Vendredi 15.06.07 I’m great in the sack
It’s my last teaching day in Chateauboeuf. There are officially another two weeks of school left but between evaluations, excursions and preparations for the end-of-year display it isn’t really worth my time coming in during such a disruptive schedule. I’d rather end on a high – and I do.
Christophe isn’t in but Aurore is so we settle for a sing-along session with Rihanna. I’ve told Aurore that we’ll to have a party of sorts at the end of the hour. I ask the kids if they want to invite Dominique’s class around to join us but they return reporting that her class are busy. I think nothing of it but only two minutes later I hear the Goodbye Song being sung in unison outside the classroom. The singing mounts and my other CM2 classes and Madame Edragas’ CE1 class file into the classroom singing, holding trays of food, bearing gifts and creating a semi-circle around me. I’m so touched. Speechless. Moved. The tears don’t come but I go a up a few shades of red in an instant.
It’s time for my speech; in English of course. Thank you, thank you, thank you is all I can manage, openly demonstrating my surprise, my shock and my joy, until I retain myself and offer some more profound words of advice, encouragement and appreciation to my pupils and my colleagues. Kind words of gratitude, support and thanks are likewise presented to me. Some are prepared. Some are improvised. Several are shy, short and sweet yet heart-felt. Others are emotive but open, buoyant yet poignant. In some ways I feel like Mother Teresa.
Many of the younger kids are subdued in the company of the big boys and girls but one little guy from Madame Edragas’ class takes the opportunity to get up and thank me for all I’ve done. He tells me that he loved making the masks and drawing in his copybook and that he enjoyed English and he learned lots of things about my country. I wonder what will become of these kids in ten years time. Only a while later, when the party mode has taken over, this young kid is break dancing in the middle of the room being cheered along by everyone. No doubt some will be stars.
Cards with poems, postcards with messages, pieces of paper with thoughts and designs are bestowed upon me. Some of the children really on their wits and present a sort of rap using vocab they’ve learnt. The fact that they’re the most reluctant learners makes it more authentic. Claude thanks me on behalf of my colleagues and Madame Caruge starts a sing-song about Madinina – l’Ile des Fleurs before I’m presented with a 972 hoodie. Quelle classe! It’s the kind of thing I’ve always wanted but wouldn’t buy for myself J
I’m still sort of shell-shocked but the kids are raring to get into party mode. There’s a spread of cakes, biscuits and crisps laid out and we tuck in before the kids take to the floor. At first they’re reluctant to strut their stuff but two older guys mimic Mauvaise Foi Nocturne by Fatal Bazooka and bring the house down. The guys request R. Kelly and 50 Cent and the girls get Beyoncé and Rihanna and launch into a chorus of Unfaithful which lasts until I’ve to gather my gear and head to Madame Pamphile’s lair!
The younger kids are relatively calm today. Many are anguished that it’s the last class but there’s still a party mode. The guys and girls separate to have a stuff-athon and a teddy-bear’s picnic respectively though they cross over from time to time to exchange jellies for chocolates, or just to annoy one another as per usual.
There’s a fête in the Maternelle today to raise funds. There are games and stalls set up. Kids roam about with the knick-knacks they’ve bought, begged for or won. There’s a stall with millions of seeds, another with hundreds of gum-boots and others with the usual bring-and-buy paraphernalia. Kids play fishing games with bamboo rods as they try to hook the newspaper wrapped treats. Others fling newspaper balls at tin cans and others sit in the shade drinking soft-drinks, feeding the dregs to their plants or younger siblings.
I’m supposed to be in Madame Thaly’s class but they’re at the fête too so I’m here too. We’re just about to head back for our dînette when one of the mothers – a huge, imposing woman in retina-damaging madras, recruits me for the sack race. I’ve just been busting a gut laughing at Claude’s attempts. Her request and insistence quickly sobers me. I’m up to the challenge, end up beating the athletic antillaise ladies and win the final against some bushy-haired father who I feel slowed down enough for me to bounce into the arms of the big, busty Creole creature at the end of the track; well, it was either me or him. I’m presented with a huge piece of local artwork and lifted unto a make-shift podium where I thank my fans and am received with a raucous round of applause and congratulatory backslaps on my sack-hopping technique! Never mind teaching English. Children, parents and teachers alike who witnessed my win will be sack champions for years to come if they copy my jump-start sack race technique.
Back at home I hang up the gigantic fabric picture which I struggled to lug through town to the boat. It hangs well and brightens up the apartment. I decide to clean the place up a bit before hitting the hay for a bit. The lads and I are heading to Coconuts so one needs to be on form for some frantic dancing and zany zouking.
We go to Point du Bout for a drink at Le Malibu where Bea is working. She doesn’t recognise me for a while. She looks knackered and feigns perkiness when she claps eyes on me. I’m introduced to two other marines who are skulking around the bourg. Kevin and Number 1, who obviously thinks he’s the shit. We later meet them in Coconuts where Number 1 is strutting his stuff. Kevin is standing like a statue beside a stunning, sultry long-haired, high-heeled beauty who I’m told is from Florida. “Bimbo,” Jerome, G.G and Frank chime in unison when I remark how beautiful she is. She’s no miniature geisha anyway!
I haven’t felt the heat so bad in ages. It has been ages since I wore make-up. Now I know why I don’t usually. I feel like a 99 in the height of an Indian summer. I run to the bathroom and rinse my face. Ahh. Better.
We get all the zouk we can handle, and then some more… Eventually the danceable tunes are cranked up and the dance floor is soon heaving with bodies, wet with sweat and spilt alcohol in this disco inferno. One of the kids at school gave me coconut bath products today so in keeping with the tonight’s venue I’ve bathed in coconut shower gel and spritzed myself with coconut body spray until even my piss smells like coconut. Joke. Anyway good thing I doused myself as everyone else smells rancid and I get lots of compliments. No joke!
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