It’s my first day waking up in Anse Mitan in our new apartment. The mosquitoes haven’t been kind to me and I didn’t get such a good night’s sleep in my new bed but it’s great to sit out on the terrace and sip Barry’s tea while overlooking the beach below. I could get used to this! It’s not the first time I’ve thought it but I think I will miss Martinique when I have to go.
Nicola’s officially done with school so she doesn’t have to get up at 5,30 like the rest of us. The traffic is maddening this morning but I get into school just in time. The bad weather means that children are still traipsing into classrooms during the second class. Christophe’s brood are as limp as a wet rag while Dominique’s class are fuelled by local folklore and story telling. I arrive to hear the remains of Emeline’s tale about a pervy old man who is said to have sexual relations with young girls. I manage to hold the reigns with Lucy’s class, and Catherine’s class are only a fraction less tolerable than usual.
Elizabeth and I have an impromptu meeting to organise our Semaine des Langues spectacle. The running order is arranged and we soon run off for the bus only to find ourselves squashed like sardines in the midday rush hour.
By the time I get to town I have just enough time to call into Cyber Délisse before catching the navette to Anse Mitan. I meet Benoit at the quay. He’s hopping over to Point du Bout to meet his missus and their child. The plastic seats on the boat are so old that if you sit back into them you risk resting on the knees of the person behind you. I buy a carnet of 22 tickets for €73. That’s a saving of… well, €6 x 22 = €132 - €73 = €59. Score. Viva la navette.
I have yet to arrange our electricity set-up with EDF. I did try calling the afternoon but as everyone points out these Martiniquais civil servants don’t do a tap at the best of times so once Friday afternoon rolls around they log-off automatically.
In true French fashion there’s a strike. It’s not like your usual strike. Today there’s a petrol strike. In other words there’s a shortage of petrol. Only in Martinique. If you don’t have a full tank you’ll be stuck for the weekend. I’m lucky the navette is still running though I’m sure that if it came to it the company could reduce the fare and we could row our way across the bay. Fun, fun!
Despite the crude-oil consumption limitations we’ve almost too many options for nocturnal activities. Finally we decide to hit Rachel and Sarah’s house in Diamant. Nic and Dorian are in the pink Twingo and everyone else is squashed into other rusty Renaults; Seb, Francine and Ludo in one and Alex, Cecile, J.V and Benoit in another. Oliver is at a friend’s party but he promises to join us later on.
I phoned Rachel earlier just to make sure that she didn’t mind the French army invading her house. However, I think she was otherwise occupied when we talked on the phone because when we arrive and unload into the house she seems confused. I find out that there’s grub on the go and it really won’t stretch among nine other stomachs. I tell her not to worry as we’re thinking of heading elsewhere for late lunch. In the end only Benoit and J.V sit down for food – though they probably ate enough for all of us!
Most of the remaining assistants are all making an appearance tonight. Marco went home this evening and Kyla tells me how she arrived at the airport only to mouth him goodbye before he disappeared into passport control. Ceri, Alex, Fran, Bex, Tom, Adi, Marjorie and Jasmine make up the rest of the Anglophone company while Rodolfo, Alehandro, Paula, Maria, Bea, Maria, Sara and a new face, Irani, make up the Spanglophone contingent.
It’s the Frenchies, however, who are taking over tonight. Rachel and Sara have three new flatmates – Frank, Christophe and Guillaume who are here on a stage and they have invited their work colleagues and other randomers to join in on what will no doubt be our last big assistant getogether. Sob. Sob. I’d better get a grip of myself or I’ll end up drenched from head to toe.
I almost forgot to add that there’s a pool at Rachel and Sara’s. Maybe they take it for granted but a pool and a party surely means a pool party does it not? It’s too late to tell anyone otherwise because before you know it there are plenty of bodies bobbing and bombing about the place. 
Once we’ve had our fun and our fill we decide to prolong the night in Saint-Luce. There’s an impromptu military BBQ at Garde du Corps. By the time we get there there are only a few charred sausages left though the fruit punch is damn good. Our sopping trunks and bikinis make an appearance once again. Those who do not want to participate are dragged into the sea kicking and screaming; it’s a good job this part of the island is pretty isolated. Cecile and Christophe are two of the victims. I give Cecile my leggings and string top as she’s soaked. Oh, she has my towel too – better get that off her; if not, I’ll just keep Benoit’s Winnie the Pooh one! Oliver finally finds our Tam Tam beach hideaway and we all sprawl out by the fire to dry off and finish off the bottles of rum Ludo acquired at the pool party…
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