dimanche 01.04.07 The look of the Irish
It may be April Fool’s Day but we reassure our guests that it’s no joke that we’ve to be up at the crack of dawn; our flight is at 10, 00 and the rental car has to be left back to the location about 15 minutes from the airport but it doesn’t open until 8, 00 so co-ordination is everything. There’s a group of about twenty young Martiniquan’s hanging around the Europcar depot but they are just hangin’. We wait outside the office entrance twiddling our thumbs and getting excited about our trip when a Europcar personnel appears behind a rolling gate and beckons us in. The car is checked, the boot cleared and the keys returned when we’re told that there is no navette to the Airport. He must be pulling our legs, isn’t he? But no, it’s our legs which will be strained if we have to walk along the motorway to the Airport.
Despite the early morning fog and confusion there is clarity; our army friends are only just coming home from a night out at Coconuts and they are being ferried back and forth down the motorway as we speak. In no time at all another white Clio appears and we bundle in with our Campus chevalier Lionel. We’re fortunate to have such obliging military mates – although it takes an instant in the car we’d probably be at pains to find a taxi or another chauffeur today. On the other hand we needn’t have worried because when we arrive at Airport Aimée Cesaire it is deserted. By 9,15 our flight still hasn’t been called. I decide to wander from the pack. The airport is tiny so it doesn’t take me long to eliminate the AirFrance highfliers from the AirAntilles Express crowd. Check in is soon underway and we shuffle into line pretty rapidly.
John has been complaining that we haven’t introduced him to any lovely ladies yet. He has been bird-watching since he came here and his attempts to attract have been so futile that he has now resorted to making a mental list of all the different car marks on the island. I spy Avian, a Trinidadian assistante, and I introduce them. He takes her hand but he’s not taken. She’s taking off to Dominica for the entire Easter holidays and we bid her bon voyage as we get sucked in by the check-in crew.
It may be April Fool’s Day but we reassure our guests that it’s no joke that we’ve to be up at the crack of dawn; our flight is at 10, 00 and the rental car has to be left back to the location about 15 minutes from the airport but it doesn’t open until 8, 00 so co-ordination is everything. There’s a group of about twenty young Martiniquan’s hanging around the Europcar depot but they are just hangin’. We wait outside the office entrance twiddling our thumbs and getting excited about our trip when a Europcar personnel appears behind a rolling gate and beckons us in. The car is checked, the boot cleared and the keys returned when we’re told that there is no navette to the Airport. He must be pulling our legs, isn’t he? But no, it’s our legs which will be strained if we have to walk along the motorway to the Airport.
Despite the early morning fog and confusion there is clarity; our army friends are only just coming home from a night out at Coconuts and they are being ferried back and forth down the motorway as we speak. In no time at all another white Clio appears and we bundle in with our Campus chevalier Lionel. We’re fortunate to have such obliging military mates – although it takes an instant in the car we’d probably be at pains to find a taxi or another chauffeur today. On the other hand we needn’t have worried because when we arrive at Airport Aimée Cesaire it is deserted. By 9,15 our flight still hasn’t been called. I decide to wander from the pack. The airport is tiny so it doesn’t take me long to eliminate the AirFrance highfliers from the AirAntilles Express crowd. Check in is soon underway and we shuffle into line pretty rapidly.
John has been complaining that we haven’t introduced him to any lovely ladies yet. He has been bird-watching since he came here and his attempts to attract have been so futile that he has now resorted to making a mental list of all the different car marks on the island. I spy Avian, a Trinidadian assistante, and I introduce them. He takes her hand but he’s not taken. She’s taking off to Dominica for the entire Easter holidays and we bid her bon voyage as we get sucked in by the check-in crew.
Our plane is a small white 60-seater with colourful, exotic flower patterns on the tail. Inside there’s an even more intriguing mix of passengers as businessmen, holiday-makers, a TV crew and a dog are all beckoned on board. The dog is in the hold and he must be scared, and chilled to the bone. He barks constantly all the way to Guadeloupe. At the change-over leathery ladies with tennis rackets and bronzed beefy lads with tight t-shirts replace the leather-cased business men and equipment-laden reporters.
Touchdown on one of the smallest runways in the world is highly anticipated as we skim over pretty populated sandy beaches and cruise so close to the homes below that the heat of the engines probably provides extra central heating.
The taxi number our army chums gave us doesn’t work so we hop into a local bus taxi with another holidaymaker and our driver, Nigel, who promises us the world if we book a tour with him. Our hotel at Marigot is indeed flamboyant. There’s even an Irish flag flying over head to greet us though when we ask the staff why it’s there they’re clueless; some of them don’t even know what country it represents! We’re given drinks and an intensive inventory of all the facilities until we’re told that our rooms are not ready.
We dump our bags and head across the road for food. We’re as indecisive as they come and just when we’re about to head back to the hotel restaurant John spies a beast of a motor which he just has to inspect. The owner appears and is soon spinning some story about a beach party and other Irish people on the island. We leave our contact details and scurry off to Boucaniers for some top grub on the breezy beach view terrace.
Heather and Nicola decide to go for a snooze after lunch but John and I avail of the pool before taking a stroll down the strand. We find a noisy beachside cocktail bar and we install ourselves for some indulgence. Meanwhile the girls have roused themselves and have met up with the ‘other Irish’ on the island. They turn out to be cowboys looking to sell time shares and they’re quite annoyed to find out that neither Nic nor Heather have the inclination or the means to purchase any such thing. The girls get a free drink and the guys make a quick exit.
Dinner time soon rolls around and instead of wasting time searching for another restaurant we head back to Boucaniers. I’m marginally hungry so I order the snails. They’re quite tasty and they hit the spot. Bed beckons. Influenced by my dinner and the oh-so-cold air-con I crawl under the cool sheets and dream of ice-berg lettuce.
No comments:
Post a Comment