Labour party - mercredi, 14.03.07

mercredi 14.03.07 Labour party

Today is one of those days where you can’t find enough time to do everything you want to do. I sacrifice my lie-in and get down to my PowerPoint presentation on St. Patrick’s Day in Ireland. I use photos from last year’s Paddy’s Day celebrations I attended in Sligo as well as Nicola’s shots from the Dublin parade in previous years. Even though I lived in Dublin for four year during college I’ve never seen the countries biggest parade in the flesh. Of course as a child I watched the news coverage but for some reason I’ve always steered clear of the Dublin action. In the past five years I’ve managed to celebrate the day away more times than at home; in my final year of secondary school I was on a football trip in Amsterdam watching Ajax: my first year of college saw me back in Kingscourt for some small town celebrations: in 2004 I was climbing in Dalkey: 2005 saw me living it up in the European capital of Brussels where I drowned the shamrock with a multitude of Erasmus students: last year I attended a friend’s wedding in Fermanagh before heading to the parade in Sligo and taking in six other countries in the one day: and this year I’ll be celebrating in another emerald isle – Martinique.

Nic and I are still on a quest to find matching tops for our dancing spectacle tonight. There are definitely forty shades of green being displayed in the clothes shops of Fort-de-France but it’s a trial to find something which suits both our tastes and shapes. In the end we opt for light green v-necked t-shirts. I also pick up an emerald green string top to diversify my Paddy’s weekend wardrobe.

With our costumes sorted the next thing to fix up is the venue. Both Nic and I are pressed for time as we’ve private lessons this afternoon but we manage to put up a few decorations and mingle with the English tourists before sitting back on the terrace with our fresh, free beers in our hands and the Irish tri-colour fluttering proudly in the midday breeze.

As it happens Nic is stood up by her student. I have Morgane today; her mother Maria works in Cluny Couvent where I did the Irish presentations of late. Morgane’s five years old. She has a gappy grin and wide questioning eyes. And she also has a present for me – it’s a poem about a cat and the sun. She recites it and her expressions mirror the phrases perfectly as she performs for her mother and I. I have The Hungry Caterpillar with me and I read that to her while she repeats some words. She has drawn a butterfly on her arm and she’s delighted to see that the big, fat caterpillar turns in a papillon. We then do a little dialogue – imaging we’re in school, introducing ourselves to a new classmate, and finally we work with colours as I produce a little leprechaun for her to colour as I talk about St. Patrick’s Day. I lent Maria my Bosco DVD and it turns out that Morgane is quite keen on him so I let her keep it a while longer.

I’ve still lots of things to organise for school so I’m glad of a lift home – even if it’s only a ten minute walk up the road! I sort out the Treasure Hunt clues and information sheets all afternoon. Dinner is made courtesy of Nic and we rest for a while before doing a final practise of our dances. While we’re getting ready for our night our one of our new neighbours comes by with some fish soup. I accept it as a kind leftover lunch gesture; it’s the last thing I want to eat as it’s too warm and I don’t like the distinctly fishy smell. Around 20,30 we make our way up to the road where Fred is watching for us. The poor workaholic was only at home for mere minutes before he came to pick us up. Once we get to The Terminal Café he’s glad just to sit in the corner all night with his bottle of black and white.


In true Martiniquan/Irish tradition things don’t get started until everyone is sufficiently watered. There’s a good group out including a heap of locals from the Mayflower and even Celine and Michel join us after they’ve finished work. Two Dutch guys, Alex and Joel, take up the comedy corner for the night with their raucous banter. There are random marines and army dudes as well as our regular crew: Sophie, J.V, Ludo, Cedric, Cyril, Jerome and Dominique. And Lionel even makes a surprise appearance as he has come back from his foreign army action earlier than expected. Two other Tahitians also join him. There’s a new army dude in our midst. He’s a bit cocky and won’t tell me his name or even elaborate on his work. I resort to calling him Mr Bricolage until someone lets it slip and calls him Laurent; he’s actually the barman in the barracks. He’s from Yugoslavia and he speaks his native language as well as French, Spanish, German and English. He’s looking forward to this, his final, year in the army and retirement after 17 years service.

Nic and I decide to wait for David before taking to the floor. He arrives with two of his students. They can speak perfect English – they already have degrees. David’s job gets easier every day and his hours get shorter every week; he only has six hours of class left!

Nic and I start the ball rolling. Nerves and giddiness are rife. For our joint dance I start a fraction later than Nic and it causes some confusion but nobody notices or cares – they just stare, clap and whoop. Looking at the photos the sheer concentration on our faces explains why some people thought we were pros and really in the zone. We don’t make a tit of ourselves though as David points out most people were distracted by our tight tops more so than our fancy footwork!




Marjorie, Bea and a friend saunter in halfway throughout the night. Nic and I are not exactly elated to see them but nevertheless we start to forget about pettiness and we get on with the show. A lone lady has been sitting at the bar all night observing all. Her name is Maud. She’s a dressmaker and her business is cleverly called Maudel. She’s a bit leachy but she’s gentle all the same; I notice David has been sucked into conversation with her for most of the night. At one stage she beckons me over to tell me I dance like a gazelle. My blushes are hidden under the redness of my ruddy face but I thank her and protest that I’m not usually so disciplined on the dance floor. David’s compliment or comment rather, might be closer to the truth as he remarks that I dance like a caribou d’afric.

By the end of the night we spontaneously jump up and perform; I suppose the free drinks had something to do with that and the increasing fluidity of our moves. Its soon time to drag people out for a few group dances and towards the end of the night we too are learning new moves as the Bretons and Yugoslavian prankster take to the floor.



It’s 3,00 by the time we’re home. I arrange to get a lift with Fred in the morning as I want to be early into school so I can set-up for the celebrations there. There are still some things to do for the Treasure Hunt and I decide to do an all-nighter. I lie down for half an hour before I’m up again – in the same clothes I arrived home in; I did change my top towards the end of the night so I won’t be giving the kids too much of an insight into Irish ways of life.

Nutty neighbours - mardi, 13.03.07

mardi 13.03.07 Nutty neighbours

There’s something strange in your neighbourhood – who’re ya gonna call? GHOSTBUSTERS! There is indeed some funny business in our neighbourhood today. The navy sedan beside the bus-stop has finally been towed away. It had become so much of a local landmark that I it took a few seconds to register what once occupied that 10ft hole. While one hole has being made another is being filled. Nicola and I may have been jumping for joy last night but by the sound of it someone else is full of the joys of spring this morning - testing out the springs of their bed no doubt!

Both Fred and Mr.Bidoux offer me a lift this morning. I pass on the lifts as I prefer watching the morning fog roll off the mammoth hills to watching the cities’ dispossessed drunkards roll about in their restlessness. By the time I do get into town the homeless have fully risen, the markets are in motion and the streets are full of blue and white t-shirts as lycéens loiter about before class starts.

I’m just nodding off during my second bus journey when I get a text to say that our friend John - who is supposed to visit us at Easter, was rushed into hospital this morning for surgery. He has had appendix trouble the past while and even though the doctor said he was good to go it now seems like Heather may be making the Atlantic crossing on her own. If he doesn’t come it’ll be a hell of a lot of money down the drain. It may be nothing to a millionaire milk merchant like John but I’m sure he’ll miss the exotic experiences more so that the money spent on flights to Martinique and a holiday in St. Martin. Unfortunately the trip to St. Martin is non-refundable. We can’t even change the name on the flight tickets because they’ve already been issued. Hopefully he can still come; at least then Nicola and I won’t have to pull each other’s hair out over who gets the double room!

More posters and placards are decorated today as shamrock shapes are stuck on the grand banner for Thursday and Friday’s St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in the school. More shapes are thrown about as the children take to the dance room to practise their Irish dancing moves; some move more than others due to their good dancing genes while some are moved more than others due to pointless ingenious performances. Some of these kids will probably never get out of this island and experience civilisation as we know it so I just grin at the darlings and bear the unbearables.

I, myself, may not get out of the school this afternoon. I can’t find Eduardo the security man to let me out. I grimace as two buses zip by on the other side of the wall. Just as I’m considering jumping the gate he appears with his cumbersome set of jingly-jangly keys. I tell him about my news and antics of late; Davina’s death, the truce with our landlady, the football match in Rivière Pilote, the trip to the Jardin de Balata… St. Patrick’s Day preparations feature a lot and I tell him about my plans for Thursday and Friday in the school. It’s Eduardo’s birthday on Thursday. I’d give him 39. I always have time for Eduardo – and it seems like he wants to make time for me! He invites me (again) to go see his handball team in action some Thursday evening. Half my brain thinks: Why not? Isn’t it another part of this cultural exchange? The other half of my mind counters: Have we not learnt anything about Martiniquan men in the past five months? Dear Will. Stroppy Stophe. Leering Guy. These men may be the least of our problems at the moment...

Poor Nicola has had a terrible morning with the wicked witch of the west; of France that is. Edith has struck again. But this time it’s a big scale hullabaloo Breton brew she has been concocting. This loose loin cannon, as Jean-Pierre likes to refer to her as we ponder the evil episode over beers and Tia Maria in the Terminal, went to the headmaster of Lycée Technique and complained to him about Nicola and how she refused to assist with her class. Nicola was summoned by the headmaster. And even though she told the truth it now seems like some higher beings may be needed to resolve the debacle. The whole situation stinks. Nicola is being dropped in the shit just because this militant menopausal hag has run out of Prozac.

The Edith Saga has been going on since last year; first of all she smelt of roses as she charmed, and disarmed, Nicola into thinking she was an amiable colleague: next she came out of the Atlantic smelling of seawater when she took us to the beach on her magic vroom-vroom broom: then when she went on the wacky-tobaccy and started to lure Gethin we smelt a rat: next she tried to sniff us out at Christmas when she invited herself to Trinité; and eventually she turned as sour as rotten apples when the new term came around and she found out that Nicola was not taking her classes any more. Bygones will be bygones. Jean-Pierre tells us that Breton women are typically as crazy as this loopy lady seems to be.

The odd thing is that Edith is retiring this year. Can anyone understand why she would kick up a fuss with only a month remaining the school year? And why, apart from sheer laziness, would she care if she has an assistant or not when her English is perfect anyway?

Over a lunch of fried fish and chicken in the Crosière I listen and lend some advice. On the grand scale of things it seems so petty. She agrees but of course she’s going to fret. Every Thursday night last term she would be work herself into a tizzy just thinking about going into Evil Edith’s class the next morning. When she spied her in the yard or was cornered by her in the computer room she turned on her heels or clammed up lest she became singed by Edith’s fiery Breton breath.

Nic heads back to school for her last two classes and I place myself in front of a P.C in Cyber Délice with the I-know-everything-about-writing-a-C.V-for-a-BioMed-Internship gaggle of Yanks; I’m sure everyone who was in there that afternoon now knows how to produce a flowery résumé. There’s a new sign up in the café stating that WiFi usage is not permitted during lunchtime – I wonder which Family Guy fanatics spurred that cautionary note… It’s a wonder my O2 online account is still active but it saves me a few bob as I fire off a heap of free web texts inviting our mixed Martiniquan crew to our Paddy’s Day do. I also check out some sites and activities for our Easter trip before hitting the shops in search of Nic’s chosen emerald green twin-set. Although I was given an in-depth description of the top there are so many green garments in the shop that I just text Nic and tell her I’ll have what she’s havin’. Nic has taken a fancy to army green lately so I wouldn’t be surprised if the shade she had in mind was more faded khaki than jaded green. As it happens she returns home empty handed as after a few dress rehearsals in the shop she decided that the sweat inducing material was not what we want. Oh goody! Any excuse to go shopping J

We call over to Fred’s place for a while. He has some Irish Whisky and some Lindt Irish Whisky chocolate; both pass the taste test. The other bar of nutty white chocolate makes us go nuts. The poor lad is driven demented as he listens to our drivel all night long. On our return home I take to the floor to do a little dance and dance a little jig before hopping into bed thinking of the shopathon which awaits us.

Dance yer socks off - Lundi, 12.03.07

Lundi 12.03.07 dance yer socks off

The Let’s Stop Nicola Smoking campaign is let out again today. She’s waiting for the bus, sitting on the tree stump and puffing away when a man in a car pulls up beside her, rolls down the window and gives her a lecture on the harm smoking does to your body. He tells her that he has sat down with his family many evenings to watch TV and together they have seen just how destructive smoking can be. I’ll have to rent that video. Or perhaps I just need to retune the TV. Nicotine thanks him for his advice and as he leaves a trail of smoke behind him she puffs harder and more deliberately on her smog stick.

My lesson plans for this week are centred around the national celebrations on an emerald island off the west coast of Europe. There are posters to prepare, projects to mount and decorate and dancing to perfect. Madame Caruge’s class spend the morning brightening up the two giant wooden boards to display their project work on Ireland. Its times like this when I miss Quark Xpress and when I yearn to express my artistic license. I’m itching to takeover and do some layout but it’s the kids’ work so I resist and instead give guidance, do spell-checks, write out headings, draw shamrocks and cast an eye over their work. Those who have nothing solid to show are given Irish stain-glass stencils to trace, colour and cut: a Leprechaun, a crock o’ gold, a Celtic pattern, shamrocks, the harp, the tri-colour, a high-cross and ‘Erin go bragh’ (Gaelic for: Ireland forever. French for: Irlande pour toujours).

Mr Duval’s class benefit from his energetic ways as we take to the yard to practise our Irish dancing; he tells me about his weekend water workouts when he likes to dive down to the depths and catch lobsters and strange fish. The kids have already spent the morning doing P.E so they’re sufficiently warmed up for such a spectacle. The rest of the time is spent cutting out cardboard shamrocks and designing by-lines for various projects: Fabriqués par les élèves de CM2 de Chateauboeuf A.

The younger classes are all waiting on the unveiling of their shamrocks… Madame Edragas’ pot has taken flight with five shoots while the others are struggling with only one or two healthy buds. If these plants don’t take to the Martiniquan climate at least we’ll always have a multitude of paper shamrocks to look at. We prepare for our shamrock corner by creating a sign using a cut-out of the word SHAMROCK. The children stick their many green shamrock leaves unto each character until the word shamrock has sprouted sufficiently. I do the same exercise using the word IRELAND. It’s a good way to help them practise their spelling skills and pronunciation. When each word has been completed I get children to take a character and form the chosen word. I then call out letters and each child raises their letter on their turn.

Madame de la Directrice calls me into her office and asks if there’s anything I need for our St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. I stress that I need the extra classroom as an exhibition room and that I’ll need the stereo system too. She notes this down on a scrap of paper which will probably be hidden under the heap of folders on her desk. I have a Post-it made out and I give it to her, making sure that she sticks it somewhere visible. Jossylene is sorting out a projector with the Circonscription. She may be my responsable and she may usually be clued-in but there’s no harm in calling her to check up on the whereabouts of this technology.

I take a private lesson with Line, one of the teachers in the school. She wants to improve her English so she can travel so I’ve created some scenarios for her involving booking flights and hotels. It’s a fun class and we get a few laughs as she books her tickets with AerLingus to Dublin for St. Patrick’s weekend and reserves a room in a Rasta hotel in Kingstown, Jamaica. As it happens we’re in the computer room for the lesson. I can’t help eyeing up the computer in the corner which is alive and kicking amidst its other crashed companions. Before Line locks up I get a chance to check my emails – the connection may be slow but at least it’s functioning.

Slow service is however, served up again in the Soup Bar. Nic and I meet there for a lunch of onion soup and mixed salad. We then head to the travel agents to get our Easter travel itinerary from Mylène before zipping around the hoard of clothes stores looking for matching green t-shirts for our pre-Paddy’s Day production.

We’ll be dancing our socks off this Wednesday in The Terminal Café as we’ve agreed to do an Irish dancing set – it’ll be a warm-up of sorts for the real celebrations. If anyone walked into our apartment and saw us practising these dances tonight they’d probably think we were exorcising rather than exercising; Fred only attended the matinee show yesterday! We do look a bit demented as we giggle and jiggle around the living room. We’re not so much Jean Butler as melted butter or sweaty Betty! The heat and action is so intense that not only do we dance our socks off but our bottoms and tops follow into a heap on the floor and we end up dancing in our underwear. We turn on the fan and turn off the lights giving us both air and coolness in an instant. Nic’s mum sent her a pair of Irish dancing pumps and we both wear them when practising our individual dances. I’m the hustler here as I never did Irish dancing as a child – ceilís in school or the Gaeltacht were my limit. The laced leather pumps are pain inducing. They look just like the slave sandals that are in fashion here. Nic comments that I scrunch up my face like a bull when I dance in them. The hard-soled shoes are a tad small for her too and her pinched toes are also mirrored in her pinched face. The shoes subsequently join the clothes heap and it’s not long until I leap into bed with my feet still throbbing from the soul-destroying sandals.

Flower Girl - dimanche, 11.03.07

dimanche 11.03.07 Flower Girl

I love shopping. Even the thought of supermarket sweep in Hyper U excites me. This morning Nic, Fred and I find ourselves at Rond Point ready for a spendathon. The guys psyche themselves up by puffing away while I shimmy across the tarmac on the trolley. We spot George the Rasta, with the band across his head, in the car-park. He salutes us and we nod back taking it as the starting shot for our spree. Fred is the caddy. Nic and I race around the aisles while Fred follows us. He estimates that it’ll come to near €300. The damage isn’t nearly as bad as anticipated: €153.

We’ve bought some cabbage and ham and we rustle up some Irish grub with plenty of spuds and some white roux sauce. Fred enjoys it too – he’s used to his ready-meals so this is a treat. Rum and raison ice-cream and Lyon’s tea finish off the perfect meal.


We sit back on the terrace sipping our whiskey digestifs before we decide to make tracks and head to the Jardin de Balata. It’s about time we visited Martinique’s most famous inland tourist attraction. It’s a stunning little garden with beautiful flowers and fantastic plants, finely landscaped arrangements and incorrectly spelt English signposts. Nicola chooses her flowers for her wedding bouquet and throughout the afternoon we imagine that it’s Nicola and Fred’s wedding; they pose for photos, walk down the aisle and even sign the register together. I’m the bridesmaid, the flower girl, the chaperon and the photographer in one.









We decide to make the most of our Sunday afternoon and we visit the Cascade Gendarme; a waterfall hidden in the hills off the beaten track. We take the beaten track and find ourselves at Ravine Brunette; a little cottage and quaint garden on the hillside beside Fond Saint-Denis. The drive downhill to Saint-Pierre is exhilarating and we get a great view of the sweeping plains and rolling forests surrounding Mont Pelée. We watch the sun set from the jetty at Saint Pierre. We spread out soaking up the last rays of the day, looking at the strange cloud formations and taking in the beauty of the Caribbean; it’s the epitome of tranquillity.

Fred wants to take us out for a meal to repay us for our Irish hospitality but since Martinique is not a destination for night-time dining we decide to head home and prepare something; pasta with chorizo sausage in a roast plum tomato sauce. I think we’re outdoing ourselves with our culinary skills today! Our dancing skills are also perfected as we take to the dance floor to perform our dance routines for Fred.

Nicola and Fred head to the terrace for a few beers… for their honeymoon! Etienne the Rasta is on the blower to me again so I sit inside and listen to his raspy ramblings. He invites me out but I fob him off as I’ve no desire to dine with him and plus Will the Waster is probably at the other end prodding him on. Strophe also gives a jingle. He is a fraction less sleazy but he’s not much more bearable. He works on and off for Jean-Pierre in The Terminal Café but Jean-Pierre can’t stand his lack of dynamism or his slow pace. He likes to blether on the phone too. To talk any longer would only induce sleep so I say my goodbyes. I work on my blog and read my latest lend Qui a tué le béké du Trinité? before joining laying down my book and lying down for the night.

We’re slowly Sinking - samedi, 10.03.07

samedi 10.03.07 We’re slowly Sinking

Fair play to Nicola. She’s up at 7,30 this morning after last night’s binge. She texts me two hours later saying she’s still drunk. The thought of cold cash will boost any boozer into marching mode. She got up, splashed on some perfume and left in the clothes she slept in last night. She got a lift with Richard and had to fight nausea and tiredness until she got into town and where she had to navigate her way through the crowds and around manholes and other hurdles en route to the bus. She arrived early to her client’s house and upon spying a little green patch decided to snooze for a bit. It was only when she tried to get up again that she realised her limbs weren’t functioning. A passer-by presumed she had fallen from the wall and offered to help her – that propelled an instant recovery.

I on the other hand find it significantly harder to budge. Tiredness has me tied down. I set my alarm three times before I finally and reluctantly move off the mattress. I settle down to breakfast and blogging before deciding to head into town. A phone call from Madame Doriac delays me but I get to add another pupil to my private lesson list as she wants her daughter Morgan to avail of my Anglophone accent. I get the next bus at 12,50 instead and endure the curiosity of more créole creatures…

I meet Nic and David in La Crosière. The crew have been invited to our Paddy’s Day festivities next door but Paco Charlery is playing here that night so they may find it hard to draw away from him. Nic is making herself better with fine food although we’ve a sneaking suspicion that there’s wheat in the accompanying sauce. David has a Loraine and I stick to coke. Nic met Marjorie on her travels this morning but as she was in a hurry she didn’t have much time to make small chat or excuses. Nic has another class this afternoon so she heads off to the port while David and I wander around town. David has been hand washing his clothes for the past five months and has subsequently ruined some of his garments. It being Martinique and it being a Saturday evening there are very few decent clothes shops to browse around but we manage to spy some cheap t-shirts and 972 Martinique motif jeans which wee David could actually use as a sleeping bag since they’re so baggy and he’s so small.

Shopping has evoked hunger so we head to the upmarket sandwich bar which is Lina’s Café. Roast beef and smoked salmon are our chosen fillings. The beef is divine but the salmon is soaked in lemon. David wolfs down a chocolate chip cookie and I have half of my carrot muffin before we head out the door to explore.

There’s a film about André Aliker, a Martiniquan journalist and communist activist, being filmed in front of Cathedral Saint Louis. We watch the girls prance around with their brooms as the choreographer puts them through their paces again and again and again. I think it’ll be more of a documentary and David reckons it’ll be billed as a comedy-drama. We’ll have to hold off on that bet for another while as it won’t be out until this time next year. Cyril the sailor and his first mate are also watching the action. We exchange salutations and wander up the road aimlessly in search of mid-afternoon adventure.

It’s only 14,30 and there’s a French flag on the hill which seems to warrant an expedition. We take the road up to the Rocade and pass under it before encountering some steep streets with shanty shacks on either side. There’s something familiar about the laidback lean-tos. It’s almost as if we’ve been transported back to Dominica. We mount the mountain road. Some cute, cuddly puppies appear from under a bush. They’re probably crawling with all sorts of filth. As we weave our way higher and higher a stench of piss strikes our nostrils. It’s putrid, and it’s probably from the group of piss-heads up the top of the hill. We turn down a more reassuring route. More doggies, some dudes making hoops and a derelict drug lord’s mansion are also discovered along the way.

Our rambling is so aimless and our ramblings are so absorbing that it’s not until I cast my eyes on a familiar sounding signpost that I realise where we are. Quartier Gerbault. I’ve passed by here many times but I didn’t really register what it was. The name rings a bell as it’s the place where Oliver is doing his permanence. In the back of my mind I had thought it’d be cool to visit Oliver as he said he could have visitors during the weekend. I didn’t fancy trekking past all the crazies up Rue de la Folie but as David and I were having a good ramble we have inadvertently done a loop and are now at the top of this insidious hill.

I call Oliver and he directs us to the back of the barracks where the Infirmary is situated. Quartier Gerbault houses the recruitment centre and medical centre for aspiring and ailing military men and women in Martinique. The Gendarme also have a few offices and centres here. We walk by a group of boys in blue as we make our way along the gravely driveway with our sodas. We soon spot Oli on high. Even though my call woke him from his slumber he’s delighted to see us. Despite the palm trees and glistening view the building looks as if it came from Kosovo. Oli tells us that the whole quarter will be relocated to the main military base at Fort Desaix in the near future and that is why this place is so ramshackle looking. Most seriously ill or injured military souls are treated in the Hôpital Clarac just up the road so the constant lack of patients renders the place more eerie and makes permanence duty go by very slowly indeed. There’s one other military on duty and as it’s the weekend there are no other personnel present. There are no patients here either but David and I get a medical and a tour of the whole unit. We get our blood pressure checked in the electrocardiographie unit before testing our hearing levels in the isolation booth. Doctor Oli checks our reflexes at the kinésithérapie centre. We have a snoop about the salle de consultation and the chirurgie unit. And we inspect the wards and living quarters before taking to the terrace to admire the view and the selection of army ambulances and emergency vehicles.



It’s a fun afternoon and Oliver’s very appreciative of our visit; more so than Nicola’s new client was of her lesson by the sounds of it. I had texted Nic to tell her where we were but she had already gone home to catch-up on stolen sleep. David and I thank Oli for the tour and bid him goodbye as we skip down Rue de la Folie past the Rapunzel-like ladies of the night and their gas-guzzling gangster guy friends. I’ve noticed a lot of quads around town lately with number plates but these vehicles are a lot less stable looking – more zapped than zippy.

We decide to have a drink and head to the XI bar where we sip our refreshments to the sound of televised boxing commentary, mingled with random Rasta ranting about soaked trousers and chubby cheeks and interjections about Jesus Christ from a lady who went to college in Brighton. David had initially wished that the Portmarnock v. Inverness match was broadcasted but now we’re both wishing that these loopers would go away. The cheeky Rasta gangster, Amel, takes one of David’s fags without asking and when David kicks up a fuss he offers a €20 note. It’s put back into his wallet but when he leaves he places a fresh Heineken in front of David. A concluding handshake is exchanged and the tracksuit wearing, chain encrusted, Ming-the-Merciless bearded bard finally hops into a car with his friend. David and I soon leave in a similar fashion as I talk the bus and he takes to the road.

It seems that fate hasn’t yet dished out my Rasta quota for the day. Etienne, Will’s buddy, rings me that evening. I presume he’s calling on Will’s behalf. He has no news and his mumbo-jumbo numbs my head until I make very vague promises to see him and hang up. There’s also a Reggae soirée in The Terminal Café in town but I resist hanging out with more Rasta dudes – a lock-in with them would probably set my head on fire. I opt for some more traditional fuel – a quick whiskey with Fred. Nic and I pop over to his house to recap on the previous night and to have a nightcap. For once I beat the next day to bed as midnight has not even sounded by the time we hit the hay.

Razor sharp pins - vendredi, 09.03.07

vendredi 09.03.07 razor sharp pins

I’m locked in this morning. Nicola has obviously taken her keys to bed with her. Mine, as per usual, are hidden outside the house lest either of us should return home keyless some day. At least I can open the window from the inside and hop unto the terrace. So I do.

I don’t like the new buses as much as the old ones. What I miss most is the buoyant atmosphere which prevailed. Everyone was in awe of the new bus, the new gadgets and the new smell but now the novelty has worn off we all sit in silence as we slide back and forth in unison. Everyone’s too upright. The seat designers were obviously on a mission to correct the posture of bus passengers. And there’s less legroom which although is not usually a problem for me is today as I’ve my bag of Irish goodies and a huge poster to squash in beside me. The newest bus driver is not very interesting either. He rarely puts on the radio but when he does it’s usually the obituaries. In his defence, however, he’s quite perceptive and usually knows when someone has requested a stop. There’s little hope that the drivers will eventually personalise their buses like they have done in Guadeloupe. I expect the last thing the bus company would tolerate is stickers and eulogies and poems and tasteful graffiti. Radio requests are probably out of the question too.

This morning there’s another new phenomenon onboard – a ticket inspector. There’s no ticket machine on this bus so the driver must check your ticket before you get on therefore even though he insists on asking everyone for their stubs today’s ticket inspector is not needed; another waste of time and energy and money and crisp blue Mosaic shirts.

Aurore is not in today and Christophe is dosed but I take his class through their paces after we scrutinise the map of Martinique. Madame Bois is back and she’s also getting back into form. I unfurl the giant poster which has travelled with me from Tivoli. I’ve traced the words: HAPPY ST. PATRICK’S DAY unto it and I get the class to paint and decorate it. Those who don’t have brushes or artistic dexterity are given shamrocks duties and we soon have enough lucky shamrocks to carpet Croke Park.

Elizabeth sits in on the first part of my class with Madame Pamphile’s brood. She’s a distraction – from divilment, for a while but they soon loose their sense of direction and become their unruly selves. When it comes to choosing dance partners they’re the most contrary class ever. At first I find their reluctance and gurning amusing but eventually they have to be put in pairs in order to get anything done. Madame Pamphile still has her blasé attitude but there’s really no point in busting a gut so I just let them hop around the classroom in a semi-orderly fashion.

The usually calm and content Madame Edragas seems to be at the end of her tether lately. She has been sick recently and while the heap of crumpled tissues in the bin reveals the final afflictions of her flu the little blackboard by the door, which is covered in black marks, is testimony to her lack of patience this week. I’m introducing directions to her class today and although they’re as super inquisitive as ever I tolerate their quizzical ways. Catherine however constantly chastises them. The two dominating brats receive both the brunt of her anger and the majority of the black marks.

On the way home I pickup at tuna sandwich and a few pastries and at home I settle down to my lunch and some light TV viewing. It’s a toss-up between the foot masseuses on the daytime chat show or the zouk charts with the two perky presenters. I choose the music – it’s soulful. There’s a bit of a commotion outside which juxtaposes my easy listening. There are people moving in next door. They take about half an hour to haul their cases and crates from their car. I spy an elderly couple and a family of three. They’re either all going to suffocate in the apartment or their using our hammocks unawares to us. Arlette has pulled out all the stops for her new lodgers but she does come down to Nicola and I with a plate of leftover accras. I’m delighted and I happily munch away on the spicy cod pieces. Arlette however, left a foul taste in Nicola’s mouth when she came down almost commanding her to stop smoking. This anti-smoking campaign is unrelenting. Only today a little girl of three or four year’s old told Nicola to pa ka fimì.

One person who can sympathise with Nicola is Fred. He invites us around to his new house and arranges to meet up outside ours in order to escort us past the mad dog. Fred has moved into a house about 200 metres across the road from us. In fact it turns out to be Arlette’s cousin Suzanne’s house but Fred pays Arlette the €200 a week to rent it. I don’t know who is more insane; the Rip-off Merchant or the Fleeced Renter, but I’m restarting to learn not to be surprised by anything here.

The guard dog is not at all menacing at all at all. His name is Mon Meilleur Ami – My Best Friend. Amid the whiskey, beer and cheer Fred drops a bombshell. He wants to know what suicide is in English. I tell him and then ask why he wants to know that. He becomes solemn and tells us openly that his best friend committed suicide six years ago. We sit there in all soberness with our fresh ice-cubes melting away until he recounts the story of Gaelle’s demise. I tell him about Davina and Nicola tells him about her uncle. It’s Fred who wakes us from our serious silence by pouring out more Jameson and proposing a toast to friends past and present.

The night rolls on and on and becomes more bizarre with each watering hour. We’re talking about dormitory antics when Fred produces shaving foam and a razor and our mini-party becomes a foam party as Nic and I get him to shave our legs! He’s as smooth a talker as our pared pins. At some stage Mon Meilleur Ami starts to bark wildly outside. Fred goes to explore while Nic and I munch away on cheesy crisps. On his return the dog slips into the apartment. The poor creature is almost doted on to death. Nicola especially has a soft spot for animals. She is abhorred by Fred’s photos of dead deer and wild boar. She tries to get him to erase the images from his phone. She later spits out some profanities and her creature concerns are erased as she wipes out certain images from her own memory. Just as Fred escorted us to his house he escorts us home. I put Nic to bed. She’ll struggle to get up in the morning for her private lessons but maybe it’ll be a lesson to her. Beer before liquor never been sicker, liquor before beer you’re in the clear.

Making demands - Jeudi, 08.03.07

Jeudi 08.03.07 Making demands

Today it’s catch-up time in school. I spend the day organising projects, doing dances, recounting the story of St. Patrick, teaching about Ireland and working with directions as needed. Madame Caruge’s class have done stellar work in preparation for the project work. We discuss their findings and ideas for a display before continuing with some Irish dancing. Mr Duval’s class missed out on the history of St. Patrick last week so we put on a mini-production of the Irish saint’s life. Each child gets a role and we have St. Patrick, the Vikings, Milchu the farmer, some sheep, some pigs, some snakes, St. Patrick’s family, boat crew and the people of Ireland all up at the blackboard by the end of the drama session. An electricity failure cuts out the music appreciation element of the lesson so we take to the yard to practise dancing. Madame Acina’s class are also subject to marching orders in the yard after we recap on directions but Madame Thaly’s brood are confined to the classroom as taking them outside would be suicide – if the heat doesn’t kill their heated arguments will.

My plans for a grand St. Patrick’s Day Festival at Chateauboeuf have been reduced significantly but it’s better to think big initially and to act better in the end. I set-off to find Madame Dau and give her the low-down on what I’ve planned for next week. I catch her at the photocopier before class starts but she’s functioning just as well as the banjaxed Toshiba print monster so I tell her I’ll discuss my plans at the break. She finally surpasses all my expectations by a) sitting down with me and b) asking if there’s anything I need. Bear in mind that my expectations of Martiniquans and administration here are quite low; asking is one thing and acting out these requests is entirely different. I need the spare classroom to display the class projects and house the projector which Jossylene will supply so we can watch a slideshow on Ireland and St. Patrick’s Day celebrations. I also put a request in for the mega Sony sound system and most daring of all I ask that the children can come to school dressed in green. Madame Dau gives me a few supportive nods and I give her a list outlining my needs before she rises to break-up a break time fight in the yard.

My school day is not over at midday as per usual. After a regular lunch in La Crosière with Nic and Gerry, from Burundi, I trek up the road to the Couvent du Cluny. The energy exerted walking up the Schoelcher hills with my heavy bag of Irish accoutrements leaves me sapped and soaked in sweat. I present myself at the reception before scuttling off to the toilet. I return to the front hall in a more refreshed state after relieving myself, reducing my redness and refilling with copious amounts of ice-cold filtered water – oh, the perks of private schools. I’ll call it the Royal treatment as after all this is Ségolène Royal’s former education enclave.

Since I’ll be up to my eyes in shamrocks and dances next week I told Madame Acier that this evening is the only one which suits me to come. On the phone she’s quite abrupt, almost rude but once she spies me her face lights up. Originally I was to have two classes for an hour each but since I’m in demand she has decided that I’ll take four classes back-to-back for two hours solid. I’ve got a wealth of Irish waffle and a sackful of supports so the time flies by effortlessly as I talk to the pupils about my country. Obviously half an hour only allows me to skim the surface but since two of the classes are studying Ireland it’s as much for them to pose questions as it is for me to perform like a leaping Leprechaun. The kids and the teachers alike are appreciative of my efforts so I’m content that my blood, sweat and tears were worth it. I’m more surprised to hear that I’m getting paid for my performance. There was no mention of money and I did it purely out of patriotic duty so I’m pleasantly surprised to hear that I’m being reimbursed. Even before hearing this I decided to cash in the situation by putting up posters advertising private lessons.

One of the teachers, Yona, drops me off home. Martinique is so small and backwards that I’m home in ten minutes with her instead of enduring an hour or more of bussing. La Martinique est petite. Le monde est petit. Yona has Irish connections and is only too happy to recount her tales. She went to Ireland a few months ago and she tells me about her time on a farm in Athy, her dislike for Aran sweaters and how she loves the Irish accent. She was once married to an Irishman. They met in Paris, married, travelled the world and then strayed. He was a paediatrician and a linguistic. Yona also shared his passion for linguistics and she spent many years piecing together Amerindian languages from around the world as he lectured in institutes and universities. From Canada to Hawaii to Dominica.

Perhaps I know this Irish doctor? Dr. Collis. Dr. Fitzgerald-Collis. It doesn’t ring any surgery bells in my mind. In a roundabout way she tells me that he adopted two Jewish children during WWII and recently she received a book from them which was written by this famous doctor. She can’t remember the name of the book but she tells me she’ll contact me with it when she does. So what was so special about this doctor? It was one of his patients who was special; Christy Brown.

Thoughts of Ireland flood back as I make my way down the mountain road. Nicola’s been pining Guinness lately and I tell her that a publican in Co. Cavan is keeping the cost of Guinness down to €3 in his bar. She has news for me too – but it’s at the other end of the scale. She bought €16 burgers for us in Mercure. What happened to the usual €6 lot? Surely there must have been a problem with the price. Nicola was halfway to the bus-stop when she took out the receipt to see why exactly the five items she bought came to €25. She went back to the shop and asked for a refund but that isn’t the policy; she was told she could either dump them or devour them. They better be damn good burgers. Ten scrawny minced-beef burgers for €16. Rip-off. We tuck into our costly chunks. They’re not worth writing home about. I try to justify it by adding that since it’s Lent and people here give up meat the high costs are an incentive not to indulge. Its bullshit and I know it though I do wonder what crap could have been in the usual burgers we buy. It doesn’t bear thinking.

Arlette comes bearing gifts; some strange fruit from her exotic garden. She tells us that they’re beginning to ripen on the tree our hammocks hang from.

Nic is bearing the trappings of a cold. I decide to trap my thoughts for the day as I type my Blog and I leave Nic to blow her nose and her cigarettes on the terrace. She later hops around the living room to Liam O’Flynn and Altan in preparation for our Irish dancing spectacle. I’ve have my quota of jigs and reels for the day so I simply hop off to bed.

It’s Wispy. It’s frisky. - mercredi, 07.03.07

mercredi 07.03.07 It’s Wispy. It’s frisky.

I’m well refreshed after my mega sleep last night. I take to the terrace this morning to swot up on things to do during our upcoming holiday to St. Martin. Despite being initially disappointed about missing out on the cruise I find out that there’s plenty of scope for island hopping and mingling with the rich and famous. I daydream about mixing with the beautiful people by the beach and mixing cocktails by the bar; but for today I’ll have to be content with the common crowd at Trois Ilets.

Nicola and I head into town early in the afternoon and we browse about before going our separate ways; lesson for her and beach for me. The one time that Wispy is in town and doesn’t contact us we bump into him; he’s in Cyber Délisse with Ceri. We quickly catch up and they’re invited to the St. Patrick’s Day celebrations in the Terminal Café. Wispy is Irish so he knows the score but Ceri will have to wait and see what’s in store for our national festival.

Oliver and I decide to head to the beach at Anse Mitan this afternoon; I’m off school and he’s off work. We’re between two minds whether to hit Madinia Beach in Schoelcher but the traffic is cat and our minds are made up when a boat pulls into the quay. Our other army acquaintances are en permanence. They won’t be leaving the regiment until they start showing signs of severe rashes from sitting in swivel chairs all day or until their stint minding vacant buildings is up. Oliver will be starting en permanence on Friday for a week at the infirmary so he’s relishing his last days of freedom.

It’s a tranquil day by the sea for me as I just take it easy like any aspiring, yet perspiring, sun-seeker. I can finally wear my bandeau dress without looking like a tarty tourist. I was wearing it at the bus-stop earlier on and no less than five cars stopped to offer a lift into town. Just before the bus came I pulled on my shorts; the two vehicles which passed by between my bare legs and the bus’ arrival didn’t slow down even to gawp at our whiteness. However, just as I’m getting on the bus I feel someone pinch the back of my heel; it’s John, our good neighbour so it’s just as well I covered up when I did.

Nic may be making money but she’s missing out on making waves. I snorkel a bit, swim some more and beach a lot in the hot, hot, hot sun. Oliver may be a native but he feels the heat long before me. I join him for a while in the shimmering ocean. We crawl across the bay before swimming back, backwards, to our sunny sand spot. I stay a while to snorkel in the big blue while Oli drips dry under the cloudless blue of the sky. I watch the miniscule fish dart below me in the waving seaweed fields and I observe the aquatic individuals who are participating in a water aerobics class at the other end of the bay.

Before we set off to Point du Bout for tea we make our way to the Auberge d’Anse Mitan. Oli’s girlfriend Sophie, and her friend Sophie, are coming next week and he wants to sort out a few odd ends. Nic and I were previously in talks with Léah, the owner, about renting a bungalow for the end of our stay so I approach her on this subject. She tells me that the place needs a few repairs and that another prospective tenant has his eye on the place – for a year, but she takes our details and promises to let us know the situation within a fortnight. Oli and I have a good snoop around the back to try and ascertain what state this bungalow is in. We can see a handful of corrugated roofed buildings and some rather less sturdy shed-like structure. After living in the bosom of Tivoli this abode could be a demotion of sorts (or demolition perhaps!) but the sea and constant sparkle of the holiday spirit is bound to make up for humdrum housing.

Point du Bout feeds and waters us well. Cheesy galettes, chocolate crêpes and Carib beer are on this evening’s menu.

Oliver and his brother, Patrick, as going to a football match tonight and Oliver invites me along. It has been a long time since I graced the stand at Oriel Park to watch Dundalk F.C belt the ball in the Eircom League – or more frequently, against some other relegated team. Tonight we’re off to watch the two Rivière-Pilote teams in action in the League de Football de la Martinique. The established purple and white team, Les Racines, win 1-0 against the fresh-faced red and white new kids on the block. There are a few skilful manoeuvres from both sides but Les Racines dominate the game and the pitch. The match is more entertaining than anything else as four red and white and one Racine are stretchered off. The match is sprinkled with true Caribbean vigour and sporting viciousness; it’s like watching a mini-soap opera with the epic dives, the fowl fouls and the subsequent drama of the injured, writhing figures and their classic, limping comebacks. Football is nothing without its performances. What surprises me most is the wonderful stadium with it’s multi-tiered, sheltered stand, and bars, the immaculate sports ground surrounded by an eight-lane running track, the various other pitches and the stylish clubhouse. The sports ground is also floodlit but halfway through the first half the main ones cut-out. The crowd is riled for a moment as people turn to shout for gas-oil! The match, however, continues and calm is restored until another dive drama unfolds.

By 23,00 I’m back at home in the mountains. Patrick had to drop Oli back at base so another twenty minutes didn’t kill him. His driving, however, is zippy, bordering on reckless. Though as a mechanic and a Martiniquan this is part and parcel of the package. I bid them farewell and thank them before thanking God for bringing me home safely to the unhurried hills.

Do you have a problem? - mardi, 06.03.07

mardi 06.03.07 Do you have a problem?

Today was a bit of a mess. Well, at least I think it was as I’m only writing up this entry now - a month later. If my notes are anything to go by I was definitely in a state of subconscious sobriety after the bad news yesterday. I won’t even start to piece this entry together into semi coherent parts so glean what you can from my hurried tappings…

New bus – forget seeds. Sombre mood - takes a while to hit me. Pupils’s party – next week in McDo. Have you got a problem? Elizabeth.

Library in town to rest+browse over Time Magazine – Condelezza Rice. 5/19/26… Filming Aliker.

La Croisière – whiskey (free due to translation). Children! Buy condolences card. Cricket oval – crease – bat.

Army dudes away for a fortnight to St.Martin – we’re going there – not cruise. Book holiday with Mylene. How can I say I did both those things in the same sentence? Do I mean entry?

Funeral today. Caught in the rain. Home – wrecker/ed. Sleep. Mosquito – frenzy of freedom – clap hands+splat…

You say goodbye, I say hello - Lundi, 05.03.07

Lundi 05.03.07 you say goodbye, I say hello

There’s a new fleet of buses on the No.22 route. They may be only mini-buses but they’re higher and have more seats albeit less leg-room. There’s a new bus driver this morning but later in the day Mr. Grumpy is back in the driving seat. As per usual he’s not displaying signs of delight but his grouchiness is somewhat justified today; he has to contend with shifting gears as the new buses are not automatic and moreover the stop request sign doesn’t beep as it did previously. Dozens of people on the route harangue him with urgent arrête calls as he steers past their stops unawares. The journey into town is much longer this morning too as the driver is being extra cautious along the slippery, bendy mountain highway.

I don’t have to wait long in town for my connecting bus. I’m soon safely seated in the school library sorting through my maps and tickets for today’s lesson. Since we’ll be celebrating Irishness next week I’ve decided to make a mini-treasure hunt using different Irish sites and landmarks. Today’s lesson will focus on map directions as we look at the map of Martinique and Ireland.





It should be noted that Martinique is actually divided into two parts: the North Atlantic and the South Caraïbe, so before the lesson even commences I explain that in order to simplify the exercise we will only use the five directions: NORTH. SOUTH. EAST. WEST. CENTRE.

I get the pupils to stand up, clasp their hands and copy my actions as I use my body to illustrate the position on the map; I raise my hands NORTH above my head, drop them SOUTH, point EAST and WEST and rest them under my chest in the CENTRE. We get a little chant going and any passer-by could mistake it for a dance class more so than an English lesson.

We divide into teams and the pupils have to act out the direction which I call out as they stand in front of the map. In the NORTH. In the SOUTH. In the EAST. In the WEST. In the CENTRE.

Next up I test their geographical skills - not of Ireland but of Martinique. I have made out tickets with the names of towns and communes around the island. I purposely chose well-known places so that I could help them locate the town if needed. Good job I did as some of them are really lost and display an abysmal understanding of their country. Perhaps I foresaw this or my effective preparation skills seeped through as I was planning the exercise because all the towns in the NORTH as written in blue as is the word NORTH itself above the map. The towns in the SOUTH are in green as is the ticket stuck in the SOUTH. The WEST is purple, the EAST is pink and the CENTRE is orange. I thought that the younger years would have to rely on this but in fact it’s the older ones who have the most problems.

Once they’ve located the town I ask them where it is:

Cyril, where is Macouba?
In the North. Macouba is in the North of Martinique.

Océane, where is Sainte-Anne?
In the South. Sainte-Anne is in the South of Martinique.

The last part of the lesson involves Irish map work. I hand out photocopies of my country and I ask them to find different towns and countries. Once they have found it and formed the response in the mind they can raise their hand. Some of the students are quick off the mark but I wait until at least half of the class have raised their hands before choosing someone to come up and find the location on the giant map of Ireland:

Claudia, where is Dublin?
Dublin is in the East of Ireland.

Jordan, where is Connemara?
Connemara is in the West of Ireland.

Sandrine, where is Mullingar?
Mullingar is in the centre of Ireland.

The last few minutes of the class are spent going through the steps for the Irish dance. I’m just about to do overtime with Claude’s class when Jossylene appears. I apologise to the class that I have to talk to her and they disperse into the yard as it’s now break time. Jossylene asks me about my plans for Semaine de Langue. It’s not until May but other authorities want to make sure that the ball is rolling and ideas are being generated. Madame Bois is back from her respite as she had a tragic and traumatic few months with the loss of her sister and her brother-in-law as well as undergoing serious personal surgery. Jossylene engages in conversation with Dominique so I can only guess that she is still gossiping when she doesn’t show up at any of my later classes - this has become a regular habit of hers.

Something irregular has happened with one of the potted shamrocks. Madame Thaly’s group has noticed that their pot has mould on it. I tell them that the seeds are just germinating and with the heat here this happens. Perhaps they suspected something else was shooting up. To my knowledge it’s only a plant pot. I didn’t plot to plant pot!

I take a private lesson with one of the CP teachers, Line Julvecourt. Her English is quite good and it turns out to be not so much as lesson as a chat about teaching and different education systems. Nicola also took another private pupil this morning at Stade Dillon. It may sound a bit dubious but it was a once-off with a businessman called Bruce. He had American developers arriving that evening and needed to brush up on his English. He did, however, give her the contact details for another prospective pupil which should plump her up to five clients a week - or lots of lolly in monetary terms.

David, our Scottish mate, doesn’t agree with taking money off people if they just want to converse in English; though he’s leaving here in a month and so has really no need for extra dosh. Instead he prefers to have what he likes to call a cultural exchange. The last we heard of him he was taking a cultural exchange with a mystery Metropole Mademoiselle – that was almost a week ago and we were trying to contact him all weekend as we feared something had happened him. Today, however, he makes an appearance as we regroup for lunch. Supposedly he left his mobile in Robert when he went there to visit a friend last week. He was touched to see all our missed calls and messages awaiting him. David and Nicola have already had their pumpkin soup by the time I join them at the Soup Bar for some Beef Lasagne.

While I was cultivating shamrock and Nicola was expanding her private lesson empire David was growing a beard. As his pupils are in the middle of exams he has hardly worked 10 hours in the past fortnight. This extra facial hair actually suits him and makes him look older - it also distracts the eye from his balding crown.

With our bellies laden with lovely lasagne we shuffle into Cyber Délisse for flan coco. We decide to prolong the evening by visiting a new bar; The Crew. It’s not a new establishment but it’s the first time we’ve been there. However there’s something all too continental about it and we’re about to finish up when my lasagne laden stomach turns and my heart becomes heavy laden with shock and sorrow as I find out that a friend from school has passed away.

Davina is only our age. Just before Christmas she found out she had lung cancer. It turned out to be a progressive and very aggressive form. Despite chemotherapy and respite the illness reigned and has now taken her off to reign with God. The funeral is tomorrow – no flowers, just donations to a special needs school in Delvin.

I’m in a bit of a daze for the rest of the evening; nothing like distance to make you feel impotent. I send out a few texts of support to friends at home. We leave The Crew and take a wander in the heady heat to numb the bad news. We find ourselves beside La Savanne. There’s a hotel lobby just across the way and after dodging a group of grinning Chinese businessmen we settle for a quiet drink. The reminiscing is respectful but we don’t let the sombre mood linger for long. Hyperness helps to ease the heartache and helplessness a bit. David presents me with a home-made Digicel jigsaw and some wickerwork creations and we all distract unhappy thoughts by making up silly grammatical concoctions. I love swamming. We’ll see who loves swamming!

Some dude wearing a baseball hat, shades and quiet formal clothes pops his head into our conversation and asks David if he’s a famous footballer or actor or something. “No I’m not famous,” David replies. “Why?” he then asks. “Oh,” replies Mr Cool, “I just thought that you were someone famous because your two bodyguards smell so good.” Man. That was lame even by my standards!

We eventually head for the brand new bus home. Nicola and I head to bed early – though not for sleep. We wile away the evening on my bed with chat and cards and crosswords and cocoa.

House bound - dimanche, 04.03.07

dimanche 04.03.07 House bound

I’m woken up by Nicola. She’s in my bed telling me that she’s too unwell to go to church. I’m still up for it but I’m not actually up. Why didn’t I rise then instead of trying to clutch on to another half hour of slumber? My alarm doesn’t do it’s job and I wake up in a panic two hours later. It’s 9,30. Someone was waiting to collect us at 8,45. Poor Christina. I presume she’ll be at the service and would not appreciate her mobile jumping about any more than she does being stood up so I send a text apologising. I use Nicola’s poor health as a poor excuse. What else can one do? I’ll call later and explain myself.

There are unfortunately bigger explanations due today. Madame Arlette was on the phone to someone this morning complaining about us. Nicola heard her giving out about the revelry, errr… ruckus last night. Noise and smoke are the main grievances. Last night’s tempest, it turns out, was not enough to mask our merriment and today’s tempest will not be of the meteorological sort.

I’m aware that we were a bit noisy but I’m not aware of these grumblings until Nicola appears for lunch. She seems a bit tentative as she emerges from the apartment and sparks up on to the peanut/ash dashed terrace. I’m simultaneously ashamed, amused and anxious as I listen to her recount the overheard conversation in hushed tones. She was afraid to venture out of the house until now in case Arlette marched downstairs and gave us our marching orders. The only thing we can do is apologise. We wait until the evening as hopefully Arlette will have cooled down with the day. We’re so sheepish as we mount the stairs to Maison MontJean. What will she do? What will she say? We’ve worked ourselves up so much we’ve even rehearsed what we’re going to say.

Richard is the first to see us. He embraces us. It’s unexpected but what is even more unpredicted is the warmth with which Arlette greets us; there’s a similar warmth being emitted from our faces. Perhaps our guilty looks softened the situation sufficiently. We apologise. Arlette is surprised to hear that we were having a soirée for Fred. Fred smokes like a trooper so he’s dropped in it too and a bit of the blame wafts up the road to him. We’re pardoned. She tells us that it’s not a regular occurrence so it’s not a real concern. In fact she tells us that if we want to stay until mid-May the place is vacant. Aha! Thoughts of hypochondria and avarice replace those of sudden homelessness and shame. As she hobbles off to find a calendar Nicola and I exchange a momentary glance; relief, confusion and delight now paint our cheeks. Richard did not hear a thing. I bet he’s inwardly chuckling at the whole incident yet our presence confirms his wife’s grumbling. I silently thank God that she has him to rant to. His presence appeases the situation and I think that he probably administered more than advice during the day; some drugs do work.

With the deed done we leave with a bunch of bananas and are told that a plumber may be around tomorrow to check the pipes in our apartment – it’s such a strange, but welcome, outcome.

And where were the other perpetrators? I saw Oliver off to the bus this morning after breakfast. He spent the day with his boss at a cock fight and he rings that evening to check in on us. He doesn’t agree with cock fights but I think it may have been a fraction more bearable than the horrible scenarios Nicola and I conjured up all day. Last night’s soirée was Fred’s farewell and he is indeed sent packing this morning. Oliver and I spied him on our way to the bus. He’s soon off up the road to his new residence. He was very cagey about his new location. But now we know that he’s still our neighbour the revelry seems a bit inadequate now as he’s a stone’s throw away. Ah well, all in all it was a good night even if it meant missing church and cardiac somersaults.

Fred’s off down the road - samedi, 03.03.07

samedi 03.03.07 fred’s off down the road

I don’t have my private lessons this morning. On one hand it’s a pain as I could always do with some extra mullah but on the other hand it’s a relief as I can have a lie-in. However, as Murphy’s Law reigns I don’t avail of my extra hours in bed as I’m not that tired – yet. Anyway I can always sleep on the beach because that’s where we’re bound today. It’s another scorching day and I take to the sea-breezed, but sun-sheltered, benches as is my custom of late. I don’t see any slouched forms pensively scribbling away today but I eventually do spy Nicola seeking me out among the sun-drenched crowds.

Nicola was up early to take two private students and so the hunger is now on her. No! No! Not McDo! She goes for the salad option. It’s just leaves so it can’t be too bad, right? The salad disappears behind pleased dressing-greased lips but the butter and garlic croutons are destined for the bin. Chef Masaile joins us and squashes in between me and some disgustingly fat lady who probably has a desert with every meal. Oliver is on for the beach but surely his gear can’t be in that plastic bag. I take a peak. I’m really not so surprised to find his expensive souvenir towel and not-very-expansive trunks present instead of presents for Nic and I. My bag is brimming. I’ve brought my beach ball along. The Annoying Frog will be doing more bouncing than revving later. Sebastian, Lionel and Alex however are up for both as they take to the jet skis with the same casse-cou we rode with over Christmas.





It’s a pleasant day by the sea at Anse Mitan. While we bake and burn we burn off some energy playing volleyball. The guys have a proper volleyball so the lone frog stays in the shade with the black beach babes and their beaus. Snorkelling is also on the agenda. The sea here is full of urchins and strange plant life and somewhere down there is Nic’s hair bobbin. I spy it and she gets it. Go team! There are more team tactics as we play throw-about and piggy-in-the-middle. Piggy Red (that’s me!) starts off as the jambon but I don’t stay too long in the sea-sandwich.



Us girls are the quickest at getting back into our civvies so we take a stroll to a nearby shop for ice-creams. Nicola gets a luxurious caramel creation and we get a selection of exotic cornetto copies for everyone else; Alex chooses vanilla as he’s the original cool prankster: Sebastian takes strawberry to detract from his sunburn: Lionel gets pistachio to match his green board shorts: Oli picks chocolate to match his skin: and I’m left with coconut which is the desired destination for tonight’s Saturday night revelry. Coconuts. There’s also a BBQ on the cards at the regiment - J.V and Gwendal invited us earlier. There are many options for the evening’s entertainment but Nicola and I decide to stick with our original plan to meet with Will, our long-lost Martiniquan friend. But before we go our separate ways we decide to gather at L’Embarcadère. It’s right beside the quay at Point du Bout so we can keep an eye out for our bumpy, spray-filled, wind-swept ride across the bay. On the way over we raced windsurfers but this time round we race the end of the day, and the end of the good weather. There’s a lunar eclipse this evening. The sky soon becomes so dark that one could think God forgot to sprinkle the sky with stars tonight. I get a call from Christina, the friendly Saint-Lucian, saying that a friend of hers can pick us up in the morning before church. Bingo!

Oliver is meeting his brother, Patrick, and has no desire to go clubbing tonight. However once we saunter into the city we find that he has no choice but to join us in the hills for the evening as there’s another tour de cyclisme in town which means he has missed the last bus back to base. There are two places in the city which the military are not allowed set foot in: La Savane and Rue de la Folie. The former is a palm tree-lined park which after dark becomes a drug haven and the later is a breeding ground for debauchery as well as being the main route to the regiment. Although many do walk up it Oliver is not up for the risk of getting caught or catching something else so he decides to hop on the last bus with us and take a ride with Will later on. Will, however, is either i) annoyed at us, ii) growing forgetful in his old age or iii) totally stoned. He never appears. His absence, however, is filled in by the presence of Oliver and our neighbour Fred. Fred is leaving tomorrow and so we decide to throw an impromptu farewell do for him. Fred has already cleaned out his fridge so he can’t drive Oliver home so in the end I lend him one of the huge green St. Patrick’s Day Festival t-shirts I got in the post.



Pizza. Cards. Music. Beer. Cheer. We’ve the perfect ingredients for a great night in. And with the wild wind and raging rain its inside we stay. The stormy weather knocks out the noise from the sound system and reduces our chattering to a low rumble. By the time we all hit the hay day is breaking through as God finally throws some coal on the horizon and we throw ourselves into a deep sleep.

Tea party - vendredi, 02.03.07

vendredi 02.03.07 tea party

Mr. Bidoux drops us into town this morning. Madame Edragas is not in today so her children are dispersed among various classes. Berthé the farmer is in Mr. Castor’s class and he shows up the older kids with his enthusiasm and acting skills.

Nicola and I march up to the Terminal Café at lunchtime. Jean-Pierre, the patron, is open to our ideas for a St. Patrick’s Day party and we have a liquid lunch with him.

Christina the Christian is on the bus home and I engage her in conversation about her English prayer letter. St. Lucia was her home before she moved to Martinique over thirty years ago.

Oliver and Lionel pop around to our house in their army uniforms. Arlette must be having a heart attack upstairs. Matthew the Martiniquan soldier has been causing trouble lately as he has been drunk and unruly in the dorms.



Nicola’s evaporating fund problems have been cleared – just like her bank account. David our Scottish friend has not replied to our calls or texts lately and we’re starting to get a bit concerned about his absence.

Nicola and I practise our Irish dancing in the heaviness of the night.




Fran and Bex come around for a late-night tea party. Fran is staying dry as she’s driving. Bex is on the cider. Alex and Tom accompanied them to Trinidad for the Carnaval of colours, mud and other sticky substances.

Arlette is on the blower at 2,00.

He has gone to the dogs - Jeudi, 01.03.07

Jeudi 01.03.07 He has gone to the dogs

We make a comical sight this morning. It’s 7,15 and there are nine people at the bus-stop; three lycéens, three school-children, two old maids and myself huddled under umbrellas and trees waiting for the bus. Some of us have been waiting here since before 6,00 and by now three buses should have passed by – but they haven’t. We’re all pinning our hopes on the 7,20 bus. It comes eventually; late as ever. As we all shuffle onboard there are no grumbles, no excuses. There’s no point taking it out on the driver I guess. As it happens I’m only 20 minutes late for my first class; if only I could ditch the first class of the day and take that later bus…

Mr Duval doesn’t mind me being late and the kids are only delighted to lift their heads from their copies. There’s no time to waste so we crack on with Ballaí Lumnigh. I briefly recap on the cultural context of this dance and the symbolism of the moves before running the kids through their paces. Most of the kids can move their bodies quite well as they’re born and blessed with créole vibes. However, most of them are pretty heavy footed and Mr Duval and I take to the floor to show them how it’s done!

In Madame Caruge’s class we’ve more time to discuss the mini-projects they’ll work on; St. Patrick’s Day: Irish Emblems: Ireland: Irish Dancing (and costumes): Eating habits of the Irish. One kid is adamant to do Irish Legends. He’s to stick with St. Patrick. I also run through the story of St. Patrick. The history of St. Patrick is integral to the understanding of the festival. I’ve decided that I two senior classes will work on projects to display and the other two will concentrate on a mini-dramatisation of St. Patrick.

The younger children are getting down and dirty this week as we’re planting shamrocks. Soil, pots, newspaper, seeds, water, spoons and eager faces await me in the classrooms of Madame Acina and Madame Thaly. I explain the significance of shamrocks and we set about preparing for the plantation:

Take a pot.

Fill with soil.

Water it.

Now wait a while.

Sprinkle seeds.

Cover it.

Take a peek.

You’ll have shamrocks in two weeks!

I use the flowerpot and tumbler to explain the concepts of something being empty and full. I fill the tumbler with water: It is full. I pour out the water and hold up the tumbler for all to see that: It is empty. The same follows with a spare flowerpot. Each kid gets a turn at spooning soil into the communal flower pot until it’s adequately full. Then I choose some children to come up, fill the tumbler and water the soil. We play games for 10 minutes while the soil soaks the water.

We’ve progressed on to Simon says this week so I tell them to cover their ears, cover their eyes, stretch their arms, lift their legs, touch their noses, touch their heads… All these commands are hopefully prepping them. We return to the shamrock planting. Seeds are sprinkled by a select few. Next we cover the pot – just as we did with our ears and eyes during the game. A clear plastic bag is put over the seedling and secured with a stretched elastic band. Yet again I exaggerate the stretching as I tell the children to stretch their arms to the sky, stretch their t-shirts and stretch the imaginary elastic bands in their hands. As I gather up the newspaper and soil the children colour in shamrock images; even if the shamrocks don’t sprout we’ll have a special corner with forty shades of the paper variety to mark the occasion.

Just as I’m hopping along to the bus-stop Edourdo flags me down. He has a huge package for me. It’s longer than it is wider and Elizabeth and I seat ourselves on the bus and take a peek. It contains St. Patrick’s Day Festival brochures and bookmarks, a key-chain, a pin, two XXL green festival t-shirts and an Irish beanie hat which is unnecessary in this heat.

Elizabeth forgot to pay for her son’s canteen this month so she has too head off early and bring him home. She spoke with the canteen manager this morning and when Elizabeth offered cash she was told that they didn’t except money payments and hence they now expect the lad to go home every day for lunch. The trials and tribulations of life.

Poor J.P Sartre is suffering too. His girlfriend Amelia is back in France ten days today and according to Nicola he has gone to the dogs since she left. We’re all meeting for lunch and as I’m early I head to the quay to lap up the last pages of my leper book. Who do I see hanging over the edge of the bench with his head almost touching the ground but J.P. He does look miserable. I don’t pounce on him immediately. I glance over my shoulder now and again to see if he has moved. Eventually he raises his head and I see him scribbling away on a scrap of paper. His philosophy keystones must be shifting a lot lately. I address him in a half-whisper. J.P. J.P. He doesn’t respond. Jean-Paul. Jean-Paul. He lifts his head slowly like a child rising from a heavy slumber. His puffy eyes make me think he has been crying recently. We both walk to La Croisière together. The conversation is light as we talk and even joke about our mutual liking for sitting at that quay. During lunch all conversation is directed away from Amelia and other things which may involve sub-conscious thoughts. Jean-Paul needs to get out and about. We could go join the lads at the beach this afternoon. He probably needs mutual civilised civilian contact so we decide to invite him to our house tomorrow as we’re having friends over but he declines as he already has plans with Majid his American-accented friend.

There’ll soon be plenty of reasons for all to celebrate; St. Patrick’s Day is fast approaching. It’s time to get the finger out and put our patriotic plans into action. We head into the Mayflower and wait for the busybody lunch rush to slow down before asking the patron about having a Paddy’s Day party here. It’s ideal as we know the crew, there’s always a crowd and there’s room to dance and music to dance to courtesy of Michel the DJ. But don’t we get a kick in the ass when we find out that Miss I-consider-myself-Irish-when-it-suits-me Marjorie Ahearn has already been in talks with Monsieur André about a similar do. Why was she keeping this under her Jimmy hat? We saw her yesterday and nothing was said. The reasons don’t matter as we’re now seeing red instead of green. We’ve nothing set in stone with Monsieur André so we gather ourselves and our gear and march up to the Terminal. It’s closed. We’ll be back. That Breton flag will soon be replaced with the tri-colour. We discuss the practicalities over an ice-cream sundae splurge. The Terminal is the new ideal location. We know the owner, Jean-Pierre, it’s usually quiet so we can invite who we like without being afraid that there’ll be no room and it’s an intimate venue which we can decorate as we like. Parfait.