samedi 07.04.07 Wild, Wild West
There’s a bit of confusion regarding where to take the dudes today. I thought that since we didn’t get to go to Precheur with Mr Emmanuel and his boat crew that we should visit it anyway. I vaguely remember discussing other options last night such as snorkelling in Rivière-Salée or going to Les Salines but once we hit the motorway we’re west-bound.
Nicola’s tired. And she’s in a pretty aggressive driving mode; she won’t put up with any Blondie remarks today. On the rare occasion that my Dad was angry and we were in the car you only had to listen to the engine to hear what kind of a foul mood he was in. Today the cars growls and conversation is kept to a minimum.
There’s a bit of confusion regarding where to take the dudes today. I thought that since we didn’t get to go to Precheur with Mr Emmanuel and his boat crew that we should visit it anyway. I vaguely remember discussing other options last night such as snorkelling in Rivière-Salée or going to Les Salines but once we hit the motorway we’re west-bound.
Nicola’s tired. And she’s in a pretty aggressive driving mode; she won’t put up with any Blondie remarks today. On the rare occasion that my Dad was angry and we were in the car you only had to listen to the engine to hear what kind of a foul mood he was in. Today the cars growls and conversation is kept to a minimum.
Our first stop-off is to get food. Our beach hut in Schoelcher is closed yet again so we continue on to Saint-Pierre where we dine at the foothills of Mont Pelée. Boiled steak, rum-boiled banana and bandy ketchup are on the menu at Restaurant Bleu des Iles but we’re happy to get some nourishment while taking in the fleeting sights of the cloudy pinnacle behind us.
The beach at Precheur is over-run with tents, canopies and hammocks. Camping on Martinique’s beaches is only permitted during school holidays so everyone is availing of the spectacular strands and wooded wilderness this weekend. If I was at home in Ireland I would probably be sleeping under the stars too as Easter Camp is the place to be this time of the year for Mafikeng Scouts. The parking lot is as stuffed as an Easter crab so we decide to turn around and head to the shore outside Carbet. I’m content to lie under the shiny shade while the girls splash about and John roams. Everyone seems to be beaching it today as our military mates later tell us that they were at the opposite end of the strand to us. We stay until sunset and we’re back on the road with the makings of a tropical fruit salad. As hunger is knocking we decide to munch on the bananas. They’re not a desirable delicacy today; John happily devours his but us three ladies decline complaining that they taste like cooking apples.
Nicola rustles up a super feast back home while the rest of us wrestle for the bathroom. We’re home too late to bother rushing for the bus so we take our time and call Francois the taxi-man instead. The rain would have to appear as we’re waiting, coiffed and powdered, at the bus-stop however within a few minutes we’re zipping down the hills in the taxi tank.
We’re only in Le Terminal five minutes when we get a call from J.V, Oli and Lionel to say that they’re changing ship and coming on board with us as the Mayflower is sinking, and stinking. The island has been overrun by hundreds of chair-flinging, punch-throwing, table-breaking, vile-vomiting English marines. Our recent dining experience doesn’t even register on the repulsive scale when you compare it to the destruction in the Mayflower this weekend: the yobos drank the place dry last night yet they left the floor wet when their bowel and bile ducts failed to function; one liqueur lout was so far gone that he had to be carted off to hospital; and once the medics were gone some fights broke out and furniture was broken. Tonight the patron is in town and Michel has abandoned his DJ sets to become a full-time bouncer.
Not long after the French join us a pack of scurvy English seadogs filter into Le Terminal. Jean-Pierre is torn between capitalism and concern but the drunken sailors conk out on the couches while the less watered ones either start wearing lampshades on their heads or at worst are chatted up by Nicola and Heather while the rest of us our out on the terrace keeping up a Franglais conversation. John is feeling a bit world weary so Lionel offers to drive him home. I go with them to fill the language void and to prevent John from fighting with the rattly door at this ungodly hour.
The girls have already left Le Terminal with their Anglophone beaus. I don’t know if they’ve heard about the gun-wielding incident in Lil Buddha last week but they seem unfazzled, or just on-their-way. J.V, Lionel, Seb, Francine and I settle into a booth with a bottle of Bushmills while the Anglophone corner hold hands, err… glasses of vodka. Oliver, Danny and Anthony are the only names I remember. Marjorie and her Irish friend Emma are out too and we have a good ‘oul mutual boogie session and witness some nasty tongue action from afar. All good things must come to an end so it’s back home to a snoring, sprawled-out long John and the Land of Nod.
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