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.
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