Mother’s Day again - dimanche, 13.05.07

Dimanche 13.05.07 Mother’s Day again

There’s someone next door absolutely murdering a karaoke classic this morning as Nic and I sit outside in the St. Lucian sun making plans for our day. The record changes but country and western warbling takes over and we decide to retreat inside to pack our bags. We had planned to go to the Nazarene church down the road for the 9,00 service but we were only getting served breakfast at that time.

Most of the population of St. Lucia are Catholic. There’s a small Anglican community but anyone we ask doesn’t know where exactly the Anglican Church can be found. We find the one at Soufrière later that day but I doubt there’s been a service there in the last decade as it’s a tumbledown tin and brick building letting in plenty of natural celestial light and heavenly refreshment.

Our journey to Soufrière is a long one; two hours out of Castries and we’ve gone up and down hills, around hairpins, over mountains, passed numerous snake charmers and con-artists, cruised through Marigot Bay, entertained Rainbow Man at Anse la Raye and taken snaps and inaccurate directions at Canaries before reaching a recommended hillside resort just in time for their Mother’s Day luncheon.

The spectacular Pitons at Soufrière resemble magnificent yet imposing pointed green teeth. Nestled between these two canines you find the Ladera Resort. The unusual location and unique design attracts the brave and affords expensive tastes. We take a drink in the open bar which looks down 1000ft to the bay framed by the Pitons on either side. The pool looks inviting – I’ve already dipped a toe in the Black Mud Baths but a real dip would be welcome.

Lunch is all we can afford so we’re let loose on the spectacular buffet of roast beef, pork chops, chicken wings, fried fish and the plethora of salads, vegetables and other accompaniments which make their way unto our plates. Dessert is another feast in itself with Upside-down Pudding, Bread and Butter Pudding, Banana Pie, Chocolate Cake and exotic fruit salad. For $25 it’s a mammoth meal and you can keep on refuelling if you haven’t already exploded with the first round. The house menu is more pricey and exotic with clear fruit soup with melon balls and green curry banana soup catching my interest. There’s a water pistol on each table to zap the birds but we spend most of our mealtime in awe of the amazing Pitons, the deep, lush valleys and the wonderful bay below.

Two hours later we’ve made our way back along the windy roads and random smoky Rasta hangouts to Rodney Bay where we collect Francesca, before heading for the boat. We pick up Glenda on route and we bid her and Stephen goodbye as we join the queue. The boat is late but the queues are just about bearable. The Longest Yard is showing but I’ve seen it before so I snooze. Gilbert picks Fran up at Fort-de-France and Nic and I hot-foot it to the port before getting tooted by Gilbert who brings us to our destination. A final sea trip brings us home and we soon roll into bed happy, high and red.

Eurobean - samedi, 12.05.07

Samedi 12.05.07 Eurovision in the Caribbean

Bacon. Beans. Omelette. Toast. I haven’t had such a fry-up since… Man. It has actually been so long ago I’ve forgotten. No. Hang on. I’m reaching into the choco-crispy compound which is my brain… It was St. Martin at Easter. Now that was some buffet breakfast but this one hits the spot too especially as it’s not anticipated.

Our hosts are a weird pair. They’re locals but they spend their time between here, the U.K and Canada. The lady, Ruth, basically accuses me of bringing the ants with me – whatever lady! The man of the house is more sympathetic though he’s slow and a bit dithery as he comes to the table every other minute to either rearrange the placemeats or to place some condiment within our reach. Nicam and Monika from London are our dining buddies. They’re bubbly, chatty girls on the tear around the Caribbean. They’re off to Martinique, Dominica and Guadeloupe next and then Nicam is soloing around South America until the New Year.

Although we’re tempted to stay in and watch Love Actually and dumb American commercials we hide the remote and head for Reduit Beach at Rodney Bay. We get deck-chairs and lounge for a while before the local salesmen come a-knockin. I almost get tricked into holding some leaf ornament. Nicola haggles with Michael the Coconut Carver and she buys a birdfeeder. Reduit’s not the best beach ever but the bay would indeed be a perfect place to learn how to wind-surf as it’s so calm without being totally breeze-less. It’s not long however until the water is churned up by a local vendor in his floating fruit gondola, a fleet of jet-skis and two sun-burnt girlies bumping around the bay on inflatable rings with the help of a powerboat.

St. Lucia is so small that we bump into Fran and Bex again. Bex is off to Barbados tomorrow and won’t be returning to Martinique so we arrange to meet the girls that night for a farewell dinner. Some locals want to bring us out too but we fob them off and fly off to the mall before going home to freshen up for the festival.

Stephen is one of those people who says they’re ready when you call but once you’re at the door ready to pick them up their “I’ll just be a minute” becomes a lot longer… This is his stunt all weekend. Today he’s an extra twenty minutes. Nic and I make bets to keep ourselves sane. Of course he has to buy something in the mall on the way to Pigeon Island so we spend another half an hour in the parking lot keeping our eyes peeled for him as he’s also as blind as a bat. We’ve arranged to meet the girls around 20,00 and we don’t think Stephen will be too happy to hear we’ll be leaving -the festival an hour early but we pose a phone-call once he gets into the car so he hears snippets of our mock conversation. Hee-hee…

The Jazz Festival is ace. The weather is perfect. The music is unobtrusive when necessary and lively when needed. It’s not packed out with people either so everyone has a patch of earth to call their own for the day and there’s ample stomping ground when the tunes start hopping. Festival atmosphere is chilled – just like the cool-box we’ve brought with plenty of drinks and snacks to keep us going all day. We’re comfortably close to the main stage but just outside the pit area. There’s also a huge screen to the right so we get close-ups of the acts with the flick of an eyeball.

There’s one act we want to see but when he appears it’s better to glance at him in his miniscule form. It’s Steven Segal. He has changed a lot from his movie days. He’s playing lead electric guitar with a group called Thunderbox and although he’s musically and vocally accomplished he’s not too easy on the eye. I must admit that I don’t know much about the other acts though I do enjoy what they have to offer. The main man, Al Jarreau, is a wonderful warbler but I begin to wish he’d just sing his songs in one style instead of constantly throwing his multiple personalities around the place. George Benson keeps the balance and has the crowd moving with well-known international tunes from Springsteen to Elton John. Norman Brown and Gerald Albright also make an appearance but Will Downing is in hospital which is unfortunate.

Pigeon Island National Landmark is the venue for this part of the festival. A red pillar-box post-box welcomes you at the entrance today and you follow the chiffon cones up the hill to the huge inflatable Heineken bottle until you have to decide where to go next. There are usually hikes and trails and historical landmarks to see but this weekend the steel-band band-stand, the souvenir stalls, the make-shift bars, food shacks and promotional stalls are on the festival map. There’s also a beach by the festival’s designated smoking area and Nic and I escape there to watch the sunset and to take a breather. We met an English couple in the B&B who are in St. Lucia for a friend’s wedding – the ceremony will take place at Pigeon Island but hopefully not amidst irate roadies and a semi-dismantled stage!

By the time 20,00 comes round we’re starting to feel it’s time to make a move – Stephen was reluctant to go any earlier. Even when we’ve picked up the girls he insists on going home to change. The girls are all glammed-up. Nic and I are respectable but we could do with shaking off some of the hay from our hair and my giant sparkly Murphy’s hat has to go too. We head to Buzz at Rodney Bay for dinner. It’s posh nosh but the place is pretty laid back. Fran and Bex are like jittery kids as they decide about what to eat. We end up being the last to leave and Stephen pulls our the stops by paying for the vino – I suppose he was only too glad to spend the evening with four lovely ladies! We drop him home and by the time we cruise by Glen Castle the girls are waning too.

Nic and I head to Gros Ilets for some cheap beers and some local flavour. Some guy tells us he’s going to wash, err…watch the car but we politely tell him it’s not necessary. Stray, un-spayed dogs and puppies roam about the streets outside the ramshackle bar. The rain comes once again but at least we were spared all day. Some Martiniquans are lurking around and of course they’re up to their usual tricks though a bit of English sends them packing. The Piton Beer soon sends us on our way too…

Loose in St. Lucia - vendredi, 11.05.07

Vendredi 11.05.07 Loose in St. Lucia

Passport. Check. Tickets. Check. Drivers Licence. Check. EC$Dollars or Travellers Cheques. Nicola. Check mate. Picture of freaky Martiniquan guy? I reckon I can strike that off my list. It wouldn’t be a freaky Friday without having a Martiniquan chat you up on the bus and give you a passport picture of himself with his address on the back. He distracts me and I get off the bus closer to town than to the port but I’ve plenty of time as the queue is going nowhere fast.

The barnyard chaos of the port has already started long before we arrive. Nic and I register ourselves as Irish chicks as the beefy Caribbean heifers and bullish, horny lads push and shove their way along the queue with their bags and boxes brimming with fodder for the weekend. The boat is just as packed and we’re sandwiched between an old Martiniquan couple and a younger French duo. Fran and Bex are also on the boat but the ocean motion and complaints from some die-hard film fans to move my head drive me back to my seat.

The queuing and bickering continues at the immigration check. We wait for almost an hour in the scorching sun until we’re herded into the barn once again. When we eventually get to the desk the guard has to consult his colleagues as he’s unsure whether we need a visa or not even after we’ve pointed out the gold embossed European Union lettering on our passports and told him that Ireland accessed to the EU with the U.K in 1973. Being able to speak English here is no great advantage it seems. Our Geography Flunky Friend returns and lets us through after showing us his Jazz Festival tickets. Give us one of them instead of a visa mate!

Stephen and Glenda are waiting for us at Castries in their snazzy brand-new 2.6L Hyundai Jeep. They haven’t been waiting too long for us due to the traffic. After picking up Donald and making a pit-stop at the mall and the police station we’re dropped off at our hotel in Gros Ilets. It’s actually a B&B. Tropical Breize. We’re only there five minutes when I find ants on my person. I think that’s it but in the bedroom they’re all over my bed. If my frantic swatting gestures don’t kill them the air-con should.

Stephen’s house is big enough to house my whole extended family; a friend of his rents it and he’s here for the week. Stephen did ask if we could stay but his friend was reluctant to let two wild Irish girls run riot around his mini-mansion. After the grand tour of the American-style diner kitchen, multiple sitting rooms, turret retreat and five terraces Nic and I lump ourselves in front of the modestly sized T.V with the mega bag of nachos and some beers. Wow! English language T.V. This house is enviable. We’re Irish so we can’t get much greener but this place would bring out the forty shades of green on anyone though it is missing is a pool which is a big hole in the plans. Stephen eventually shakes himself out of the power-shower and we’re off down the road to Castaways at Rodney Bay for mammoth size burger baskets, Piton Beer and over-attentive staff.

The St. Lucia Jazz Festival is in its 26th year. Last year Seal headlined. Other years have seen UB40, Earth, Wind & Fire and other big names on the main stand. John Legend is on tonight. He’s the only one I’ve heard of on this year’s programme but I’m sure I’ll get a crash course in Jazz appreciation over the weekend. The rain doesn’t take long making its way to St. Lucia. Everyone and everything is soaked but the celebrations keep going strong all night. Stephen isn’t keen on joining in on the late-night street celebrations so we leave him home before heading to the Jump Up. This weekly Friday night street party sees food, beer and local wares for sale on the streets of Gros Ilets. There’s live music and the brave are still usually partying until morning swings around. Nic and I are only there a minute when some American directs us to the cheapest beer stall. EC$3.50 for a bottle of Piton – that’s not even €1.20, and it’s damn good local beer. Damp steam rises as the crowds dance, eat and drink the night away. Local kids weave in and out among the revellers selling plantain crisps and popcorn. We’ve had our evening fun but our warm, dry bed seems like a better option tonight so it’s back to the B&B for some zzzzs.

The future’s Orange - jeudi, 10.05.07

Jeudi 10.05.07 Let there be light – the future’s Orange

Someone was revelling last night by La Playa as there are a couple of, presumably, empty champagne bottles in the shallow water beside the jetty. When I return home from school they’re sitting pretty on the steps leading to the pier.

I’m not in the mood for school today but thankfully God’s on my side. I’m only delighted to hear that I don’t have my first two classes as the CM2 are off to La Caravelle for their sports trip. I’m invited to go along too – and encouraged to ditch the CE2 classes – but they won’t be back till late and I’ve other plans.

Eduardo is counting down the days till I’m finished here; not in a malicious manner but in a hospitable way – well, as cordially as a single Martiniquan man can be I guess. He invites me on some boat trip. It may be my final outing here so I’ll consider it. Though not for too long he tells me as places are few and in demand. So it’s a two-seater dingy?! On verra. Raketa’s boyfriend’s mother is teaching in my school; she kept that under her hat. We have a chat about jealousy and misconstrued messages as I design masks for the children to make for Semaine des Langues. They’re all excited about the spectacle and some are concerned that they won’t be here for it as they’re off early on holidays – a month early in some cases. I tell them to send me a postcard!

I’ve decided that Madame Acina’s and Madame Thaly’s classes will work on the masks for the weather song while Madame Pamphile’s brood and Madame Edragas’ class will make animal masks for the jungle song. Today we wrap up with the weather before getting some serious cutting done. I’ve just enough cloud and sun masks to go around but of course everyone wants the sun. The orange one. Later, at home, I trace out the outlines for the animal masks. There are some beautiful butterflies for the garden, some cool but freaky fish for the sea and some cross-bred lion-bears for the jungle which turn out to be quite tedious to cut out though I know everyone will want them tomorrow.

The queue in Crédit Mutuel looks painfully long so I stick a stamp on my EDF letter and post it instead. The bus to Bellevue is also packed but I manage to wiggle my way on and I hop off hassle free. I’ve been looking forward to a good waxing session and this one is certainly one to note. Despite the usual lack of readable material I’m soon beckoned into the booth. I’ve just started to strip when the power goes. It’s a good job I’ve no inhibitions about bearing all for the beautician as the door is kept open to allow enough light into the room. Exposure at it’s best! At least the wax is hot and the beautician is as efficient and effervescent as per usual. I had nightmarish images of that time in Belgium that I got the cold wax job. It was not at all pleasant or effective. I ended up finding cold clumps of wax on my person for the rest of the week as I practically ran out of the place for fear of losing my skin and my sanity.

I’m home on the boat via Point du Bout and Deli France. After my fill of tuna and apple I take a nap only to be awoken by a multitude of messages. A cup of tea soon sends me back to bed until I rise as the sun is setting. With my bag packed for St. Lucia and my multiple masks prepared I settle down to Doctor Scarpetta and her latest freezer full of frozen cadavers. Michele is kindly sending some bookish diversion and my sister Roberta has promised to send me on some swot material for my driving theory test so I’ll be well read after our musical mission to St. Lucia.

English Fix - mercredi, 09.05.07

Mercredi 09.05.07 English Fix

I feel like there’s a funfair in my brain. Dorian’s blasted mobile alarm. I’m surprised nobody’s bounding out to the kitchen to douse it with water. I can’t bear to prise myself from my bed so I bear the bring-a-linging for what seems like an eternity. I close my eyes and I’m soon off to dreamland again.

Nicola and I go for an early morning swim before the rain sets in. There are a surprising number of bathers on the beach despite the looming clouds. I spy a huge starfish in the sea. No snakes are sighted today though.

Our neighbours are not up so early today; they must have run out of topics to talk or perhaps just rum. I’ve missed some calls while I was splashing about. Francine sends me some gibberish text. She hasn’t heard from Seb but it sounds like she was threatened by his ex! There’s another missed call but when I call back no body replies so I’m none the wiser.

Nicola has to work to earn her crust so she doesn’t end up eating maggots. Dorian brings us into town where we all go our separate ways. I’m off to l’Atrium. Le vent se lève (The wind that shakes the barley) is showing as part of a mini Cannes appreciation festival. It’s a numbing film; partly because of the coldness of the salle but mostly because it’s so graphic and close to home. I’m squeamish but some people actually leave the salle when fingers get chopped off with rusty pliers.

I may be numbed in the cinema but outside is still warm. I seek the coolness of Cyber Délisse before hopping on the navette home to read about young Martiniquans in Ireland, Diams in concert and to watch the latest Nouvelle Star sprogs crooning in English.

Eruptive celebrations - mardi, 08.05.07

Mardi 08.05.07 Eruptive celebrations

I’m awake at the crack of dawn. The mosquitoes are thankfully still away on vacation.

Today is Armistice Day and it’s also the 105th Anniversary of the eruption of Mont Pelée. I text Pierre-Loïc to see what he’s up to but he’s just relaxing as his work on the Chien Fèr is done. There are celebrations in Saint Pierre today – it’s the Van dan Vwèl - so J.P and I decide to hit the former capital. Everyone else has the same idea. True to the French striking style the free navettes from Fort-de-France to Saint Pierre have been cancelled so everyone is making their way North in their cars. By the time we hit Carbet the roads are chocabloc and we’re fortunate to even get parked in the shade by the beach. The trek into town is just about bearable. I’ve no pity for the poor souls in their cars trying to park as close to the action as possible.

The midday sun is beating down so we hit one of the many the snowball stands before browsing around the stalls and market place. There’s live music and dancing and there is plenty of activity on the sea with colourful yoles, swanky yachts and a pirate ship from the film Pirates of the Caribbean. Unfortunately we’ve arrived too late to take a trip on the ship but we participate in the Trempage which is a communal meal where everyone eats off the table with their hands. Volunteers have been preparing the meal for ages and when it’s ready it resembles something unspeakable but it actually tastes very good. Bread, peas, potatoes, bananas, peppers, flaked fish and breaded chicken are added bit by bit before the sauce is served and everyone takes to the table. You take a bit of what you want, mix it around in your little spot on the table and scoop it up. More snowballs are in order so J.P and I settle in the shade to watch the locals dancing. There are some jazzy tunes and I’m soon dreaming about our upcoming trip to St. Lucia.

I’m eating chi-chi in the market when a little kid bumps into me. Her mother, Blandine, works with me in Chateauboeuf. Ceri and Alex have also made the trip down to Saint Pierre. On the way home I spy Fran and Bex; they look as if they’re off to the beach.

We find the car, burn our hands on the handles and bid farewell to Mother Mary who seems to have morphed into a penguin; wishful thinking on her behalf on this scorcher of a day.
Pierre-Loïc calls me to see what plans there are for tonight but J.P has just headed home with his washing and Nic, Dorian and I have already made plans to go out for dinner. We go to La Pause at Point du Bout. Service is slow but the Americans keep us entertained as we ear-wig on their conversations. We can’t bear to stay around for more stories about spitting out sardine bones and pottery classes for kids so we head to La Cabane for drinks and drugs. Dorian is part of the navy drug’s squad so he fills us in on all the newest revelations and raids in the Caribbean. Some guys got 400 years each for a recent cocaine seizure worth over 5 billion euros! Sometimes the drugs don’t work.

Recipe for disaster - lundi, 07.05.07

Lundi 07.05.07 Recipe for disaster

It’s raining this morning and the mosquitoes are nipping at my heels as I wait under a restaurant entrance with other early risers. Fort-de-France is hidden from view by the fog today. I’ve my head in the clouds as I ramble down the capital’s streets to my destination. Someone greets me hastily as I pass by them on the narrow path but it doesn’t register until they’re past me. I think it was Richard but I can’t be sure.

We do another weather report in school today. Madame Caruge’s class apologise for not being available last week and I do likewise. Mr Duval’s class write a weather forecast while they listen to a song… How’s the weather? It’s sunny. It’s sunny today.

How’s the weather?

It’s cold. Brrr. 10°C
It’s warm. 25°C
It’s hot. 35°C

It’s raining (cats and dogs!)
It’s snowing.

It’s sunny.
It’s windy.
It’s cloudy.

The younger kids in Madame Acina’s and Madame Thaly’s classes get the same treatment only they get more arty as they design fluffy clouds and gigantic raindrops. I teach them the second part of Who’s the King of the Jungle?

Madame de la Directrice has been true to her word and she has ordered my materials for the spectacle. There’s not as much as I expected but we’ll have to make do with what we’ve got. Next week will be spent rehearsing, making masks and organising who does what.

Jossylene is in Chateauboeuf today. Boeuf! She has some evaluation sheets for me, for each pupil. Odile also arrives bearing gifts. She found a recipe for Irish pudding in a magazine. Beer and whisky and a multitude of raisons are needed. It’s a recipe for disaster, not for desert.

I’m supposed to be meeting Francine and Cecile for some shopping but the heat is on and it’s not long before I resemble a caramel sundae so I hop on the navette with Marjorie back to Trois-Ilets. Marjorie has finished her lycée teaching so she’s now funding her stay with work in The Litchi Bar and afternoon classes in Schoelcher. She doesn’t seem to pleased that her evenings are spent to-ing and fro-ing from town and Trois-Ilets but she’s made her bed and has to sleep in it – even with the heat and mosquitoes.

I’m reading a book on Météo et Santé about how the weather affects your body. I thought it’d be apt because by moving to Anse Mitan we’ve taken a dive altitude-wise but the temperature has risen noticeably.

I decide against plunging into the sea and I dive into my bed instead. Once the evening comes round I’ve cooled down considerably and am in form to join J.P and Majid in Point du Bout for a few. You just can’t escape the leering locals. About five dudes come up to us wanting to check them; one of them already has a broken hand but he insists on saluting us numerous times before Majid’s soft American accent tunes into coarser French tones as he asks them to buzz off. We invite the guys over for some Irish tea. Nic and J.P have a drop of sugar but Majid and I settle for the milk variation.

Our neighbours downstairs are having another outdoor discussion by the sounds of it. Sarkosy was the topic of conversation last night but they must either be drowning their disappointment at his election or arousing his appointment as their speech is more slurred tonight. The hostess calls up to us and invites us over so we make our way down with our patio chairs and assortment of pets. I don’t catch the girl’s name but according to their post-box it’s Angelique. I’ve already introduced myself to Remy the quiet, suffering boyfriend whose keeping up his act tonight as his angel becomes increasingly loud and cringe-worthingly tipsy. They have four French friends over. Maria and Maeva are staying for three weeks. Arnold and Loïc are here on holiday for what seems like an undetermined amount of time; their tans are proof of this. Angelique can speak English and she keeps telling us that she wants to improve her English. Nicola, always the business woman, tells her that she can give her lessons for a fee – beer could be considered also. The night rolls on and Angelique rolls about the place while the rest of us chat as quietly as we can trying to compensate for her animated antics.

ICDC - dimanche, 06.05.07

dimanche 06.05.07 I see the sea

Nic and I go for an early morning swim as we get off the boat. There’s a lady walking her dog at this ungodly hour of the day but I think we’re the mad ones.

The rest of the day is spent in bed. There’s nothing else that needs slumber and tranquillity more so than my knackered body and soul. For the first time since we came here the mosquitoes leave me alone.

Washing machin - samedi, 05.05.07

Samedi 05.05.07 Washing machin

Boom. Boom. It’s great to wake up to the sound of hopping beach tunes filtering through the air. The beach is always animated and this morning it’s bouncing with Bob Marley. Our washing machine is also bouncing, but even though it’s the weekend it shouldn’t be doing that.

Ring. Ring. I get a call from the residential reception to tell me that a repairman will be around before lunch; I can hear them phone me as my window is open and the reception is only a sweeping-brush stroke away.

Knock. Knock. I arrive at the door in my full length night dress – seductive! They ask if I’m Canadian; I suppose I do have an Alanis Morrisette look about me this morning. I hop over to the Irish flag and tell them otherwise before offering them some Irish tea. The repairman offers me ten euro cent; it was the reason our machine was going mad.

I had arranged to meet Cecile and Francine at the beach but I’ve been busy doing nothing all morning and by the time I hit Point du Bout they’re ready to return to Fort-de-France. I’ve brought my laptop with me so it wouldn’t have been the smartest thing to bring it to the beach anyway. It’s lunchtime and so I settle into the Wifi restaurant to try out their connection and continental salad. The salads nice and I can pick up the Wifi but for some reason unknown to me I can’t actually connect to the internet.

I reckon I’ve been baked enough today so I head home to sort through those boxes and bags which are waiting for me in the corner of my room. Evening time swings around and I’m still up to my ankles in paper and trinkets.

Nic has been away all afternoon giving private lessons. We make plans for the night and decide to bite the bullet by taking the last boat over to Fort-de-France. The company we usually travel with, Madiana, leaves Point du Bout at 21,30 so we’re there in plenty of time to inquire about the rival companies services. According to France-Antilles newspaper Navettes du Soleil have a midnight run and a 01,00 run from Fort-de-France. But as we’re sitting in the Terminal Café sipping our Leffes and eating pumpkin pastries I can clearly see that no such service exists. We wander down to the Mayflower. Francine and some weirdo girl are standing outside McDonald’s and they later follow us into the bar. There’s hardly a soul on board but there is a baby mouse in the house. One of the barmaids picks it up and everyone makes a spectacle of it.

We’ve met Nicolas, Nicolas’ friend, at the bar and us three hang out all night. Once the Mayflower shuts it’s down the road we go to Little Buddha. Nicolas is wearing sandals and we have to barter with the bouncer to let him in. We’re going to splash out on expensive drinks as it is so he obliges and we’re soon sipping on vodka and spinning around the dance floor. I meet some people from Schoelcher and we boogy the night away until Dawn comes and brings the early navette with her.

Bean's in Cannes - vendredi, 04.05.07

Vendredi 04.05.07 Bean's in Cannes

The kids are a bit restless today and some of them are even sad that they only have a half day of school. The school is being used as a voting station for Sunday’s deuxième tour of the French Presidential Election and even at 10,00 there are workers out and about the yard fixing up the place for the Ségo/Sarko race.

There’s not much racing being done today on the roads of Martinique. There’s a motor mobilised protest on around Fort-de-France. Some groups are demonstrating for their rights. I’m not exactly sure as to what rights they’re driving for but it brings the traffic to a standstill. I’m waiting for Nicola at the port as we’re going to enquire about a trip to St. Lucia but in the end she’s stuck on the motorway with a cop car cruising alongside, intimidating her.

I’m lucky I arrived when I did because the ticket office queue doesn’t take long to resemble the chaos on the roads. I bite the bullet and get us two tickets for St. Lucia for next weekend. €85 return. It’s the Jazz Festival weekend and all. Sweet. I’ve enough time to pop across to EDF and the lady at the desk (however slow she is) clears up some code concerns I have.

I haven’t had time to scrutinise the boat timetables but every time I arrive at the jetty in Fort-de-France the boat only seems to be going to Point du Bout. It doesn’t make much odds though as the walk home is pleasant and I get to splash along the strand until I reach Anse Mitan. Back at home I’m ready to tuck into my lunch when Cecile calls me. Herself and Francine are heading to the beach at Point du Bout. I hadn’t really intended going back but once my Mum texts to say there’s bad news from home I gobble down my food and head thataway.

I meet a croppy-haired Sonia outside the bungalow. She’s settling in well but she doesn’t have much of a weekend as she’s preparing for the Well Being Seminar. I ask her if she knows William, our former Belgium neighbour but she doesn’t. She appreciates me dropping in her post we received and wishes me a good time at the beach. I’ve no sooner turned the corner than two guys in coast up to me asking where the beach is. There are some tiny beaches along the coast but I send them in the direction of the strand.

I try to call Ireland using the call cards I have but even though they’re not wasted nobody replies.

While I’m here I wander about the environs. There’s a beautician’s nearby and I wonder if it’d be worth my while changing my allegiance. Not a chance. €10 for pits is a rip-off and €18 for down below is below-the-belt madness. I’ll just have to hike up to Bellevue again for my usual waxathons.

I head to the beach for a bake and a splash before deciding to head back home for whatever doom and gloom awaits me. I meet the girls en route. They’ve been browsing around the Créole Village but we arrange to meet again over the weekend.

I phone my Mum for the bad news update. My Aunt’s neice, my childhood friend, Heather was assaulted and beaten up while on holiday in Salou, Spain. She was separated from her friends after coming out of a club and some Moroccan guy came on to her. She resisted his advances and tried to run but ended up on the ground getting the shit kicked out of her. Some American tourists called the police but when they arrived he was still kicking her. She’s at home now; withdrawn with broken teeth and a fractured jaw, and bruised morally and physically. The bastard was caught and could do up to 15 years as it’s considered as sexual assault. Mum gives me the usual personal safety advice before my credit runs out; you never do know who you’ll meet or what obstacles you’ll run into.

I can pick-up Wifi on my laptop so I go a’knockin’ on my neighbours doors to see if anyone can help me out. Only one guy is in. Remy. He lives downstairs with his girlfriend. They’ve been here since September. He’s a mechanic and she’s a logistical co-ordinator. They’re from the south-west of France somewhere and no they don’t have Wifi, just cable. They don’t own the cats either. I leave Remy to his newspaper.
Nicola and I watch Mr. Bean tonight. There are some funny moments but as he’s off to Cannes there’s that pretentious cinematic element to contend with. I’ll not be passing through France for a while yet but for the moment my bed is beckoning so that’s we’re I’m bound.

A Beautiful Creature - jeudi, 03.05.07

Jeudi 03.05.07 A Beautiful Creature

I wake up this morning with that confused and dazed feeling that something is amiss but I just can’t put my finger on it. It takes about ten seconds for the recesses of my brain to wake up to reality. Oh yeah. Now I remember. There’s a certain emptiness or numbness that I can’t centralise. It’s like dread before an exam or interview; you know it’s impending but when it’s over all recedes and you wonder why you even felt that way. The guys aren’t even gone yet. They won’t be hitting the sky until this evening. I did mean to watch the sky for their plane but I’m napping when the time comes around.

Today is the first time I’ll actually be taking the navette to school. It’s so peaceful and tranquil just sitting at the water’s edge and it’s reassuring to actually see it gliding across the bay instead of straining your ears for the sound of hydraulics. I’ll be taking the 6,40 boat from now on. In sleep time that’s an extra hour in bed for me.

There are some other early risers out for a dip in the ocean. A fluffy little dog follows his owner along the jetty. Business men swagger past with their shiny briefcases and swanky secretaries clip-clop along the planks with various degrees of difficulty. The boat is packed and the lulling motion is dangerously soothing. The fascination of my new route to school distracts me from the day’s initial thoughts. I’m on the bus to Chateauboeuf when my mobile sounds; thoughts for the day… and the future.

If I didn’t have school I’d probably just become a recluse for the day. There’s a certain driving force that I love about my job here: it’s the satisfaction you glean from seeing that they, the kids, truly, profoundly understand; the pride you feel upon hearing their thoughts, reactions and responses; and the encouragement you receive from knowing that however little they learn linguistically they will hopefully always remember this experience in a positive, self-enriching way.

We’re working on the weather this week. It’s an integral part of our agenda for La Semaine des Langues and even though I’ve missed two days this week it isn’t too taxing.

I have my trusty homemade images at hand and so they’re up on the board to illustrate the gestures we do:

It’s cold.
It’s warm.
It’s hot.

I explain the elements of cold, hot and warm by using taps and different water temperatures as well as pizza. It’s always a winner – even at 8 o’clock in the morning.

Where’s my jumper? I ask before putting it on, heating up and taking it off to physically illustrate the way the weather works.

It’s raining.
It’s snowing.

It’s raining cats and dogs. Well, thankfully it isn’t today but this is what I tell the pupils so they can anchor the word.

It’s raining. Where’s my umbrella? There it is.

Everyone’s recesses are getting a mental workout today as I tease the word snow out of their minds. Snowman. Snowball. Snowflake. It’s snowing.

It’s sunny. Where are my sunglasses? Here they are.

I explain the differences between regular glasses and sunglasses.

Sun. Wind. Cloud. Glasses. They are all nouns.

It’s windy. There’s no shortage of wind even if it is from a ventilator!

It’s cloudy. One cloud. Two clouds. I make the kids guess the phrase which corresponds and it does click with some of them.

We play the listen and touch game before getting out the tickets, mixing them up and having a time trial to rearrange them. With the younger kids I remove a ticket while they close their eyes and they subsequently have to guess which is missing.

I then ask them: How’s the weather today? I use a phone scenario where I call home, in Ireland, and ask my mother the above question. I then say that it’s windy but warm in Martinique before asking the kids to tell me what they think the weather is like today. It’s warm. It’s hot! It’s windy. It’s sunny. It’s cloudy.

Next up its Le Météo! Pupils take it in turns to play Weather Man/Girl. They take to the stage, take the pointer and ask someone How’s the weather today?

The weather subject is a bit heavy for the younger kids and they like to move so I teach them the second amended verse of Who’s the King of the Ocean? Using the whale image, between rounds of Do this! Do that! I did consider teaching them Incy Wincy Spider (that would correct their pronunciation of Spider Man… not Speeder Man) but I don’t.

I apologise to the pupils for not been present on Monday. How are you? I’m not very well. I tell them about my sore throat. Madame Acina tells me that one teacher thought I had gone home to Ireland without bidding them farewell. I think she got her wires crossed; I was moving house and I had friends who were leaving.

I queue for ages in the Post Office to send off my change of address correspondence.

The first people I spot when I get off the boat in Point du Bout are army dudes; the short hair and yukky green knapsacks are a giveaway. On the stroll home I spy Jasmine, Ceri and Alex. I don’t stop to make idle chat. I’m tired and I’m mesmerised by the crystal clearness and brilliant bluey-greeness of the sea.

It seems like we have our own HawkEyes II here in Anse Mitan. René is holding the fort while Natalie is away. He intercepts me as I’m about to mount the stairs by fluttering an envelope from the window and beckoning me up to the office. EDF have been very efficient and effective in getting back to me – though they just want my money.

Back at the ranch I munch on some melon before drifting off for the evening. I wake to the evening news and Donald McDonald who is outlining Scotland’s prospects for sustainable indigenous business if they gain independence. The petrol strike in Martinique is also off and fuel is being pumped into the country as I type.

Nicola arrives home and we try to solve the world’s problems on the terrace. Stephen gave us a bottle of lime flavoured Clement rum as a house-warming gift so that heats us up. This time tomorrow the guys will probably all at home with their parents, girlfriends, wives, children and cats.

We’ve a pet cat. Dorian inadvertently called her Rowan and it has stuck ever since. She’s agile enough to jump across the divide between our terrace and the wilderness beyond but her little kittens are stranded. She meows and purrs and sticks her head in the fridge so often that I wouldn’t be surprised if we find her frozen next to the watermelon some day soon. She cries like a baby but she animates the place when nobody else is around. I give her some of the restaurant leftovers and a drop of milk before pegging some duck bits into the garden. I hope the cats don’t turn into rats. Uggh.

The Three Widows - mercredi, 02.05.07

Mercredi 02.05.07 The Three widows

I haven’t forgotten about our proposed rendezvous at the regiment today but when midday clocks around without a hoot from the troops I begin to make other plans. I’ve just packed my beach bag when the mobile hops. An hour later I’ve taken the navette to Fort-de-France and am sunning myself outside the Mayflower as I wait for Francine and Cecile take their showers, apply their waterproof mascara and stock up on tissues.

The regiment looks totally desolate. The guys have really cleaned up! A battered estate car careers into the parking lot, hops up on to the kerb and out pop seven lads in oh-so-sexy short polyester sports shorts and breathable track vest tops. I was only joking when I said they were probably rehearsing their Full Monty routine for us but here they are in nothing more than synthetic skin.

The afternoon is very subdued. On one hand I don’t want to be there but I am. Sarko and Ségo are battling it out in the audiovisual room so I join J.V, Ludo, Christophe and Nicolas in the coolness of the air-conned conference room which contrasts greatly with the heat of the aired debate. Weather-wise it’s a pleasant evening so once the chill factor kicks in I pop outside for goyave punch with the rest of the gang. Gwendal’s already getting a bit teary eyed. I do worry for him especially when I later spy his hat and dossier in the stores. His mental slip-ups can be excused today but I hope he doesn’t slip any further…

Lionel, Benoit and Cedric are all tricking around with computers. My laptop is given the once over again and I’m instructed on how to clean it every month. I pop on the net for a while and I’m just about to fire off an email when I’m told that the boss is back and he doesn’t take too kindly to people using his computer. My mail to Michele is sent in a jiffy. I had wanted to send some pics of the motley crew but it was about as timely as taking pics this evening. For once there are no flashes to contend with. As the night creeps round joviality picks up a bit. Music slowly filters in with other well wishers and remaining staff and soldiers who have come to bid the boys goodbye. Nobody’s jumping for joy at the prospect of going home but as J.V put it it was a mission first and foremost but it will remain a part of their lives. Champagne is brought out and a few good-time cheers are let out.

Francine and Cecile did the shopping earlier and have rustled up spaghetti carbonara for the last supper. It’s tasty and Bertrand does get a helping even if he is being a pain in the arse! Bertrand has another few months here so he’s not budging yet.

Everyone’s all talk about hopping the wall for a last night on the tiles. The guys are supposed to have evacuated the popote by 21,30 but it’s well after midnight when they’re turfed out. The other troop is arriving tonight and they will be occupying the dorms that the guys cleaned with care today and yesterday. Also with the arrival of the others comes the changing of the guard concerning the popote. I return from the heat of the audio-visual suite to see four extra bodies outside the popote. They seem somewhat relegated to the sidelines for the moment but no doubt they’ll leave their own souvenirs behind in the hut once their four month stint clocks round.

None of the lads like the prospect of sleeping in the barn tonight but that’s where they’ll be; huddled up like pigs in a pen. The only person who is not blocked tonight is Oliver – and that’s only because he’s working. He’s finished at 23,00 but by midnight he still hasn’t appeared. It turns out that himself and Nicola are out for a late night meal and she drops him back just as I’m leaving with the girls.

Goodbyes are never nice, especially when you know deep down that the chances of meeting one another again are slim to none. I’m not in the same situation as Francine and Cecile; Francine is moving to France in a few months to be with Seb and to have her cancer treatment and Cecile will be back to work in Paris at the end of the summer so she can get back on track with Alex then if everything’s still hunky-dory. I joke that we should hit Coconuts – we can dance our socks off and make the guys jealous, but the sad reality is that we’re on our way to Trois-Ilets. You usually go to Trois-Ilets to bathe in the sea but we almost drown in the car as we let the floodgates open; the road may be blocked but other things aren’t.

By the time I’m dropped home I’ve been steadied and sobered though I could do with a towel to dry up my tears. Oliver must be a mind reader because he has left me a very useful present – a towel of Martinique. I think I’ll start a towel collection as I’ve already got a Canaries one and I recently acquired a Hawaiki Nui Va’a one. Pleure pas ti sirène.