While the lads slept at the beach in Carbet I had a relaxing snooze in my new bed. It’s not a hub of luxury like my previous bed but once you’re out for the count who cares. J.V was almost concussed this morning when his hammock fell from on high; I guess he’s not used to being so highly strung.
There are grand plans to hit the beaches down south today but the weather dictates otherwise. The weekend can’t be wasted so we decide to mosey on down in the directions of Sainte-Anne anyway. Alex, Cecile, Seb, Francine and Oli are to follow Lionel and I to Quartier des Anglais but they don’t. Firstly, they’re not convinced that all’s sun and glory down south and secondly, when we explore Quartier des Anglais we discover that it’s just like the rural English countryside; potholes, rolling verdant hills, sheep and no beach worth talking about. Les Salines is only a short drive away so we head there instead.
With the hammock up and the sun out we spend a pleasant afternoon passed out on the beach. We feast on pineapple and coconut sorbet before taking another siesta on the best beach in Martinique; Lionel has now slept on every touristy beach on the island. I take a stroll along the strand, following the catamaran of rowdy revellers until they disappear into the setting sun. The route back is a muddy mosaic of crushed crabs. Back at base I sprawl out like a crustacean in my secured palm-tree hammock. I must only be asleep a few minutes when I feel the plop, plop of heavy, juicy raindrops. It’s time to retreat so we pack up and take to the road.
Oli calls to say he’s in Anse Mitan. He took the boat over and due to the petrol shortage there are limited crossings but that’s not the half of it. Oli has a car – he just doesn’t have any petrol. His bloody banger is stuck in Fort-de-France. We spend twenty minutes cruising about looking for him because we can’t get through to him on his mobile but eventually we spy him. I find his denseness quite funny but Lionel curses his carelessness. He must have known about the strike but he denies it. But didn’t he spend a good part of the weekend with his family who are Martiniquan… and who all have cars which possibly run on petrol not coca-cola. Passons la dessous before Oli gets a bleu…
We call around at the popote for grub. Oh dear. Quality steak and sausages again tonight. We’re all dressed up and nowhere to go as Karaoke Café is closed. It is Sunday after all – and it is Martinique, so we’re not really surprised. I’ve got work tomorrow so I’m not too fussed about returning home early but the others shimmy off to Waikiki for reggae and rum.
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