mardi 27.03.07 No grated carrots for lunch today
I had some very strange, even disturbing, dreams last night. My dreams warrant a blog of their own but I think I’ll have to hold out for a while with that venture as some psychologist may render me insane before my time; boats half carved out of trees, accelerating floating islands and friends who have signed up for a three year stint in Martinique are only the tip of the iceberg when it comes to my nightly reveries. Perhaps that last one was a nightmare but I’ll never know for real as my alarm clock sends me into a spiral of clothes application and cereal consumption. Nicola is accompanying me into town this morning. We barely flag down the bus as we’re both trying to sift through my subconscious.
By the time I get to Chateauboeuf I’m still trying to decipher my heady hallucinations though once I descend from the bus I’m lost in the morning madness of a canteen strike. A few of my students are at the bus-stop and they tell me that there’s no school due to today’s absence of grated carrot and pared cucumber. Like Doubting Thomas I have to see it to believe it. True enough there are no carrot shreds or cucumber slices in sight, however, they’re replaced by a melee of wandering students, grouped teachers, curb-calling cars and irate police-women who are trying to get the cruising parents to re-unite with their disposable children. I seek out Madame Dau. She’s the epitome of cool and calmness in the eye of the storm in her baby pink hoodie and jeans. Once I’ve made my presence known and greeted most of my colleagues I hop on the first bus back into town. We narrowly escaped being blocked by the exiting parents and I’m soon back in town for the last leg of this morning’s four hour bus journey. I’ve just missed the Tivoli bus so I have time until the next car comes to pop into Crédit Mutuel with an assortment of cheques. I also get to buy a tuna mayonnaise roll which I resist picking at on the trip home. My fourth bus journey takes a whole hour as we reach a road traffic accident involving a van and a motorbike; thankfully nobody is killed. I’m amused to see some fluorescent jacket wearing guys sweeping the street. Not only is it odd to see them brushing pieces of shattered bike and burnt brain into the drain but their synchronised actions also add to the ridiculous hilarity of the situation.
I could have spent the whole evening at home twiddling my thumbs but I get into gear and don dirty threads before tackling the kitchen. I presume someone will remark on my cleaning credentials when they see the glistening draining board and born-again whiteness of the fridge but just to be sure that my washing, scrubbing, scouring, wiping, dusting, polishing, sweeping and mopping doesn’t go unawares I rearrange the kitchen appliances to draw the eye to the long lost hub of hygiene. The terrace also needs to be dealt with and even though a lot of dirt could accumulate between now and the arrival of our Irish friends I reason that I can’t wait for something to go rotten before throwing it out; it’s a stand I’ll soon have to take so I challenge the cobwebs and wrestle with the weasels before doing likewise with my thoughts…
The tuna mayonnaise roll makes me recall why I generally dislike fish - it tastes too fishy. There’s also a very acrid aftertaste which I can’t pinpoint. I later give Nicola a taster to confirm my craziness and she agrees that the fish gloop contains more mentholated spirits than mayonnaise. A sachet of soup just about saves me from fading away and I retreat to the hammock with McCarthy and his football hooligans for the afternoon.
My hammock hilarity is later suspended as I have a private class with little Morgane. She’s asleep when I reach the Doriac household but Maria rouses her for juice and a cha-cha before I introduce her to Little Miss Splendid and Mr Mean. Her doudou even joins in on the class as he’s spread out and scrunched up on the mention of big, small, large, little, huge and tiny.
I’ve arranged to meet Jerome in town for a talk and tipple so I glam myself up before running up to the bus-stop. Nicola is just coming off as I’m getting on. She wonders where I’m going and tell her, adding that she should join us. She’s never one to pass on a snifter but we’re just outside the Bidoux residence when she remembers she has to plan for her little big-earner tomorrow. I spy Jerome at the bus-stop but there’s a huge container being hoisted to the ground between us so I just wave frantically in the semi-darkness in the hope that he’ll cross over. The mad thing actually walks under the swaying, creaking colossal container but he’s safe and sound and soon settled on the terrace with Jean-Pierre, Mr Ben and I on the terrace of the Terminal Café.
Jerome is from Toulouse; well, that’s the biggest ranking French town I can pinpoint him too. The building industry is his trade and it has taken him all over the Caribbean, to China, Corsica, the Middle East and all over Europe. He loves life in the French Antilles. The weather is the main reason he’s here and as he has arthritis the warmer climate is perfect for taming his bad back. I haven’t yet asked him his age but I’d put him in his mid-thirties. He’s a small, slight man but he’s big on sports; cycling, swimming, hiking, running, canyonning… Canyonning, eh? I make sure to invite myself along to one of those acrobatic and aquatic excursions. The rope burns on his hands show just how serious he is about it but I’m sure my ankle will be back in action when the time comes. I tell him about my intention to move over to Trois Ilets and he’s all up for it. Excuse me? Yes, he mentions that he’d be up for co-habitation. Jerome lives in Fort-de-France, in the centre, in the nitty-gritty nub of the prostitute parade. I’ve already heard about his living conditions and his own plans to move so this advance, given the chosen country, context and conversation, really doesn’t surprise me. It will lonesome on my own some so I’ll consider it. He corrects his hasty offer and retracts a bit by adding that he too will have to consider it.
Most shrewd Martiniquans have their ear to the ground when the murmur of possible tenants hits the air. Mr Ben takes my hand as he leaves for the SoupBar and tells me about a friend of his who owns many properties in the city if we need somewhere to stay. “Good deal for you,” he says grinning like a demented carpet salesman. “Washing machine. Security. All you need.” Under the tree at Spar I think to myself while finishing his sentence. Then again a Quickie Mart with a slushy machine would be more his scene.
I get a lift home with Lionel. He goes to collect Oliver from the wrath of some crazy Chinese film and we’re soon sitting out on the spring-cleaned terrace sipping whiskey and rum. Nicola puts her cash chore aside and dedicates some time to the drinking cause. The lads’ drink tolerance is not a cause for alarm but it’s a doubly poor indication of our hostessing expertise when the lads’ inability to remember the colours of the Irish flag creates more cause for concern than their ability to drive home.
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