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.