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.
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