It starts like a Caribbean beach day but the sun flees and it soon becomes a day for eating sand-filled sandwiches at Clogher Head. The sun disappears just as quickly as my supplementary hairs did this morning. I went for a wax attack session in Bellevue. Nicola shook her head as I left for the bus and dubiously, but diligently, wished me a good morning.
The newest esthétisation is called Lindsey. Her Martiniquan mother had christened her with this Anglophone name after a trip to the US. She tentatively sprinkles the conversation with English. I tell her not to be so cautious but she still looks to me for reassurance. Despite her hesitant English she’s the funniest skin stripper yet. I’m lying there unashamedly stripped to my underwear with her stripping my skin when she produces the latest wax result. I’m a little taken aback at this display of my little bêtes noires. They look so snug in the hardened yellow wax strip. We both wish them well and as they’re launched into the bin we launch into a conversation about various irritable female features.
Before all this I’m seated in the cool waiting space reading the newest trashy magazine (which happens to be three months old) when the stagiaire at the counter asks if I’ve any change. It turns out that if I pay for my treatment in advance the current customer can receive her change. We exchange money and greetings and before she leaves the beautified belle approaches me and starts to ask me about myself. She’s not hitting on me – she’s interested in practising English. She’s training to be an Engineer and wants to take specialist English exams. She actually lives at the IUFM and I wonder why none of the Anglophones there would speak to her. I tell her about Nicola. The thought of paying for lessons doesn’t appeal to her but we exchange details and she’s on her way.
David, who lives in the IUFM, is off to Aqualand with Karla & Co. today. It’s supposed to be pricey and disappointing but I’m sure they’ll make their own fun with or without the sun. It’s not a surprise that it’s an expensive excursion since Martiniquan’s seem so anal about water and water costs. There’s no rain on the horizon yet but I doubt the price would be reduced even if the heavens opened for a week – in fact it’d probably be closed with no chance of a refund!
Lionel, Oliver and Nicola are sitting in the smoky shade opposite the Mayflower. J.V has to work this afternoon and so he won’t be joining us as he’s busy finding new recruits. In Lamentin this week there’s a Salon du Lycéen which is basically a careers guidance event for secondary school pupils in Martinique. It’s in its eight year. If it’s organised well it should be a positive and valuable resource for Martinique’s youth.
We get the boat to Anse Mitan with other sun worshippers and beachcombers. Two ladies sit up top and someone remarks that Nicola and I will probably turn out like them in thirty years time – cruising around the islands together in dodgy company with similar dodgy hairstyles and summer attire. I can only hope that life would afford us such a generous avenue out of retirement and around the world. Only this morning did Nicola place some ads on the internet ‘pimping’ us, our talents and our Irishness in exchange for a boat ride to Montserrat!
For the present however we’ve to be content with our séjour in Martinique. We want to move over to Trois Ilets for the last leg of our stay and since Anse Mitan is so ideal we start our accommodation hunt the moment we get off the boat. Over Christmas we stayed at Auberge de l’Anse Mitan and this clean, impressive American-styled residence is our port of call for the day. The lady owner remembers us and we ask about renting a bungalow for May and June. She already has someone occupying the two-bed roomed, two-bath roomed garden dwelling and she will have to see when they plan to leave but we’re to call in a week or so to get a real response. Her initial price-quote of €550 a month has us simultaneously kicking ourselves and jumping for joy. Olivier also inquires about rooms as he is on the lookout for accommodation during March for his girlfriend, Sophie, who is coming to visit him.
As we leave the beach and head in the direction of the beach we pass a restaurant called Manureva. From where I’m looking the sign is obscured and it reads Manure. The sun has made me hyper so I make crap jokes about smelly restaurants. Lionel tells us that it’s a Tahitian place and we agree to come back some time, when it’s open, so we came try some of his home brews such as Hinano.
There seems to be a bit of a storm brewing; the sky has turned a bit overcast and the sun runs for cover behind the billowing clouds. The rain holds but it soon becomes a day for eating sand-filled sandwiches at Clogher Head. There are occasional bursts of sunshine but we take to the sea. I don’t like to venture out too far as I suffer from aquatic agoraphobia. The lads try to coax me out of my depth by telling me there’s a chocolate castle beyond the little orange buoys. Unfortunately I don’t like salty, melting chocolate so I stay by the bay and instead snorkel around sighting all the prickly urchins and strange shells. Some of these shielded creatures look like they could cause sufficient harm to exposed feet; thankfully they’re far enough down not to make contact with my dangling limbs.
You can’t help but notice bodily marks on our corporal sergeants. Oliver doesn’t have any tattoos or war wounds and even if he did you probably could only see time on close inspection. J.V, I noted before, has a sun tattoo on his right shoulder and Lionel has a Tahitian water symbol on the same shoulder. In the right light you can also catch sight of Lionel’s glossy car scars. He has been in numerous road accidents and he has broken so many bones that if it wasn’t for his influential army connections he would not be a soldier.
Just as J.V is a recruitment professional Lionel is a radio professional. He is a sound engineer with the army media centre. In Haiti he had his own radio programme for six months and he tells us became a minor, yet modest, celebrity. He would like to branch into journalism when he retires. I’m sure his contacts, if not his skills, will get him in there too! The French army have their own television station. We joke that it has le flash but Lionel tells us that it functions as frequently and professionally as a regular national station although only army members can access it.
Another media orientated figure joins our conference; it’s our neighbour William. The last time we clapped eyes on him was at Diamant beach during the Christmas holidays. I could have put off seeing him for another minute as I’m mid bra-bikini exchange when he plonks himself in front of me. His parents are over from Belgium for a fortnight so he has just popped across the bay to spend the evening with them. Otherwise he’s up to his eyeballs with publicity campaigns as he’s organising a health/well-being exhibition at the end of the month. As he gets up to leave he tells us to look out for his billboard signs in the upcoming weeks; we should have told him to watch out for the plage surveillée sign above his head as he collides with it as he rises. He clutches his throbbing temples while Nic and I, les méchantes, split our sides with laughter.
We’re not mean or spiteful. William isn’t hurt. We’re just reacting to a droll display of his clumsiness. It’s too late for our defence counsel to appeal as we’re harangued by the lads for not being more sensitive. They try to rile us up with openly wounding words and jibes concerning other sore points. Their attempts to insult us and our state only ends with us returning more debauched remarks as we turn each jest on its head. Bawdiness prevails just as George Bush rules the US. Where are those t-shirts stating: I love Bush?! If only these lesions were evident and the liaisons true. We pack up and head to Point du Bout and who do we spot there but the two intrepid lady voyagers from the boat; they’re stuck into their meal and one another! Nic and I can only exchange smirks and silently shake our heads to avoid causing another ruckus.
We decide to join the lesbian lovers. We dine al fresco at La Pause where Nic and I ate for my birthday. The bleached chatty Spaniard is still as friendly as ever as he greets and seats us. It’s finally time for real cocktails; Blue Hawaiian for me and Sex on the Beach for Nic. Lionel insists on paying for the drinks. He opts for a Whiskey-Coca and Oliver gets a G&T. The hunger is on us so Nic and I go for a meaty, beef meal while Oliver has the brochette du poulet. Lionel is still on a diet though he does swipe the occasional chip. I could have skipped the meal myself; the beef is still kicking and the chips may as well be covered in clay they’re so underdone. Lionel’s a slight yet solid build but he explains that he doesn’t feel hungry and since he has had a pretty inactive day he doesn’t need any extra eats. Liquids, on the other hand, seem to find their way to everyone’s stomach. We decide to get the last boat back to Fort-de-France as we’re to meet Antonio, the Salsa specialist, in the Mayflower. Before hopping on the boat at 21,30 we spend the last hour in a kiosk bar where Pina Colada’s are the order of the evening.
Halfway across the bay we can hear the beat of the tambours and the toot of whistles as people practice for Carnival. We alight and head straight for the bright outdoor lights of the Mayflower. The interior is dimly lit but a glowing, grinning guy sits perched on a bar stool. Antonio is the epitome of a Latino dancer; hair sleeked back with animal fat, a body-hugging, white shirt which makes him look like a beacon for the blind, that perfect, gleaming wide smile which almost seems like a sneer and of course the tight-fitting dark jeans and polished, heeled black pointed shoes. He’s missing a bloody rose and a pervy moustache but we can live without those things as Nicola’s redness and the four bearded bards in the corner make their contributions.
Antonio is French with Spanish roots though his greasy locks make him more Brazil nut than anything else. His slick appearance and super-plus tan could be seen as perks of his job; he works as an engineer for an oil company. He tells me about the different filtering processes for oil; the crudest being for industry use, another level for petrol, the next for household purposes and the finest for engine oil. I resist asking if he has a secret fifth batch to dip into every evening…
He’s over here on a five week assignment. He’s usually based in Marseille though he has been all over South America and the Caribbean with his job. I inquire about his Salsa skills. He picked them up in Cuba as easily as he picked me up on Saturday night! He was a tri-athlete in his youth so he tries to keep fit by taking to the dance floor and twisting and turning into a flash dance demon. He has just come out of a three year relationship and he’s trying to forget it - and her. Oh really? Did I forget to mention I have a boyfriend? Comradeship and sympathy are not what Mr. Mexico is looking for even though he’s all thanks and praise for inviting him out. It was out of kindness that I told him our evening’s intentions but of course he doesn’t see it that way – either he’s being blinded by his own intensity or the grease must be getting in his eyes. He does his bullshit red flag-waving come-to-me little horny cow routine as masterly as any matador. But I don’t crack – and neither Lionel nor Oliver, heaven forbid, have to crack their knuckles over his slimy skull. Despite all the vain effort he still offers to drive us all home. The lads are dropped off at the regiment and Nic and I are left to our gate in a sane state. There’s no night-cap for Mr. Mexico and he slinks back to Trinité to top-up his tan and empty his oil tank.
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