one.
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