It’s just gone 7,00. I’m settling into bed when my phone starts to hop. It’s Oliver. I don’t bother answering but I send a message to say we’ve returned home safe and sound and are heading to the Land of Nod. Another three missed calls ensue before I answer. J.V is on the line. The lads are on their way over with breakfast. I half hope it’s a hoax but I’ve no sooner closed my eyes than I hear the gate creek outside; it’s the best security feature ever. I half fall out of bed almost taking the mosquito net set with me as I make my way to the terrace. Oli, J.V and Gwendal have arrived bearing gifts. French breakfast. Croissant, baguette and pain au choc. C’est la choque!
Breakfast is more of a Mad Hatter’s Tea party, not just because of the odd dunking habits of the French and my own seemingly odd milky tea-sipping antics, but because everyone has taken to wearing hats and an assortment of Carnaval costumes. I’ve got my long, curly plum wig and shiny lime green tie ensemble on. Oliver has donned my brown felt hat and is to be known from now on as Chef Masaille (mass-eye) after a drill sergeant he met in the Côte d’Ivoire and whom he now supposedly resembles. J.V is wearing my sequined green Murphy’s top hat and the pink chiffon belly dancer skirt, but to top it all off he has also procured a thong. It’s fetching though not fitting. Gwendal has a madras skirt, an orange Mohican stripe and dodgy looking sunglasses which actually turn out to be Nicola’s.
Nicola is not dressed for the occasion. In fact she’s also neither up nor awake. Chef Masaille and I try to rouse her. I thought that the noise I made trying to open her door would surely stir her but neither that nor nattering nor nudging got her up. The rise and fall of her back ensures me that she’s still with us even though she’s in dream world. The others also try to wake her. Gwendal follows me in at one stage but I shoo him out. J.V does a little jingle-jangle beer belly dance outside her room while Chef Masaille chants her name. This is what Carnaval has reduced us to.
What will the neighbours say? They say: Bonjour. Verner, his wife and child are subjected to Gwendal’s impression of a native dancer as he sashays along the terrace path in his mad attire. Thankfully the coins on J.V’s skirt have gotten stuck in the chair slats thus preventing him from joining his Breton brother’s boogying.
The Mad Hatter’s invite us to join them at the beach. There’s also the prospect of a BBQ later in the day which sounds enticing. I tell them however that we’ve already arranged to meet our neighbours for a ti-punch. Chef Masaille has his thinking hat on. He suggests I tell them we’ve visitors from Panama and have to entertain them! Honestly, I feel quite full and a bit unwell due to a lack of sleep and excess eating – Nic’s share of the pastries had to be consumed as she can’t eat wheat. Gwendal does the dishes while we three muse over the day ahead. I favour going to bed now and visiting the Bidoux abode later. I get my way. The French may have invaded but les Anglais ont débarqué. Oliver understands; and he agrees that we can’t avoid our neighbours again.
So two hours after the guys have arrived they undress and redress themselves. I let J.V keep the thong; it was given to me as a freebie for a reason. I bid the lads farewell and head back to bed to rest my mad hatter head.
The Bidoux family live higher up the mountain. The heady heights afford them an expansive view of the bay which Claude, the lady of the house, insists on showing us the moment we get there. She quizzes Nic about her wheat allergy while simultaneously telling us how her garden grows so well. Their home is airy and open plan; its neatness and cleanliness is attributed to their housekeeper. Emile, Claude’s husband, is from St. Malo in Brittany but he’s a lot easier to understand than some of his Breton brothers. He was a marine and he tells us of his voyages to Scotland and Africa. More recently, in Dominica, a few local boys saw him in the street smoking a pipe and they remarked that he was Popeye. Claude is not so much Olive Oil as Lime Juice. I’m commenting purely on her love for the colour lime and not her temperament. Claude has a fluorescent lime green Renault Twingo. Her jewellery glitters green and her long-sleeved top and frilly knee-length skirt are both made of lime linen.
Emile is quite upright in both posture and his presence but he’s a kind grey-bearded, grey-eyed man whose conversation falls as softly as Irish rain. He’s a keen astronomer. He points out the voluptuous, glittering Venus in the night sky while talking animatedly about the upcoming lunar eclipse which, according to his calculations, is best seen from Vauclin.
Claude is a chatterbox and a first rate hostess. Our glasses are never empty – even if it’s only with fruit juice. And she has cooked up a feast of finger food. I swear that no less than ten different dishes are brought out – and that was before dessert appeared. Pepper and beef féroce, prawns, lambi rolls, manioc balls, sausages, chicken drumsticks and various little breaded delights are gobbled up. She even took precautions to make Nic some special wheat-free féroce treats. The conversation is as diverse as the spread. Health and hospitals crop up. There are 10 hospitals in Martinique. Claude and her friend Jeannette opposite me both work in Le Meynard – which is the biggest. Strokes, strikes, unions, the perverse photo incident in Lille, gastro epidemics and the effects dairy products have on Claude are some of the topics we touch on. Travel also features greatly and we’ve probably traversed the whole of the world by the end of the evening. Carnaval chaos, chic feather wigs, water and wells and the implicit and explicit frustration kids and patients demonstrate when you don’t know their names are all brought up for discussion.
There are also two other guests at this little get-together; Jeannette, a friend and colleague of Claude’s, and Patricia, Claude’s niece. Jeannette is of Martiniquan-Senegalese-St.Lucian heritage and she has a wealth of tales and stories to tell. She’s a doctor and mother to a famous singer – Têté. Jeannette is sitting on a rather wonky wicker couch and I keep thinking she’s going to fall off; either due to the seat’s shakiness or her constant laughter. Patricia is more reserved in both opinion and manner. She’s a primary school teacher in Schoelcher. Her phone goes off many times and her Aunt jokes that she needs a secretary. What she does need, or want rather, is advice and contacts from Jeannette. Towards the end of the evening she bites the bullet and asks her. It’s time for Nic and I to exit and everyone else seems to have the same idea. We thank our hosts, say goodbye to the dogs Tex and Rinki and bid Jeannette farewell before getting a lift down the road with Patricia.
Back at the ranch we meet Roger, Catherine and family. They admit to looking forward to a quiet Carnaval this year – due to both Arlette’s condition and societal issues surrounding the celebrations. I have indeed seen so many posters and advertisements cautioning careless carnal behaviour, advising against alcohol and drunken driving and generally warning people to be vigilant throughout the festivities.
We can hear drums and whistles in the valleys below as communes and groups gather for more intimate pre-Carnaval celebrations. There’s a Beach Wear party in the Mayflower tonight but rather than decide whether to wear my wetsuit or take my snorkel I make my way to bed. Both my wallet and my feet need a rest. Plus, after a heady past few weekends I think I actually need new heels – of both the skin and shoe sort.
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