dimanche 17.06.07 Disgusting Mini-Martiniquans
It’s Father’s Day here in Martinique today, it’s also the day of the Funk Festival at La Playa, and it’s raining too. The rain is insane. But I’m snug beneath the cool membrane of my bed sheets.
Once the rain retreats I reappear. The rain may have shortened the hours God provided for sunbathing but at least it has brought a cool spell which makes sweating less evident and helps to banish the mosquitoes.
After all the sugary stuff yesterday my body is crying out for some more glucose goodies this morning. I load up on venoiseries at Deli France and buy a Floup to keep me occupied and hydrated on my way to the phone cabin from which I hope to touch base with Nicola. Something else however is about to touch the base of the phone cabin – a Lion Bar wrapper. Some young, pretty nonchalant Martiniquan Miss has just clip-clopped her way to the open cabin and launched her waste into the cubic speaking space. Someone should tell her that only Clark Kent does disappearing acts in there and that telephone cabin time-travel for wrappers has not yet taken off. I’m too far away to say anything. She turns on her heel and clip-clops back to the family hi-ace. However, when her little brother goes to pull a similar stunt I quicken my pace and get to the door just as he’s considering relieving himself – he may as well be, though even piss would evaporate and disappear more quickly. I ask him if he’s going to use the cabin, take his blank pause as a No and muscle in between the bandy doors to join Leo. The young lad looks at his family who look at me. The mother tells her son to put it in the hi-ace boot and he waddles back to the vehicle. I give them a contemptuous look and tut-tut animatedly in their direction. It’s not the right solution as it’ll probably just fly out the back when they zip around the roundabout but it’s better than being in the phone booth.
Nicola’s mobiles have been out-of-order since she hit home so I’ve no joy with them. Her home phone just rings out so I hang-up.
The Rastas are out having a BBQ. Some dreadlocked dudes are gutting strange fish and one of them turns his gummy grin on me and asks me to join them. What? Line up to be gutted? Thanks but I think not.
The funky tunes from La Playa compete for air space with the reggae and chart hits being pumped out by the Rastas. Sometimes there’s a lull and one reigns but as the French say: when someone sings it rains, and so it does…
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