I spy a rodent at the bus-stop this morning – and it’s not Ruthface! I’ve almost too much time to contemplate the mouse episode as the bus doesn’t arrive until 6,45. We pick up a few irate passengers and we’re still listening to their complaints and the driver’s explanations once we hit the city. I hop on my connecting bus and I’m in school with minutes to spare.
Madame Bois’ class are surprisingly pleasant today although I once again address the name issue with disbelief as some pupils struggle to remember the names of their classmates. Aurore is back in Mr Carval’s class but it takes all three of us to motivate these weary mini-madames and monsieurs. At least their inactivity means that they’re not jumping about like lunatics. Madame Pamphile is her usual nonchalant self but that doesn’t cast a shadow on the joys of teaching Madame Edragas’ brood who are always beaming and waving and jubilant.
One of my pupils tells me that I have yellow teeth. Of course his bright beam is accentuated by his blackness but I’m making a mental note to cut down on the cigarettes and bananas.
The presidential elections are taking place this weekend and the school is being used as a voting station so we’re all turfed out at midday. Madame la Directrice is busy looking busy so I decide to give her some real work by requesting art supplies for the upcoming language week.
I make my way down the road past two mannequin pis statues to Rond Point Dillon so I can hang around the roundabout for my military mates. Two white vehicles with army prints pass by before a white Berlingo van coasts up beside me. The door slides open, a hand is extended and the transition from ground to gearbox is so smooth that I wonder whether this effective pick-up technique is part of their military training. Seb and Lionel are kitted out in their sexy tight shorts and woolly socks while J.V is in his trademark three-quarter length short-trousers and slip-on combos.
It’s Alex’s birthday this weekend and we’re renting a fleet of cars so that we can travel around the island in our car convoy. Unfortunately there are no hummers available but the cheap and cheerful, if battered, Peugeot fleet are a bit more our style anyway; and the bodywork damage means that there’s not too much of a dent in our pockets.
I’ve been waiting for a confirmation call about our accommodation in Anse Mitan and our prayers are answered when Sonia finally jingles. Her mobile cuts out three times but despite the disjointed conversation we manage to talk business; the green light has been signalled.
The owner of the car rental place doesn’t deal with imbeciles. An annoying client has managed to change his car five times in one week: the air-con was too cold; or the speedometer was too accurate; or there was a bullet hole in the window. She doesn’t suffer him and ends up telling him that she is not his sister, nor his mother, nor his hoare so he can show himself to the door before she makes him her bitch.
Cars are divvied out at the regiment over drinks at the DIRISI HQ. I salute the usual suspects and introduce myself to a new band of jolly, uniformed men. I strike up conversation with a marine, Laurent. He comes from St. Barths and I recount some holiday tales over our liquid lunch. I’m invited to a DIRISI BBQ this evening by the Corporal who thought I was roast beef… English. Hee-hee. He thought I wouldn’t know what it meant but I correct him and collect my invitation for food and frolics later on.
It’s the weekend for me so when I hear that Lionel and Stefan will be helping to land a helicopter this afternoon I jump at the chance to witness some winged action. Even the army are tardy in Martinique. We’ve been waiting an extra twenty minutes in the scorching heat when the Fenac finally appears. A Puma landed this morning from Guadeloupe; it’s about four times as big and churns up all around it. Our goggles, ear-muffs and gloves are mandatory even though the Fenac is about as frantic as a sloth in heat but I’m content to take pics and poke fun at the guys who are sweating it out in their uniforms with their powder and water extinguishers at the ready.
The BBQ is hopping. I arrive to see myself and Nicola projected unto the far wall of the barn. Thankfully it’s a decent photo – Benoit has been kind, but there are far less flattering ones of the lads themselves. That popote will need to be exhumed when they leave… There’s no roast beef on the menu tonight but there’s plenty of piggy red and chick’n chick. Benoit appears with some pretty toxic looking savoury cheesecakes but it disappears quickly thanks to the many potions and concoctions which are doing the rounds.
It’s a mixed bunch tonight; from the Colonel himself, who whips me around the dance floor zouk-style, to little two-year-old Ryan who is afraid of me – much to his father’s disappointment as babysitters are needed for sons and fathers alike!
As per usual I meet some sound soldiers and some crazies. Laurent the marine, whom I met earlier, is off his head. He’s actually pénible – though in a tolerable way. Himself and young Christophe fall foul to the adverse affects of alcohol. Tsk. Tsk. I shouldn’t be telling tales. Top-secret information is kept in the adjoining building and that is where the toilets are so keys are exchanged to get there. I’m just on my way to pee when I see Cedric popping out a window. He got locked in! I lock myself in but thankfully my faculties are functioning enough so I can get out again. DJ Nicolas is also a pénible in my book. As is Fabian. He has ditched the technology tonight for some different vices.
All too soon it’s time to pack up and hit the hay. I try to snooze on the Big Black’s bed and I’m later told that I’d be crushed to smithereens if he found out – and not just if he entered and accidentally squashed me. I then try the boot of the Peugeot for size. Yes, a 5” 2’ irlandaise can fit, and survive, in the boot of a 206 for at least two minutes. I end-up in the back with a dozen baguettes. I bite into them in a last minute attempt to soak up that cheap nasty whisky which was pumped into my veins. The bread tastes better than Alex’s buns! J.V, Seb and Gwendal hit the dance floor but I’m only fit for the floor and so I’m delivered to my door for a night of respite.
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