Samedi 16.06.07 Pirates of the Caribbean
It’s just after 8,00 on a Saturday morning. For some reason I’m wide awake. My antennae must be on high sensitivity because when I get up to check my phone there is indeed a missed early morning call. Suddenly a brisk rap on the door sends me jumping for my shorts. It’s the cleaner. The plumber is downstairs and will be up to fix my toilet in a while. Tick. Tock. Tick. Tock. Drip. Drop. Drip. Drop. An hour has passed when I finally get another knock. Jeez. Plumbers carry minimal equipment these days. What water miracle is he going to fix with a mobile? Of course it’s just the owner’s husband come to assess the tap and try some D.I.Y – real Martiniquan labourers have found better things to do since they clocked off at lunchtime yesterday. Mr. Mobile goes to turn the washer but I query him and warn him that we could have a mini-fountain in here in an instant. The plumber never comes but I just put the big black bin under the tap and go back to bed.
Ah. That’s better. An extra four hours of sleep leave me more refreshed, in fighting form - ready to party with the pirates. Six of the marines on the Ventôse have finished up their two year contract and are having a send-off today at Schoelcher. Two of those lucky lads are Jerome and Oz. The name of the boat actually comes from the name of the sixth month of the French Republican calendar.
I take an earlier boat into town so I can call home before my 15,00 pick-up. The lads have been getting things prepared since midday and the party officially kicked-off then. Fort-de-France is it’s eerie Saturday evening self. Amid the languid, lounging hangers-on about town I look like a real blow-in as I bob down the street with my flowery bikini peaking out under my palm-tree patterned top and my two beach bags slung over my shoulder brimming with party paraphernalia to see me through until early morning. It’s going to be a long night; a Long John Silver one at that.
The lads lapped up the pirate theme in St. Martin when they were there for the Tri-Colour event. Most of them are decked out in pirate motif t-shirts but even those who are bare-chested reveal the real tapestries of sea-men; mermaids, anchors, Tahitian swirls and symbols which all make the eyes boggle without the influence of alcohol. Unfortunately there’s nobody with a peg-leg but there are a few sharp implements and hip-flasks to add to the occasion.
The chef got the farewell ceremony out of the way within the first hour. The six leaving crew members were lined up against one of the two containers as if there were to be shot. They were presented with beautiful bottles of rum (which avoid being pillaged throughout the night due to the vast supply of liquids on tap) and intricately carved wooden bottle holders in the form of two embracing turtles. Jerome proudly shows me his presents which also include matching hi-ball Trois Rivières glasses. He vividly recounts how he was lost for words. Moved. Touched. Touched by the end of someone’s machete actually, as he was duly prompted to offer his contribution so that casks could be cracked open for the thirty sea-dogs.
Of course not all the marines are macho, macho men. The song In the Navy has probably not been as fitting as on this occasion. I’m told in hushed tones about the rea-reas of the group. I witness it myself from the height of my hammock. Down there by the bent palm trees, piled into one gay looking hammock are three laughing lads. I later startle one, Fabrice, by pretending I met him in the Mayflower. At first he’s a bit standoffish, his startling baby blues denying all but after we play ball together he warms to me and is soon inviting me to share his hammock – with three other guys of course!
If I thought the army dudes were the wackiest of the French military then tonight shoves them into second place. Merry? Very. Loud? What?! Fun? Curiously so. The pirates are wired, mental, unhooked, mad and they take bawdiness to a whole new island for fear of tainting innocent ears.
They truly love the sea – and all other liquids. And boy do they have a thirst on them. There’s a sort of farewell baptism for the parting pirates. They’re either pinned down or willingly deem the dorsal position for a mouthful of raw rum. Yum. Yum. Ho. Ho. Ho. And a bottle of rum. Squirming just means that you get it in your eyes but the state of inebriation of the pourer also affects the aim and quantity of baptismal juice.
After the kids are sent home, or to bed, and everyone has been fed enough to keep the alcohol down and all have been watered sufficiently to keep the mosquitoes in a dizzy dance, we walk the plank – voluntarily. We take to the sea to wallow in the night time coolness. It sobers up some souls and affords an occasion to have somewhat serious conversations about life in Martinique, in the marines and in the future as we bob along in the inky ocean.
A shooting star passes overhead and disappears into the night’s invisible velvet folds. A few whoops are let out. The celestial sighting is not however the soul reason for the joyful howls as two bags of beer simultaneously make their way over our heads. The marines, I’m glad to say, are rather eco-conscious even when they themselves seem unconscious. I only see one floating beer can and that only appears when it escapes from someone’s shorts. “J’ai la boîte dans mon slip,” Jerome tells me when I question the whereabouts of our shared can.
I’m turning prune-like so I collect some cans and dispose of the empty containers. Two huge freight containers have served as the walls for our mess tent space and a huge sheet of plastic has been secured overhead with pirate knots to keep both the spread and the revellers dry and unburnt – well any more so than the BBQ or sun has already rendered it and us. Before our dip in the big blue we finished off the sausages, mergeuz and salads of Feed No.2 but the table is now laden with cakes, pies and quiche surrounded by a fortress of rum blocs and juice cartons. The hunger that was curbed by aquatic antics is once again awoken. Most however pass on the solids and even offer their pirate patterns some refreshment. N’importe quoi!
Midnight splattering keeps us bopping under the canopy. Mimi, the mad little marine mechanic, only pauses momentarily to drag Solange into the sea to sober her up; I wouldn’t dunk a drunk mate but it seems to work. Oz is the Zouk King. Jerome is in club land with his hands up in the air making him look like he’s constantly replacing a bulb. Frank has retired to the car to catch some zzzs. There’s a toddler asleep in one corner, marked out by multi-coloured blankets so nobody steps on him. Viktor apologises for making English jibes at me earlier. J.P tells me repeatedly how great it is to speak English. Kevin is in awe at how well I speak French. Well, it is after midnight isn’t it?!
The mess tent is soon dismantled. Pirates are raised upon one another’s shoulders and knifes are raised to cut the rugged rope which holds the roof taut. We keep the fire lit a while longer, prolonging the party atmosphere. However police and plops of rain soon make us retreat. A gendarme van cruises around the parking lot over yonder. We’re not too loud or too boisterous yet we don’t want to be hauled away so we congregate in the open container. It’s already occupied; La Vielle is there nursing one of the Brazilian babes who is curled-up, conked-out on the floor. We sit like squatters huddled together on the ground, on the stereo speakers, on the overturned fridge. We eventually crawl out for one last dance and one last slice of chocolate fondant before gathering our gear. Three older kids are lounging in my hammock though they spring-up fairly lively when I growl and weild my machette.
Frank also wakes up in a start in his Clio as Jerome taps on the car window. Frank’s my neighbour so he’s bringing me home. We bid the guys farewell – until next weekend, and set off along the Rocade. The heavens open and we’re often forced to slow down to slip-slide with the running streams below. However, we get home safe and sound and fall sound asleep in the safeness of sleepiness.
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