mardi 20.03.07 As well. Comme Bien. Combien? How much?
The damn buses are acting up again. I had fooled myself into thinking that this new fleet would work but it seems like the hills and gear grating has already got to them. I often think a horse and trap would be more effective, and more exhilarating, though you can beat the structure of a vehicle to shelter you from the elements. I appreciate the orangey-purple haze this morning but it’s a shepherd’s warning if ever there was one as God wrings out his sponge collection seconds before the bus arrives.
Jossylene is in. Mr Carval’s class are really unruly and I’m almost embarrassed at the commotion they cause. Mr Carval is a lovely man but he has no discipline skills and his efforts to hush the class are as futile as telling a gaggle of geese to pipe down. I just bull on with the class but by the end I feel completely sapped and it’s a good job I get to skip my next class with Madame Pamphile to talk about La Semaine des Langues with Jossylene and Elizabeth. It seems like we’ve another spectacle on our hands. It may be a week of language appreciation but one day in May will see the whole school out speaking in tongues.
Nic and I are heading to Sainte Marie this afternoon to visit our friend James. Wispy is a character and a half, however, due to his wispiness he is I should correct myself and say he’s half a character. It’s not a reflection on his personality, it’s more his manner of expression. Like any yesteryear country bumpkin from Limerick he can talk the hind legs off a donkey. It’s only when you’ve deciphered his chit-chat and filtered his epic tales you tend to find that a lot of what he said was totally redundant. Don’t get me wrong, he’s intelligent and interesting it’s just he bangs on too much about things that you end up not caring, or even remembering what you initially started talking about.
The TaxiCo from Fort-de-France only takes an hour and we’re dropped off at one end of the Sainte-Marie sprawl – right beside the Saint James rum distillery. We fight the urge to enter and instead fight our way through the throngs to the local mini-bus destined for the Le Musée de la Banane. At €7,50 this better be one big banana split of a tour. It turns out to be full of banana but lacking ice-cream. I take as many pictures as I can just to make-up for the absence of chocolate sauce and I fill the remaining void with banana cake. The dégustation consists of a drop of pure banana liquor; it wouldn’t even drown and ant or make a beetle giddy. However unsubstantial the amount the aftertaste of the liquor exudes a warmth which needs instant thirst quenching refreshment and of course there’s someone on hand to offer us a plantain punch or a banana beverage. Nic and I both go for the banana milkshake. It’s no great shakes but it’s served in a Magners glass which for me is the highlight of the visit. I dream of cider as I blow bubbles into the vicious mixture which could easily pass for dentafix more so than a milkshake.
The damn buses are acting up again. I had fooled myself into thinking that this new fleet would work but it seems like the hills and gear grating has already got to them. I often think a horse and trap would be more effective, and more exhilarating, though you can beat the structure of a vehicle to shelter you from the elements. I appreciate the orangey-purple haze this morning but it’s a shepherd’s warning if ever there was one as God wrings out his sponge collection seconds before the bus arrives.
Jossylene is in. Mr Carval’s class are really unruly and I’m almost embarrassed at the commotion they cause. Mr Carval is a lovely man but he has no discipline skills and his efforts to hush the class are as futile as telling a gaggle of geese to pipe down. I just bull on with the class but by the end I feel completely sapped and it’s a good job I get to skip my next class with Madame Pamphile to talk about La Semaine des Langues with Jossylene and Elizabeth. It seems like we’ve another spectacle on our hands. It may be a week of language appreciation but one day in May will see the whole school out speaking in tongues.
Nic and I are heading to Sainte Marie this afternoon to visit our friend James. Wispy is a character and a half, however, due to his wispiness he is I should correct myself and say he’s half a character. It’s not a reflection on his personality, it’s more his manner of expression. Like any yesteryear country bumpkin from Limerick he can talk the hind legs off a donkey. It’s only when you’ve deciphered his chit-chat and filtered his epic tales you tend to find that a lot of what he said was totally redundant. Don’t get me wrong, he’s intelligent and interesting it’s just he bangs on too much about things that you end up not caring, or even remembering what you initially started talking about.
The TaxiCo from Fort-de-France only takes an hour and we’re dropped off at one end of the Sainte-Marie sprawl – right beside the Saint James rum distillery. We fight the urge to enter and instead fight our way through the throngs to the local mini-bus destined for the Le Musée de la Banane. At €7,50 this better be one big banana split of a tour. It turns out to be full of banana but lacking ice-cream. I take as many pictures as I can just to make-up for the absence of chocolate sauce and I fill the remaining void with banana cake. The dégustation consists of a drop of pure banana liquor; it wouldn’t even drown and ant or make a beetle giddy. However unsubstantial the amount the aftertaste of the liquor exudes a warmth which needs instant thirst quenching refreshment and of course there’s someone on hand to offer us a plantain punch or a banana beverage. Nic and I both go for the banana milkshake. It’s no great shakes but it’s served in a Magners glass which for me is the highlight of the visit. I dream of cider as I blow bubbles into the vicious mixture which could easily pass for dentafix more so than a milkshake.
We arranged for the local bus driver to come back for us. In true Martiniquan fashion he’s late but he makes up for his tardiness by dropping us off in the town and helping us find another bus to take us to the beach. James has recommended we go to Anse Azerot. The waters off the Eastern coast of Martinique are generally too dangerous for bathers but this bay is tucked away from the wild waves and the crazy crowds. Firstly though we have to cross the main road; Nic and I almost risk neck and limb as we dodge a navy BMW, a bus load of military men and a few random tractors before hobbling downhill through a wooded valley. The rumble of the traffic is instantly replaced by the crashing Atlantic. As we approach a clearing in the woods we catch sight of the wicked waves beyond the sheltered bay. The wind however, is so wild here that the trees on the hills have been slicked back so much that they now resemble John Travolta’s hair in Grease. A hotel on the hill has marketed this beach as its own private sandy stretch but it’s the hidden nature of this place which keeps away the throngs of thong-wearing women and muscle men.
I’ve incurred a mystery ankle injury but the Atlantic is pleasantly refreshing and the sand is so super-soft that I forget my ailment as I float about the bay and later sink into the sand. James soon joins us. He brings the rain with him and we retreat under the unmarked trees with our umbrellas. He’s supposed to have a swimming lesson this evening but he decides to stay with us instead. As the sun sets we inch our way up another wooded path before creeping along the road verge back into town; our snail pace matches the movement of the traffic so even though we consider getting a TaxiCo we beat the navy BMW back to base.
James is a hoot. I don’t think he knows just how Irish he is. He comes out with some queer turns of phrase that only a Limerick langer would know. He’s concerned about my ankle and constantly reassures me as to our proximity to his home. In true Irish fashion the initial five minute walk turns into a half hour trek. We decide to have a quite night in with Slevin and some pork chops. I’m waited on hand and foot while James and Nic make nice rice and keep me watered with rum. James has all his home comforts with his stereo and DVD player. He also has a fine print collection to pour over if he ever needs some arty-farty stimulation.
Like us he lives under his landlady though his apartment is in a residential neighbourhood. It’s a tranquil place and the glowing streetlights and illuminated windows create a timeless quality. We sit out on the terrace expanding our minds and stomachs before retreating inside to put up our feet and put-up with Bruce Willis and Co. With the gratuitous bloodshed and betting over we settle down for the night. However three Irish people gathered together exchanging tales is a recipe for a long night and a sure consumption of all things alcoholic. Our conversations have long since entered the no holes barred realm by the time we hit the twilight zone…
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