mercredi 21.03.07 Just one leg to stand on
For a change I’m awoken by something which buzzes mechanically, not naturally, as Nicola’s mobile alarm burrs mutedly under her gigantic purple flower-patterned pillow. I’m happy to say I had a pleasant shared night’s sleep with her in James’ pull-out sofa bed; I always wanted one of those when I was younger.
Since I’m the first to stir - and since I was waited on hand and foot last night, I reckon it’s my turn to churn out a meal. We soon sit down to a feast of fried eggs, boiled frankfurters, fresh bread, yummy yogurts and pricey pressed juice as the coffee chirps away to itself just as James’ perky proprietor does this morning. Like many a créole creature she’s pottering around at the crack of dawn. This morning the laundry basket and hose make an appearance as she does her chores. I don’t tend to agree with James that créole people lie to themselves as such by exaggerating their situations, regurgitating experiences and complaining non-stop. I think it’s a universal thing – old age.
Nic and I get the TaxiCo back to Fort-de-France at 8,00 and we’re back at the Savanne before 9,00. Perhaps the journey is not always so quick and hitch-free but I would like to think that you could be an assistant living the good beach life in Sainte-Marie by evening and working in the capital by day. The beach life is indeed desirable and as we’re in town we decide to go with an accommodation tip-off Nic got from a teacher. Supposedly the Tourism Office has accommodation advertisements. However it’s a good job we didn’t rent that lorry, pack our stuff and weigh all our hope on the workers in the colonial-style structure as they have nothing suitable for us.
Home is where our own mad créole woman is. And matching underwear. And girly shampoo. Nicola takes to her bed while I get ready for my day; I’ve a private lesson in half an hour and then I’ve to decide which beach I’m going to turn into a whale at this afternoon. Between taking a shower and packing my bag I fire out a few texts for possible seaside ventures. There are three options: i) go to Tartane with other assistants for Maria’s birthday, ii) head to an anonymous cove with David and some other IUFM dudes or iii) go to Anse Mitan. By the time I’ve finished my lesson with Morgane I’ve made up my mind, actually, my decision was made by playing inny-meany-miney-mo with her toys while she went off to find the leprechaun she coloured in last week.
Anse Mitan it is. It’s close by. Alex, Lionel and Sebastian will be there. And I can call into Léa and see how our potential residence is coming along. Plus I have an extra return ticket which saves me a few bob on the boat.
Sitting at the bow of the boat entitles you to complementary ocean spray. Some entrepreneurs have bottled this stuff and made a mint but the spontaneity of the spray is what I want for my money. I’ve started reading The Road to McCarthy and although it made it across the Atlantic perfectly intact - after two weeks in a paper envelope, it ages more in the 20 minutes it takes to cross the bay to Trois Ilets. I’m reading a part in the book about the Titanic in Cork when a colossal splash lands on deck, does the splits and spits all over the outdoor passengers - and the pages of my book. Drenched is not the word. But like any water offering here this instant irrigation is it’s more refreshing than irritating. And besides the sun soaks up the liquid lashings in no time leaving salty grains which add sparkle and shine to our bronzed backs.
I spy Léa in her usual spot – by the plant trellis in the main lounge. The T.V isn’t on for once but you probably couldn’t hear a thing for the construction going on next door. Work is being done on our probably apartment but Léa is straight and says that unless all the materials are in by the weekend she can’t see anyone moving in before mid-May. She will get back to me. Of course… Let me move those words around and add some punctuation: Will she get back to me?
I’m surprised that hardly anyone is on the beach today. The lads are still on their way so I settle between a topless Scandinavian-looking bird and a fine, but equally pasty, music-bopping lad. McCarthy has had time to paddle across the Atlantic by the time the lads come. I languish in the sun a bit longer before finally feeling the burn factor and seeking ease in the sea. There’s also a bit of a burning sensation radiating from my left ankle. With my lesson money I bought a foot support and although I don’t think it’ll become the next hip beach accessory it does give me some comfort. The hour or so spend floating in the sea also eases my ankle. Lionel joins me and tries to urge me to swim to the buoys about 100 metres out. Not a chance. But two minutes later I’ve swam about a third of the way out. I’m not panicked but I’m out of my depth so I make my way back to the shallows where I’m happy to bob on the waves and paddle up and down the bay.
Although there are very few people out today the skin:swimsuit ratio is still about 50:50 as the number of topless people balance out the number of people in swimsuits. Three girls near me are making waves in their plain racer-back costumes. Not only are they showing more blue lycra than skin but they’re also wearing their sunglasses and baseball caps in the water. The tourist season is winding up but the silly season is splashing and kicking in the Caribbean as well.
All afternoon I wonder if we’ll clap eyes on Olivier and his girls; The Two Sophie’s. The lads haven’t seen Olivier since last week. If he’s not under the thumb or under the sea he must be caught under something else… Sebastian joins Lionel and I in the sea and we watch Alex working his charms on the pasty Scandinavian-looking chick. He doesn’t care what nationality she resembles for he’s only looking at her tits anyway. She’s from Nantes and seems to be a bit of a lady of leisure. Alex arranges to meet her for breakfast on the beach; even if she’s stood up she can always lie down and fry eggs on her oiled body. Sebastian also has a girl on the go. She’s from Nouvelle-Caledonia and is working in a friterie with her obsessively annoying uncle who supposedly drives her crazy.
As daytime disappears our hunger rises. We head to Point du Bout for grub. Lionel and I order first while the others linger with their ladies. Benoit, with the dodgy beard, appears from around a corner with his wife and baby. I remember him from a night out in Lil Buddha. Lionel hasn’t seen him and when Benoit dangles his baby’s hands over Lionel’s head and makes goo-goo-ga-ga noises it nearly becomes too much for the waiting waitress who is there to take our orders.
I’m certain Lionel understood what Benoit’s baby said as Tahitian seems like a gibberish of baby gurgles. Nana is goodbye. Iaorana is hello. Maururu is thanks. Mai i nau is please. Manuica is cheers. Mamu is shut-up. C’hue te uru? How are you? Maitabi roa. Fine. Maina tram ea. Give me that. Ei (eh). Yes. Aita (eye-ee-tay). No. Te mana (power) no te atua (of God). And from my banana education yesterday I learnt that Fe’i is a plantain from Tahiti.
After taking the boat back to Fort-de-France we bundle into the Mayflower. It’s empty. Michel is at the bar and Marianne and Baptist are playing pool. There’s a new chick at the bar. She’s a bit slow but at least she doesn’t insist on showing off her knickers or her nipples - depending on whether she’s wearing bottoms or a dress. That was Celine’s trait. She’s gone. She had her farewell party last night as she has decided to follow her boyfriend back to the Metropole.
Lionel brings me to the bus stop as it’s the last one, it’s late and it’s dark; I’m also female, white and an invalid. The bus driver is a bit of a grump but he’s a speed demon and I’m home in no time.
Nicola finally roused herself for a private lesson this evening with Christian. He lives further away than anticipated and he’s a bit nosy but money talks. The frenzy of frantic calls from Rosamonde almost had my head muddled but finally Nicola calls her back. Supposedly she’s only looking for a map of Dublin for Fred. It all sounds a bit backwards to me. Nic’s to meet a girl called Priscilla tomorrow – who is also going to Dublin, and we suspect they’re in cahoots.
Nic and I join up to capture a giant moth. It flew into my room just as Nic was locking up for the night. We must look like a comedy duo; Nic with the long handled dustpan and me with my wide-brimmed felt hat. It’s a pity nobody was about to capture it – both the bug and our actions! A yawn is the only sign I need to head to bed. Between bites, sunburn and a burning ankle I have plenty of things to take to knock me out.
For a change I’m awoken by something which buzzes mechanically, not naturally, as Nicola’s mobile alarm burrs mutedly under her gigantic purple flower-patterned pillow. I’m happy to say I had a pleasant shared night’s sleep with her in James’ pull-out sofa bed; I always wanted one of those when I was younger.
Since I’m the first to stir - and since I was waited on hand and foot last night, I reckon it’s my turn to churn out a meal. We soon sit down to a feast of fried eggs, boiled frankfurters, fresh bread, yummy yogurts and pricey pressed juice as the coffee chirps away to itself just as James’ perky proprietor does this morning. Like many a créole creature she’s pottering around at the crack of dawn. This morning the laundry basket and hose make an appearance as she does her chores. I don’t tend to agree with James that créole people lie to themselves as such by exaggerating their situations, regurgitating experiences and complaining non-stop. I think it’s a universal thing – old age.
Nic and I get the TaxiCo back to Fort-de-France at 8,00 and we’re back at the Savanne before 9,00. Perhaps the journey is not always so quick and hitch-free but I would like to think that you could be an assistant living the good beach life in Sainte-Marie by evening and working in the capital by day. The beach life is indeed desirable and as we’re in town we decide to go with an accommodation tip-off Nic got from a teacher. Supposedly the Tourism Office has accommodation advertisements. However it’s a good job we didn’t rent that lorry, pack our stuff and weigh all our hope on the workers in the colonial-style structure as they have nothing suitable for us.
Home is where our own mad créole woman is. And matching underwear. And girly shampoo. Nicola takes to her bed while I get ready for my day; I’ve a private lesson in half an hour and then I’ve to decide which beach I’m going to turn into a whale at this afternoon. Between taking a shower and packing my bag I fire out a few texts for possible seaside ventures. There are three options: i) go to Tartane with other assistants for Maria’s birthday, ii) head to an anonymous cove with David and some other IUFM dudes or iii) go to Anse Mitan. By the time I’ve finished my lesson with Morgane I’ve made up my mind, actually, my decision was made by playing inny-meany-miney-mo with her toys while she went off to find the leprechaun she coloured in last week.
Anse Mitan it is. It’s close by. Alex, Lionel and Sebastian will be there. And I can call into Léa and see how our potential residence is coming along. Plus I have an extra return ticket which saves me a few bob on the boat.
Sitting at the bow of the boat entitles you to complementary ocean spray. Some entrepreneurs have bottled this stuff and made a mint but the spontaneity of the spray is what I want for my money. I’ve started reading The Road to McCarthy and although it made it across the Atlantic perfectly intact - after two weeks in a paper envelope, it ages more in the 20 minutes it takes to cross the bay to Trois Ilets. I’m reading a part in the book about the Titanic in Cork when a colossal splash lands on deck, does the splits and spits all over the outdoor passengers - and the pages of my book. Drenched is not the word. But like any water offering here this instant irrigation is it’s more refreshing than irritating. And besides the sun soaks up the liquid lashings in no time leaving salty grains which add sparkle and shine to our bronzed backs.
I spy Léa in her usual spot – by the plant trellis in the main lounge. The T.V isn’t on for once but you probably couldn’t hear a thing for the construction going on next door. Work is being done on our probably apartment but Léa is straight and says that unless all the materials are in by the weekend she can’t see anyone moving in before mid-May. She will get back to me. Of course… Let me move those words around and add some punctuation: Will she get back to me?
I’m surprised that hardly anyone is on the beach today. The lads are still on their way so I settle between a topless Scandinavian-looking bird and a fine, but equally pasty, music-bopping lad. McCarthy has had time to paddle across the Atlantic by the time the lads come. I languish in the sun a bit longer before finally feeling the burn factor and seeking ease in the sea. There’s also a bit of a burning sensation radiating from my left ankle. With my lesson money I bought a foot support and although I don’t think it’ll become the next hip beach accessory it does give me some comfort. The hour or so spend floating in the sea also eases my ankle. Lionel joins me and tries to urge me to swim to the buoys about 100 metres out. Not a chance. But two minutes later I’ve swam about a third of the way out. I’m not panicked but I’m out of my depth so I make my way back to the shallows where I’m happy to bob on the waves and paddle up and down the bay.
Although there are very few people out today the skin:swimsuit ratio is still about 50:50 as the number of topless people balance out the number of people in swimsuits. Three girls near me are making waves in their plain racer-back costumes. Not only are they showing more blue lycra than skin but they’re also wearing their sunglasses and baseball caps in the water. The tourist season is winding up but the silly season is splashing and kicking in the Caribbean as well.
All afternoon I wonder if we’ll clap eyes on Olivier and his girls; The Two Sophie’s. The lads haven’t seen Olivier since last week. If he’s not under the thumb or under the sea he must be caught under something else… Sebastian joins Lionel and I in the sea and we watch Alex working his charms on the pasty Scandinavian-looking chick. He doesn’t care what nationality she resembles for he’s only looking at her tits anyway. She’s from Nantes and seems to be a bit of a lady of leisure. Alex arranges to meet her for breakfast on the beach; even if she’s stood up she can always lie down and fry eggs on her oiled body. Sebastian also has a girl on the go. She’s from Nouvelle-Caledonia and is working in a friterie with her obsessively annoying uncle who supposedly drives her crazy.
As daytime disappears our hunger rises. We head to Point du Bout for grub. Lionel and I order first while the others linger with their ladies. Benoit, with the dodgy beard, appears from around a corner with his wife and baby. I remember him from a night out in Lil Buddha. Lionel hasn’t seen him and when Benoit dangles his baby’s hands over Lionel’s head and makes goo-goo-ga-ga noises it nearly becomes too much for the waiting waitress who is there to take our orders.
I’m certain Lionel understood what Benoit’s baby said as Tahitian seems like a gibberish of baby gurgles. Nana is goodbye. Iaorana is hello. Maururu is thanks. Mai i nau is please. Manuica is cheers. Mamu is shut-up. C’hue te uru? How are you? Maitabi roa. Fine. Maina tram ea. Give me that. Ei (eh). Yes. Aita (eye-ee-tay). No. Te mana (power) no te atua (of God). And from my banana education yesterday I learnt that Fe’i is a plantain from Tahiti.
After taking the boat back to Fort-de-France we bundle into the Mayflower. It’s empty. Michel is at the bar and Marianne and Baptist are playing pool. There’s a new chick at the bar. She’s a bit slow but at least she doesn’t insist on showing off her knickers or her nipples - depending on whether she’s wearing bottoms or a dress. That was Celine’s trait. She’s gone. She had her farewell party last night as she has decided to follow her boyfriend back to the Metropole.
Lionel brings me to the bus stop as it’s the last one, it’s late and it’s dark; I’m also female, white and an invalid. The bus driver is a bit of a grump but he’s a speed demon and I’m home in no time.
Nicola finally roused herself for a private lesson this evening with Christian. He lives further away than anticipated and he’s a bit nosy but money talks. The frenzy of frantic calls from Rosamonde almost had my head muddled but finally Nicola calls her back. Supposedly she’s only looking for a map of Dublin for Fred. It all sounds a bit backwards to me. Nic’s to meet a girl called Priscilla tomorrow – who is also going to Dublin, and we suspect they’re in cahoots.
Nic and I join up to capture a giant moth. It flew into my room just as Nic was locking up for the night. We must look like a comedy duo; Nic with the long handled dustpan and me with my wide-brimmed felt hat. It’s a pity nobody was about to capture it – both the bug and our actions! A yawn is the only sign I need to head to bed. Between bites, sunburn and a burning ankle I have plenty of things to take to knock me out.
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