Bee Careful

It seems the CAF (housing benefit organisation) has finally decided to stop fighting with me and just give me some money after all. Hooray! I’m quite surprised actually. I’d practically given up on them after all the messing around they were doing. They sent me about five requests for information which I’d already given them and I spent at least 30 euros on the phone to them going round in circles and being put on hold. So finding this money in my account was a lovely Christmas present!

My visitors and I reached beach saturation point yesterday and decided it was time to do some touristy things before their return to icy England. So we went to see the ruins of a 17^th century chateau in Tartane – a very pretty setting for the few remaining lumps of rock (castles aren’t really my ‘thing’) – and had a picnic in the grounds. We had a wander through the forest and paddled on the rocky shore too where we saw the most enormous bright orange starfish. And in the evening we went to a restaurant for accras de morue, steak frites and bananes flambées with glace coco which was all rather delicious.

Today I took them to Ducos to do the Kayak adventure that I did with Nick and Courtney a few weeks ago. It was a bit tougher this time due to windy weather and choppy water but we managed to make it back to base and a good time was had by all.

As we were coming back I paddled past what looked like a drowning wasp. I hate wasps. I really do hate them. They have a way of smelling my fear and loathing and they always pursue me, cackling and buzzing with evil glee. I’ve been stung more times than anyone I know (including one time when one went up my sleeve and stung me about ten times, and two occasions when they have been lying in wait for me to tread on them so they can martyr themselves, stinging my foot in the process. Oh, and also there was a time when one landed on my hand so I decided to do the brave and sensible thing and stay still and wait for it to go away – and it sat there eying me up and sussing me out before stinging me and flying off laughing to tell all his waspy friends about his victory over the foolish and trusting human.)

Anyway... so when I saw this drowning wasp all it stirred up all these memories and emotions of fear, hatred and need for revenge. So I poked it with my paddle – ha! Unfortunately I poked it in a rather scoopy way and actually managed to flip it, still alive and now very angry, into Keeley’s canoe, where it stung her. And yes, I do feel guilty (mostly because it was actually a bee, not a wasp, and I have no argument with the honey-making peace loving buzzy). But K was quite positive about the whole experience anyway, insisting that she was pleased to have a bee sting story to share at parties. So I didn’t have to feel too guilty for long anyway.

I don’t want my blog to turn into a list of fings wot I av dun but I’ve been a bit pressed for time while I’m playing hostess so I apologise if there has been a recent drop in the quality. I’ll try and get back on form once they’ve left me. In fact I might make it my New Year’s resolution. But Christmas was fun - WAY too much turkey though. We had turkey salad for lunch on boxing day and then turkey soup for dinner and it still wasn't all used up!

Fort de France

We went to Fort de France this morning ...but it was closed. It’s the day before Christmas Eve and the whole of the capital was deserted! Ok, it was Sunday so I wasn’t expecting EVERYTHING to be open - but even McDonald’s was shut! To be honest I was secretly glad we didn’t have to hang around there as I think it’s a bit of a dump. From the approach road it looks like some dirty polluted shanty town. The shops are full of expensive old tat (unless of course you’re after some shiny red underwear, gold stilettos, a Martinique ash tray and a tortoise made out of old banana leaves), and if you want to park on a meter you have to buy a ‘parking card’ from a shop in advance (I was told this last time I was there by a fierce traffic warden lady who intercepted me as I was trying to work out where to put my coins. When I enquired as to where I might purchase such an item she looked at me as if I were completely retarded and said; ‘At the photocopying shop of course’. Erm... ok.)

So we went to the beach at Tartane instead. We’ve had a few days of enforced relaxation due to K’s chest infection so all my plans for horse riding and kayaking have been put on hold. But no one is complaining, least of all me. I was exhausted after the last few weeks at school and I think I needed a few days of lazing about as much as my guests did.

The sea was gorgeously refreshing today. It can be a bit wild here depending on where you go -the first time we went to the beach I made the mistake of taking us to one with huge waves and Mum kept getting knocked over by the force of them, taking me with her and leading to much hilarity and salty spluttering and sand in knickers - but today we went to a much calmer bay where we splashed and floated in clear still water and our swim was altogether more civilised.

Sorry I’ve not been blogging as much since my guests’ arrival but three people make a LOT more mess than one and I feel like all my free time is spent washing up or sweeping or doing washing at the moment! And despite all this, my insect killing routine is slipping dangerously out of control (I found two dead cockroaches in the house this week and we’ve all been bitten by evil mosquitoes more than once). I need to educate my guests on mozzie massacre. Right – that’s a job for tonight then.

L'Etrangère

I slept really badly last night. I think I was over excited at the imminent arrival of my visitors from Angleterre (Mum and Keeley, on Sunday evening). Anyway, by five in the morning I decided to give up trying and go and find a nice place to watch the sunrise instead. So I jumped in the car and trundled off eastwards to look for a beach.

I found a secret plage not far away, near Rivière Salée, where I could drive almost onto the sand and get a really good view of Dawn’s crack. But just as I switched off the engine and opened the door it began to bucket down lashing rain and wind. And due to the incredible saturation risk, I was forced to remain in my vehicle.

So, fatigued and saddened by my adventure spoilt, I rested my weary head on the steering wheel and listened to the rain pounding the car instead. And somewhere in the few moments that followed I found a kind of inner tranquillity - or maybe it was just exhaustion taking over. Anyway the persistent precipitation tapping on the roof reminded me of good old soggy old England and I felt momentarily happy again.

It was still far too early when I got back to do anything useful (like all the food shopping I needed to do) so I spent the next hour making a ‘Joyeux Noël’ banner out of clever drawing talent and tinsel. And then I hung it up and looked at it proudly for a moment ...before realising I’d spelt it wrong and had to start again.

Still too early to go to the shops, I decided to make an enormously elaborate breakfast of fried potatoes and onions, egg and salami. Mmmm... heart attack... And eventually I got so bored of the shopping channel and its anti-cellulite knickers (how the hell do they talk people into buying such ridiculous things?) I decided to go to my school’s Christmas Fête.

I wish I hadn’t. Those things are rather irritating at the best of times but at least one would normally go with a friend (or have a dad working on the tombola stall or something) and therefore have someone to talk to. But apart from a couple of games of dominoes with some of my CM1 kids, the only person I spoke to there was Mr Lazimo – and that was only out of desperation and loneliness and being unable to bear feeling like a complete outsider any longer.

So I’m currently filled with yearning and sadness. And this evening, like some annoying existentialist French ponce, I can only fix my eyes on my own belly button and contemplate my pointless existence.

But don’t worry – it won’t last. I’m entertaining this week! xx

It's a carrot!

The ‘lovely’ teacher of one of my CM1 classes who once told me my handwriting was illegible and who argues with virtually everything I say was away today. She’s doing some training (though not, I imagine, in good manners). And I have to admit I breathed a sigh of relief when I found out she wasn’t around.

However, that sigh came before I realised that rather than being replaced by the mild-mannered substitute chap that stood in for her last lesson, it was the headmistress who would be holding the fort today. And mild-mannered is something this Madam is most certainly NOT.

She’s a rather large lady. Not fat – but hefty and muscular with broad shoulders and manly looking arms that could crush anyone much more quickly and effectively that a boa constrictor. She always dresses in pink flowery clothes and wafty peachy twin sets. Perhaps she does this to soften her appearance. But really this juxtaposition of meat and frill just makes her look like a bulldog in a fancy dress competition.

And not only does she look scary... she really IS scary too. Just to donne an example – one time BC (that's 'Before Car' by the way) when I was passing some of my interminable lunch break in the computer room, this formidable fortress of (femininity...?) came in and started screeching at the teachers in there that they were all using the wrong computers - I hadn’t noticed before but each computer has a sticky label on it saying a teacher’s name. Fair enough you might say. Labels are important and should be respected. But when the Trunchbull started going around the room smacking her colleagues over the head with a newspaper as punishment for their mal-comportment, I decided it was time to make a hasty exit so I quickly shut down my machine and slipped out of a side door to hide in the toilets until the next class.

If she were just shouty and cross I think I could cope with that. But the thing that most disturbs me about her is the simpering ‘niceness’ that always follows the raging storm. Like today during my class only moments after she EXPLODED with fury, launching into a two minute tirade at ten thousand decibels when a boy was fiddling with his book instead of listening to what I was saying, she turned to me with a very sickly smile and said, “I’m sooooo sorry for interrupting you. Pleeeease, do continue”. I mean... how does one follow that kind of an outburst...?

Today we did ‘Pets’. The kids had a lot of trouble with ‘horse’ – it’s that pesky ‘H’ again! But they seemed to love saying ‘parrot’ - although one boy insisted on saying ‘carrot’ which was quite amusing. It’s still not as good as Courtney’s story today though. A kid in her class spelled the word ‘house’ ‘ARSE’. Oh, how did she keep a straight face??

Non-event

Well I was going to write a hefty blog tonight recounting my adventures in Tartane, Anse Mitan and the various supermarkets (YES supermarkets can be places of mystery and intrigue and great adventure!) of Martinique, but when I got home from taekwondo this evening I got sucked into an adaptation of War and Peace on the telly which is very gripping and I just can’t seem to tear myself away from it.

I’m trying to watch telly as much as possible in the hope that listening to more French will help my comprehension. But I’m finding it hard so far, partly because I’m not in the habit of staring at the goggle box - I only really watch Lost and Q.I. when I’m at home – but mostly because the programmes they show here are so terrible!

We have hours and hours of shite such as ‘Judge Judy’, ‘House Invaders’, ‘Jerry Springer’ and ‘Pop Idol’ dubbed into French. There are bizarre ‘Zouk’ channels that show what looks like home videos of old people dancing at parties, a Martinique music channel usually showing men dancing awkwardly on the beach while miming (badly) to some terrible rap song, and soap operas direct from Brazil and Mexico with names like ‘La Femme de Lorenzo’ and ‘Le Rose Sauvage’, which I’m sure I don’t need to tell you are all hideously bad.

So when something good is on I have to take the opportunity to watch it ...so the blog must wait I’m afraid!

Tremblement de Terre !

Before I launch into the dramatic events of yesterday I need to do a quick catch up. So here goes. I saw the doctor last week who told me I had a virus, which in my opinion is another way of saying I have no idea what’s wrong with you. Go away. But I feel a hundred times better now, largely due to having hired a car this week thus avoiding hours of carrying ten kilos of teachery stuff around, spending a ridiculous amount of time wandering around the supermarket during the two hour lunch breaks and waiting in the hot sun when already exhausted for stupid taxicos that never arrive. I’ve also found a car to buy (with the help of Lisette’s friend Jean Jaures (A.K.A David – weird nickname huh..?) which should, fingers crossed, be ready for me to collect next week.

So anyway, time for the drama...

Yesterday when I was heading back to the car after having spent an hour on the beach at Tartane (one of my new after-school activities since having a car), something very peculiar happened. My legs started shaking quite violently. Thinking I must have overdone the exercise this week and silently cursing my aging limbs, I carried on walking. But then I started feeling like my stomach was wobbling too. Baffled I looked around for the car thinking I’d better put myself to bed early and get some rest tonight. ...And it was only then that I noticed that in fact it wasn’t me that was shaking. It was the rest of the world!

My little car was lurching backwards and forwards, the trees and lamp posts were waving madly and the ground looked like it was rippling. Everyone on the beach was rushing around in a panic but no one seemed to have any idea what to do. And being somewhat of an earthquake novice myself I wasn’t sure what to do either. I decided to get out of the way of the trees – seemed sensible as they looked as if they might fall any minute - and stand still (or try to – difficult when walking on a huge earth jelly) in the middle of the car park.

And so I stood there, bemused rather than scared, and watched the bizarre spectacle of the earth shuddering, as if trying to shake us annoying humans off its back.

There had been another earthquake two days earlier but it was less intense (and I didn’t feel it as I was driving a very noisy rattling Citroen Saxo at the time) and of course there was the one which terrorised Courtney in the night a week or so ago too. So when this one started I wasn’t too concerned. I thought it would be a minor tremor, a bit of a grumble and then back to business as usual. So when it was still going after what felt like about thirty seconds, I started to realise it was probably quite serious.

In fact this earthquake measured 7.4 on the Richter scale and even made it onto the BBC news website. It might have just been a slow day for stories of course but when I got home after going out for dinner with Courtney (did I mention that having a car is AMAZING!) I even had emails and messages from people at home who were worried I might have perished.

All the schools in Martinique were closed today so they could be inspected by safety officers, which meant the weekend started early for me. So I used my extra day to get all my boring shopping and tidying out of the way. And tomorrow Courtney and I are driving up to pick up Nick at his house and then try and retrace our terrifying bus-on-cliff face journey up to Anse Couleuvre that we made last weekend on the boat trip day.

I LOVE having a car!

In Cold Blood

Having recently become concerned about the volume of insect repellent my lungs are filtering every day due to my manic determination to destroy mosquitoes before they destroy me, I have decided to ‘go natural’ and try to hone my manual killing skills instead. The following is a report on the various techniques I have recently employed and mastered (to a certain degree) in order to fight my flying foe.

Review of the author’s contribution to the global mosquito massacre

Also known as ‘Winged Virus Bringers of Doom’ and ‘Crepuscular Warriors of Satan’ (citation needed), mosquitoes have plagued mankind since its very beginning.

There are many methods by which one can extinguish these flying disease vectors. One of the most popular among novices is the ‘Landing Creep Smack Technique©’. It is essential to remember that while inherently stupid, mosquitoes do have a very fast reaction and take-off speed - around 0-80mph in 0.02 seconds I believe (figures not based on actual fact) and therefore some level of stealth is required when employing this method. Whilst very effective once mastered, this technique is much more difficult than it may seem and is therefore not recommended for complete beginners. It is also worth remembering that this method can leave behind a somewhat messy residue on one’s walls.

My own preferred method is the ‘Applause Technique©’. Developed by myself, it uses what I call The Method of Joyful Departure; what better way to die than to the sound of rapturous applause? This technique is for use when faced with more than one opponent of the flying variety and is, in my opinion, the most efficient and least time consuming of the known techniques, one round being sufficient to destroy up to three mosquitoes. However it can take time to perfect - one must learn to find one’s own inner silence before commencing the onslaught. It is essential to be at one with oneself in order to gain the reaction speed necessary and to avoid unnecessary hand soreness from over clapping.

Other techniques include ‘Stun and Stamp©’, for use when the Applause Technique fails. It is very easy to lose concentration when in the required state of intensity for the aforementioned technique, and when this happens one may find that the clap fails to completely envelop the target. In such an instance as this, the creature is not destroyed, but merely deafened and stunned and will fall to the ground momentarily only to take off again a few moments later. Haste is vital here. The beast is likely to be embarrassed and angered by its ungraceful landing, and will immediately begin plotting a campaign of violent retribution towards the applauder if allowed to live. Therefore it is essential to deliver the stamp within the stun period to avoid unnecessary blood loss on the part of the clapper.

Highly effective but somewhat less hygienic is the ‘Curtain Crush©’. The peripheral perception of a mosquito is second to none, a factor which makes the Land Creep Smack technique so difficult to master. However, despite arguments to the contrary, it has been proven that mosquitoes do not have x-ray vision. Therefore, if one should rest its weary wings on your curtain, or indeed on any fabric, it is possible to slide one’s hand behind the fabric, out of view of the mosquito and then either crush up the landing area or incorporate the Applause or Stun and Stamp technique.

One must of course use one’s discretion with all these techniques. There is no hard and fast way to ensure slaughter. But with time and practice this writer truly believes that anyone is capable of bringing about their own mosquito massacre.

Pas delle yeux Rhône que nous - *groan* ...sorry

I am once again the proud holder of a driving license. I’m off sick today with suspected mild anaemia (that’s my suspicion by the way – I’m not seeing the doctor until this afternoon and he might just tell me to stop being mardy...who knows?). But luckily being at home today meant I was in to receive the special delivery of my precious and long awaited permis de conduire. Now all I need is a car. I’ve got a couple of people looking out for one for me though so it shouldn’t be too long before I finally have my own wheels.

Yesterday we went on a kayak adventure in the Mangroves. Nick’s girlfriend is here on holiday at the moment so Courtney and I took the opportunity to join them in some touristy action. A great time was had by all despite the early start and very long and arduous journey there...

I left Trinité at seven to get a taxico and meet the others at Fort de France. From the bustling taxico park in the capital we jumped in another one to Ducos and once there got a bus to the kayak base at Canal Cocotte, arriving at about quarter past ten. If I’d gone from here to there by car it would have only taken about forty minutes. That’s how annoying not having a car is!

I’m consoling myself with the thought that a lack of public transport means at least we’re not affected by the constant grêves that are currently bringing Paris and the rest of ‘la Métropole’ to its knees ...but that thought doesn’t really help me much when I’m lugging my folders and teaching materials around in the blazing sun or struggling to get my shopping up Dead Cat Alley.

So I fell asleep in the taxico on the way home, nearly missing my stop and then went to bed soon after I got in after having called off taekwondo and not eating dinner. (Yes, you read that right. I skipped a meal. It must be serious.) I couldn’t eat any breakfast either when I woke up ten and a half hours later with a slightly grey face, puffy eyes, a cracking headache and wobbly achy legs but I managed a piece of toast a while ago so things are looking up. I’m going to have another sleep before I go to the doctor but really I don’t think it’s anything a nice bloody steak and some green vegetables won’t fix. I just need to make it to the supermarket to buy said items first. Wish me luck!

Photobucket Album

More new photos (click on the photo)

Photobucket Album

Finally uploaded photos! (Click on the photo below to see more)

Photobucket Album

Dis donc

My brain is officially mush. I was talking to someone in English the other day and managed to say ‘elle’ twice instead of ‘she’ as well as inserting ‘donc’ randomly into every third or fourth sentence. At taekwondo last week I was counting out some movements in Korean and I had to stop to explain something. When I started counting again I’d got as far as ‘four’ before I even realised I was speaking English. And when I couldn’t remember how to say ‘five’ in any language, including English, I got very embarrassed and tongue-tied and could only speak in snuffles and grunts for the next few minutes. I think it was just too much for my tiny yet highly convoluted brain to deal with. I’m hoping this is an essential transitional period of language learning but losing control of my English as well as my French is mildly disturbing to say the least.

I went on a boat trip yesterday. Courtney’s ‘proprietaire’, Alex, invited us both to a day-long tour of Martinique’s fortifications and geographical features on the Caribbean coast. Alex is a geographer and natural scientist, and a wealth of knowledge on all things to do with Martinique. The boat left Trois Islets at seven which meant a VERY early start for us all. But I got up extra early to make sure I had eaten a hearty breakfast. Tiredness mixed with hunger is a recipe for a very grumpy Lindsey and I wanted to make sure I enjoyed myself since it cost 35 Euros for the trip.

I needn’t have bothered getting up before the sun though as there was so much food provided during the day I didn’t have time to get hungry. We were given a huge baguette for (second) breakfast and then a rather large meal of Antillean specialities for lunch. There was goat, lambis (a shellfish which was a bit like whelk), a white fish which no one could tell me the name of, rice, igname (that’s yams to you and me) and red beans as well as a salad with morue (salted cod) and a fruit salad for dessert. They also gave us a snack in the afternoon – a choice between gateau de la confiture and quiche.

We were told all about the fortifications going north along the Caribbean coast, such as the various remaining battery walls, the forts (at Fort de France for example) and the city fortifications at St Pierre including a wall which still bears the scars of cannon ball fire from an attack in the 1600s. This was all explained by a man speaking French with a very strong West Indian accent. I’ve heard a slightly different accent here from time to time, for example they say ‘pén’ rather than ‘pain’ and ‘lot’ rather than ‘l’autre’ but this was the first time I’d heard such a strong accent as his. I had to keep reminding myself to listen to what he was actually saying instead of just relaxing and enjoying the lovely musical lilt of his voice.

After Alex had given his talk about Mount Pelée, the famous volcano, and its contribution to the formation of the Caribbean coastline, the boat moored at Le Prêcheur (so called because of a rock resembling a preacher which used to be there in the 1800s before it was eroded away by the sea) and we all trooped off the boat and onto waiting coaches which took us to Anse Céron. Once there we then had to squish onto a tiny bus, one step up from a charabanc (well it had a roof at least) to be taken on the most perilous and terrifying journey I’ve ever made. There were hairpin bends leading down to what looked like a bottomless pit of tropical forest every few hundred yards, and every time the bus had to go uphill it kept slipping backwards as the motor struggled to deal with our combined weight.

So when we finally reached Anse Couleuvre (anse means beach by the way) we all breathed a huge sigh of relief before trundling off into the forest to look at the ruins of a rum distillery that used to be there a hundred years ago or so.

The beach at Anse Couleuvre is AMAZING! It’s a truly tropical paradise – quite secluded and surrounded by tropical forest, it has black volcanic sand with palm trees stretching high over the edges and crystal clear water with little rocky coves dotted along the shore. It was worth risking my life on the Toy Town bus just to swim at that beach! And I’m definitely going back there when I finally get a car. On the way back to get the tiny bus, we were told it had broken down – in fact it had returned to Anse Céron backwards! So I was glad I missed out on that particular journey.

Back on the boat the staff were serving punch – creamy coconut punch, fruity ‘punch planteur’ and ti-punch (a mixture of rum, sugar and a chunk of lime). Courtney and I tried a ti-punch each but I found it a bit fiery and strong for the afternoon sun so after a couple of tentative sips I handed mine over to her to finish off and got a refreshing guava juice instead.

All the way home a DJ played biguines, mazoukas, and drum rhythms and music while people danced the Bélé, the traditional African style dance of Martinique which dates back to slavery times. Old ladies kicked off their shoes and hitched up their skirts to dance with young men and people dragged partners onto the dance floor to join in. I made sure to stay well back - It looked like good fun but I think I’d need to take a few lessons before being brave enough to dance in front of people.

And so I watched the sun setting over the sea as we sailed into Trois Islets. I felt like I had spent the day walking through a series of beautiful ‘Wish you were here’ postcards. It was a fantastic way to see more of the island. And 35 Euros well spent!

On chyen tini kat pat, i pa fè kat chimen

I fell asleep in a chair in front of the telly this afternoon like an aged grandma. So I decided not to bother going to taekwondo seeing as it had been such an effort to even stay awake. Well I did have a very tough morning – I went to the post office AND the beach! Yes... it’s a hard life you know...

School is going very well. I even seem to have charmed Monsieur Lazimo, an old man in the reprographics department at Pointe Lynch, who seemed barely unable to conceal his hatred of me the first time I asked him for 200 copies of a colour-by-number Union Flag.

After a few icy encounters with M. Lazimo in the first week I finally decided enough was enough and plucked up the courage to start a conversation with him – I chose Créole music for my topic since he was playing some in his room at the time, and after a moment’s suspicious hesitation he wrote down the frequency for the best radio station for me to listen to.

The next time I saw him I asked him about earthquakes (minor ones are quite frequent here and there was one last week that made Courtney wake up, terrified and clinging to the bed ...and which I happily slept through) and he was quite keen to share his knowledge with me again, telling me thay had earthquakes all the time here but that he wasn't scared of them. No way.

And then yesterday when I went to get my copies of ‘How old is he/she?’ worksheet, he told me if I ever wanted to go out dancing any time he’d come and pick me up and take me. So that was a bit of a turnaround. I only wanted a friendly smile and instead I got an offer I have to admit I’m slightly suspicious of.

In case you’re wondering about today’s title, I found it in a book of Créole expressions and proverbs that I bought the other day. It means ‘A dog has four legs, but it doesn’t take four paths’ - in other words, ‘Don’t try and do everything all at once’. Some others I enjoyed include ‘Ou bel kom zépina pousé an kaka’ which roughly translated means, ‘you’re beautiful like spinach that grows in shit’ (any interpretations of that are welcome as I’m completely baffled...) and ‘Lajan ka kasé fé’ or ‘Money can destroy fire’, meaning money is all powerful. I’ve decided to do my year abroad project (for uni) on the importance of Créole language for Martiniquais identity so I thought it would be good to start trying to learn a few words here and there.

I wish I could tell if my French has improved. I feel as if it ought to have, but then whenever I speak to people I still feel as if I’m struggling to get words out, and while my circumlocution is coming on in leaps and bounds it’s very frustrating not to be able to just say what I mean without going all around the houses in the process.

I have to make a very annoying trip to Fort de France tomorrow. I need to get a medical form signed by the doctor (everyone that trains has to do this so that the taekwondo club is not at risk of invalidating their insurance) but I can’t go to the doctor until I get my Carte Vitale from the Securité Sociale. I sent the Securité Sociale my HUGE pile of forms more than a month ago and still haven’t received the Carte Vitale, so I called them today only to find out they’ve LOST my forms and that I have to go to the office in person to redo them! Aaaargh! Everyone here is so disorganised and laid back and yet every piece of administrative material has to adhere to a strict set of French bureaucratic codes. I really can’t understand how anybody ever gets anything done here.

...I’m either going to come back in July incredibly chilled out or a complete nervous wreck!

Tha's reight kid!

When I asked my CM1 class what the weather was like today, the chorus of voices that came back saying ‘It’s sunny!’ all had perfect Sheffield accents. Well that was a surprise! I thought I was keeping my accent neutral. Clearly I’ve been deluding myself; the proof being in the kids’ amazing mimicry. I also heard very northern vowel sounds on ‘summer’ and ‘another year’ when we sang our song about the months of the year (which incidentally is driving me round the bend at the moment – I must have sung it about 30 times today). Well I’m glad I’m giving them a little memento of my home town, whether they’re aware of it or not.

Last night I shared my bed with a mosquito and consequently didn’t get much sleep. It must have got inside my pyjama trousers. It clearly found my left leg more appetising than my right as I found five bites there today. GRRRR! My killing routine has slipped. My powers are weakened from work, sun and walking tiredness – I must get back on murderous form. I don’t want dengue. One of the other assistants, Nick, has just had it. And even though his was quite mild, it still sounded very unpleasant. No thanks. Not for me.

I switched on the TV the other day and saw a very familiar spiky haired blonde person in a programme called ‘Les Condamnées’. That was weird. What was particularly weird about it was that unlike all the other characters whose dubbed voices are very similar in tone and pitch to their original English ones, I’ve been given a very strange, deep and yet still somehow squeaky voice. Imagine Bart Simpson crossed with Louis Armstrong and you’re halfway there. It must be a French ‘lesbian voice’.

I wish I had a car. The moment my license arrives I’m going to buy one. I’ve already got several people on the lookout for one for me. I don’t care if it’s a tiny old rust bucket (I can probably only afford something like that anyway) but my life will be hugely changed by having wheels. The idea of family is valued more here than in the UK, so primary schools have a two hour lunch break while the kids go home and eat with their parents. I haven’t got time to get to Trinité and back in two hours by public transport (even though it’s only a few kilometers away) as Taxicos are not very frequent or reliable. So I’m currently spending lunchtimes in the supermarket near the school which is quite depressing. When I have a car I’ll be able to go home to have lunch (and maybe even a nap!), I’ll be able to leave much later in the mornings and I’ll get back much earlier too, which will mean I’ll have more energy for mosquito hunting! My life will be transformed!

Chichis - 04/11/2007

The Toussaint holiday came to an end today so I went down to the beach to celebrate my last hours of freedom with some sunbathing and swimming. The little bay near me is usually fairly empty - even at the weekend I feel as if I have my own private beach - but today was quite different. As I was coming over the brow of Dead Cat Alley I saw ten or so brightly coloured sails on boats in the bay. And walking past the rows and rows of parked cars I got a whiff of hamburgers and sugar coated chichis (they’re like donuts but they’re long and thin and come in a bag like chips) and saw dozens of families watching the luminous pink, orange and green sails of the boats come into shore.

Women in traditional dress were carrying baskets of sugared coconut, pâtés bananes, ananas, coco and goyave, caramel pistache (bars of compressed peanuts in hard brown sugar – yum) and other homemade pastries to sell around the beach, and all along the edge of the bay were brightly coloured awnings, from under which people were selling sorbets and snowballs (crushed ice flavoured with syrup), traditional Antillean clothes such as red tartan patterned skirts and shawls, accras (a kind of deep fried fish balls which are VERY tasty) and loads of other exciting traditional wares. Unfortunately I didn’t have a cent on me so I couldn’t partake in any of this but I walked around feasting on the sights and smells instead – and silently cursing myself for being so stupid as to come out with no cash when there was all this food crying out for me to taste it!

Courtney and I braved the town last night so fortunately I had already tried a few of these goodies anyway. (In fact we ate so much of the sweet coconut stuff back at my house I felt like I had given myself temporary diabetes and sugar blindness) A friendly non-sleazy Rastafarian called Bruno showed us the way to Trinité Cemetery so we could see all the flowers and candles laid out for the Festival of the Dead (All Soul’s Day). It was a very strange sight, hundreds of little tea lights and Jesus candles illuminating the already rather elaborate sepulchres and sarcophogi. They really love their dead relatives here.

So it’s back to school tomorrow and I’m feeling a bit nervous again though I’m not really sure why. I’ve planned my lessons – I’m doing months of the year, ages and birthdays this week. I also found a song about the months and seasons on the British Council website which has been annoying me all day. ‘Hey September, October, November, It’s December Winter’s here!’ Aaaargh! Someone make it stop!

Forth, Tyne, Dogger, Fisher, German Bight... - 01/11/07

I’ve just been telling Courtney about the joys of Radio 4. Now all I want in the world is to listen to the Shipping Forecast. Wow. I must be homesick. Or maybe I’m just sick of French and need an injection of random words spoken in a BBC accent to sort me out.

So now we’re listening to a programme on the R4 website about Eliot Ness. I have no idea who that is or what’s going on in this programme but I really couldn’t care less. At this very moment I can hear people speaking English - and it’s amazing! After two months of watching terrible American TV series dubbed into French and listening to awful radio jingles in Creole about car insurance and dark rum and sweet pineapples I’ve realised that spending the entire evening gorging myself on English is what I need to do tonight and I don’t care what anyone else thinks!

The mice haven’t got in yet. I had two lizards in my house this morning though. But for some reason lizards seem cute to me whereas mice are just dirty cheese eating filth mongers. I wonder why that is..? Anyway Lisette is going to put poison around the house so hopefully the midnight glass munching at will disturb me no more.

I managed to plan my next three weeks’ lessons today in a flurry of sticky-backed plastic, coloured card and felt tip pens. I feel much better about starting work again now. I even managed to get some beach time in too between the rain storms so despite expecting to feel like I was being punished by the world all day today I actually feel as if I’m on holiday still.

We’re listening to I’m Sorry I Haven’t Clue now and Courtney looks just as baffled as she did during the Shipping Forecast. Oh how I love being British sometimes. Humphrey Lyttleton you rock my world!

Of Mice and Sharks - 29/10/07

A family of rather large mice is trying VERY hard to get into my house and I believe sometime in the next few hours they will succeed, set up camp under the kitchen table and begin feasting on my precious French cheeses. DAMN YOU MICE!

In the kitchen under the sink is a cupboard. At the back of this cupboard is a sheet of glass (though I’m not really sure why), and through the glass you can see the underneath/outside of the house. The sealant around the glass is fairly old and, in parts, no longer even there. And these determined little scrabblers have been very noisily gnawing a hole through the sealant and the glass (YES the GLASS!) for the past few days. I have no idea what to do. Lisette is away for a few days and I haven’t got any way of blocking up the hole. Looks like I’ll be having visitors whether I like it or not...

Speaking of visitors, I invited some of the other assistants up here this weekend for some feasting and revelling of a non mousy kind. We somehow got through eight bottles of wine, two bottles of rum and about 200 euros worth of food between the six of us which I think was quite an achievement. I made a peanut and chicken curry on Satuday which seemed quite well received and then Kuchenga, a Londoner whose mum is from Jamaica, kindly offered to cook something Jamaican on Sunday. None of us has been paid yet so when trundled off to the supermarket together, our combined mission was to hunt out the cheapest and tastiest looking things. We ended up with shark meat which Kuchenga cooked with scotch bonnet peppers, onions, peppers and tomatoes with rice and salad. Sharks are one of the things I am most scared of in the world so it was quite a thrill to actually eat one. Ha! Take that shark!

Splish splash splosh - 26/10/07

It’s been raining all day. I got extremely soggy legs when I waddled and clanked my way to the recycling bins 500 yards from my house this morning, and that was despite being under my huge umbrella.

I’ve invited a few other assistants to stay for the weekend so I had to make another journey into the perilous pluie to Match later on today to gather supplies. Sloshing through the cloudy brown water streaming down Dead Cat Alley I spotted a disgruntled goat trying desperately to take shelter by squishing itself up against the wall of a house and bleating in a most annoyed fashion as if to say “Make it stop raining, stupid human!” I felt sorry for the sad little waterlogged chèvre but there was nothing I could do to help it so I gave it my best sympathetic face and continued my watery journey to the supermarché.

One should always remember the first rule of shopping; NEVER go to a supermarket hungry. Unfortunately I failed to follow my own advice today and consequently found myself justifying all manner of unhealthy sugary food, including a tub of peanut ice cream, a bag of caramel sweets and a packet of sultana biscuits, telling myself that if I crave it I must need it somehow. Hmmm... Well it seemed like a sound argument at the time...

The Gentle Giant - 22/10/07

I’ve just had a battle with a spider as big as my hand. I won. But my friends, my victory brought me no pleasure. Too late I realised that this spider had come in peace, only looking for a morsel of food and a place to rest his weary (and bloody enormous) legs. But my fear and wariness of arachnids beyond a certain size had already driven me to begin exacting a cruel death upon it. And once I had started there was no turning back.

To make things worse I was too scared to do the humane thing and get close enough to hit it with something (I thought if I missed it might go on a killing rampage and make me scream like a little girl) so I double sprayed it with Raid instead, a can in each hand I was just like Lara Croft only with a more realistic figure. But unfortunately all my furious spraying did was make the spider crumple slightly in seemingly terrible agony and continue to cling desperately to the wall.

I watched it struggling to hold onto life for a few moments but eventually felt so guilty that I crept up behind it and smacked it with a newspaper (and then ran away shrieking until I finally convinced myself it was actually dead – somewhat less like Lara Croft at that moment). And this peaceful beast was thoughtful even in death, folding his legs up for me concertina-style to make my getting his broken corpse into the bin less frightening. I feel like a bad person...

School was fun today. I chose the topic of Halloween and taught the kids a rhyme about Trick or Treating and some words like pumpkin, skeleton and haunted house (which they found particularly difficult to say – my favourite variations included ‘warrntey wowce’ and ‘hoe tail hasse’). They seemed to enjoy it though which made me feel I was doing a good job, despite the fact that one of the teachers told me I had terrible handwriting and she was surprised the children could understand anything I wrote. (I’d been avoiding using cursive script because I know the French have a particular style which makes everyone’s handwriting uniform and indistinguishable from anyone else’s, and I thought I might confuse the children with my different style). I think she was just teasing me but she said my ‘r’ was badly formed. How rude!

This coming week is the holiday of Toussaint. I’ve been told that on All Souls Day all the cemeteries in Martinique are lit by candles (one on each grave). I’m thinking of going up to the enormous graveyard in Sainte Marie to see this holy spectacle but it will only be feasible if I can find someone with a car to give me a lift. I know all the shops are closed on Nov 1^st and 2^nd and there’s no taekwondo on so I need to think of something to do other than battle with insects chez moi.

I don’t know how I’m ever going to cope with having a real job. I only work three days a week here (and I’ve only done a week and a half so far) and I’m exhausted. I’m telling myself it’s the heat and the stress of travelling by taxico and arriving sweaty at every destination but I don’t know how much of that is true. I’ll let you know once I get my own car.

C'est le weekend! - 19/10/07

Yesterday I found out that not all kids are interested in England and snow and double decker buses. In fact, some of them show very little interest in anything at all.

After an hour and a half confronted by rows of stony faces of children who didn’t want to play, who didn’t want to ask any questions and who, quite frankly, didn’t want English lessons anyway I was just about ready to beat myself to death with a flip flop.

But finally, and only by expending a huge amount of energy in the process, I managed to break the ice and get them talking. I think the turning point was when I told them how small the cockroaches are in England and that we don’t really have mosquitoes. For some reason that seemed to interest those kids far more than us Brits going round roundabouts the wrong way or having a Queen who lives in a palace. And somehow despite feeling exhausted this morning, and despite the fact that my tutor was observing my lessons with the two 'bad' classes, I managed to get though today with far fewer problems. So no death by flip flop for me. Not today anyway.

The adults who I teach taekwondo to on Wednesdays have demanded an extra lesson on Fridays. This came as a surprise to me - I thought I had given an awful lesson on Wednesday after I had a brain freeze and couldn’t remember the first white belt pattern. I think my brain had short-circuited after the confusion of trying to give complicated instructions in French. I assumed everyone would think I was a poor example of a black belt, a terrible teacher and generally a useless person but it seems I was too hard on myself. Or maybe they’re just too forgiving. But the people have spoken so I must teach. I’m sure it will help my French (as well as my fitness!).

The Hello Song - 17/10/07

“Hello, hello, hello it’s time to learn and play. Hello, hello, hello let’s have fun today!”

Ok, imagine having that playing constantly on a loop in your head for three days. And if it ever stops, throw in a few rounds of Heads, Shoulders Knees and Toes, The Goodbye song, One Two Kittens that Mew or ‘If You’re Happy and You Know it Clap Your Hands’. That’s what’s going on in my head at the moment. And my external world is currently overflowing with felt tip pens, sticky backed plastic, Sellotape and pencil shavings. So I think you’ll agree I’m doing a pretty good job of retaining my sanity right now.

The kids in my schools are hilarious. One of them thought England was in South America, several of them asked me to sing them a song by 50 Cent (some American rapper). And all of them were amazed by the concept of the Channel Tunnel and buses with an upstairs floor and girls wearing ties as part of a school uniform ...or ANYONE wearing ties as part of a school uniform. They seemed disappointed that there are no crocodiles in England (although I don’t think there are any here so I’m not sure why that even came up) but VERY excited about snow and cold weather. It’s so bizarre that we’re never satisfied with what we’ve got!

The teachers are, on the whole, very friendly and welcoming - though some are a little blunt and you might say heavy handed. I saw one bloke grab a pupil by the ear à la Bash Street Kids and drag him around yelling at him about his bad attitude. And in one class, when a very dreamy-looking girl called Olivia at the back of the room asked me a variation of the question I’d just answered, the teacher said in a loud voice that I should ignore her because ‘she’s a bit slow’ and then proceeded to ask if anyone had any questions ‘EXCEPT Olivia’.

I have four classes to teach tomorrow and six on Friday. I’m actually only working two and a half days a week (apart from the time spent cutting out and laminating pictures of heads, shoulders, knees and toes of course). So I have plenty of time to go to the beach on my days off and at the weekend.

...I could get used to this part time lark.

Trinité by night - 14/10/07

Unlike during the daytime when Trinité bourg is almost empty apart from the swaying groups of mildly intoxicated men and the women buying their baguettes and pineapples from the local stalls, on Saturday and Sunday evenings, it is positively buzzing. THE place to be!

Jessica drove me down there after taekwondo last night to sample the famous local ice creams which are sold along the sea front. Even at ten in the evening there are families everywhere, kids running round and playing football, young couples canoodling, tiny tots on little flashing fairground rides and a long line of men fishing off the pier.

The ice cream’s popularity was evident from the queue which went all the way into the road. Many of the people waiting were carrying tupperware containers to fill up with their favourite flavours; pineapple, mango, rum and raisin, passion fruit, coconut, sweet potato (yes, you did read that correctly!), chocolate, plum and peanut. I went for peanut – I wanted something I’d never tried before but I wasn’t quite feeling brave enough for sweet potato. Jessica kept pushing me to get coconut (her favourite) but I’m glad I stuck to my guns. It was easily the best ice cream I’ve ever had. And the portion I got was so huge that I had to put some in the freezer when I got home ...and then accidentally eat if for breakfast starter this morning. (Breakfast main course was pancakes today – and I didn’t bother with breakfast dessert. Two courses were sufficient.)

Most of this weekend has been dedicated to washing and cleaning up after the departure of my house guests as well as lesson planning for Monday. I have six classes to teach, the thought of which is slightly scary. I think I’m prepared. And if everything starts crashing down around me at least I can fall back on a manic rendition of some nursery rhyme or other – they are only 7-year-olds after all. And every kid loves a crazy foreigner ...right...?

You say potato, I say potahto - 10/10/07

Today I swam in the Caribbean Sea AND the Atlantic Ocean. We hired a car. Or ‘rented’ one if you prefer - Courtney, Nick and I have spent the last few days discussing the idiosyncrasies of American and British English. You know, trousers, suspenders, fanny, pants, and so on. Nick and I have been teaching Courtney some choice English expressions too, such as, ‘to shake one’s lettuce’ and ‘chuck us the... (insert any noun here)... will ya?’, and in return we have learnt some rather splendid ones from her such as, ‘To cut the cheese’, which means to fart and the delightful ‘Bumblefuck’ which can be used to describe any derelict or deserted place in the middle of nowhere.

Our rental car, a rust bucket Suzuki Alto, looks a bit like a fancy blue wheelbarrow with an engine in it and can reach a staggering 70km per hour (as long as we’re going downhill). Yesterday we drove to Fort de France for a dull morning of pedagogical lectures. Then today we went to Anses d’Arlet in the South to swim in the Caribbean followed by Tartane in the North for a dip in the Atlantic, just because we could. After weeks of only being able to drag myself a couple of kilometers without dying of dehydration, it suddenly feels very liberating to be able to get around and see more of the island.

And I’ve been teaching my car compatriots all the in-car swearing I’ve heard from taekwondo Jessica over the last few weeks - ‘Ta geule conard!’ and ‘Bouge ta fesse putain!’- all of which have proved very necessary for us, as new contenders in the Martinique Road Rage Olympics.

Speaking of Jessica and taekwondo, last night’s training session was VERY tough. I took Nick with me (he’s staying chez moi this week so he can get a lift to Fort de France for the training workshops). It was Jessica who was taking the class, and quite honestly I don’t think I have ever felt that close to dying from exercise pain before in my life. Nick looked over to me at one point during some interminable circuit training which included some form of torture called ‘le canard’ or ‘the duck’, which was basically running in a squatting position while trying to keep your back straight. He was swaying slightly, drenched with sweat and mildly green in the face, and told me with a weak smile he thought he might go into cardiac arrest any second and that he hoped I could do CPR. I knew I looked as bad as he did – I could feel a fountain of sweat pouring from my hair down my back and into my pants (the British kind) - but somehow we struggled on, and despite needing to drink enormous volumes of water and eat our own body weight in food when we got back, we both felt an enormous satisfaction afterwards, although it’s possible we were simply rejoicing the fact that it was finally over.

Tomorrow we’re off to Fort de France again for more pedagogical pointlessness - I would most certainly feel more inspired by these workshops if I didn’t have to get up at 5.30 in order to get there on time. Oh well. At least we have wheels this week, even if they are attached to an old rusting crumbling heap of crap!

Just call me Rudolph... - 07/10/07

I’ve burnt my nose! And I’ve also got an angry red splodge on my right arm. I am officially that British lobster woman with crispy crackling skin. How embarrassing.

I’m struggling to understand how this happened since I spent at least half an hour lathering myself with factor 40, taking care not to miss anywhere out, before I even left the house today. And then I slapped on another coat at the beach an hour or so later. This sun must just be mighty powerful here.

I’m also currently cultivating a very impressive contrast between the skin that’s usually covered by my bikini and the rest of me, which is now quite tanned (by my standards). Now I look like I’m wearing white underwear even when I’m naked. Very classy.

The high point of my day today was successfully opening a tin of sweet corn with my Boy Scout style tin opener so I could make my spicy vegetable and noodle soup. The soup was bonne and I made enough to feed an army. I shall be feasting on that for several evenings next week after my arduous journeys to Fort de France for some doubtless badly organised and VERY boring workshops. Yay... can’t wait...

Cockroach Capers - 05/10/07

A cockroach the size of a baby bird flew in through the window last night. At least I hope it flew in... I mean I hope it wasn’t already inside the house. I’m starting to worry now after having encountered three of these prehistoric monsters in as many days. I suppose it’s hardly fair to call three cockroaches an infestation, but it’s definitely more cockroaches than I feel comfortable with.

So I’ve upped my usual morning sweeping regime to twice daily and I’m washing and drying dishes immediately after using them. (I read that cockroaches thrive around sinks and plumbing and that they especially like it if you leave dishes soaking overnight – ugh! I couldn’t go to sleep last night until I’d done a crazy cleaning session because all I could think about was a bunch of crunchy-shelled freaks having a party in my sink, feasting on my crumbs and spawning new ugly crawly life in my kitchen. YUK!)

Courtney stayed here last night – the water at her place has been turned off for some reason and being without a shower is not much fun in this humidity. She’s a self-confessed ‘bug hater’ and I got the impression was marginally more freaked out by the appearance of the roach than I was. That’s not to say there weren’t girly squeals from both sides though. In fact it was a bit like being at a hen party what with all the shrieking that was going on.

We each armed ourselves with a can of insecticide and chased the huge filth beast around the living room, hunting instincts kicking in just enough to overtake our feelings of disgust. We managed to take it down eventually. It wasn’t quite dead though; just sprawling and kicking on its back. But as neither of us could bring ourselves to get close enough to it do anything approaching a humane act, I had to grab a broom and just sweep it outside so it would die less noticeably.

I had some success with the annoying bureaucracy today as my tutor helped me fill in loads of forms and I finally got myself registered with a doctor. I had less success however with tin openers. Having had the lifelong privilege of the mechanical kind of tin opener (with the handle thing you turn), I have never bothered to mastered the ‘Boy Scout’ kind. So when faced with the challenge of my first tin without a ring pull, it was with some trepidation that I approached this scary looking device. For those of you who are unfamiliar with Baden Powell, this kind of tin opener is basically a small handle with a curved blade attached to it. I had no idea what to do with it so I tried to pierce the top of my tin of tuna by banging the sharp bit onto the tin.

Eventually getting through (and smacking my hand on the tin several times and covering myself with brine in the process) I was then faced with the problem of what to do next. I knew there must be a simple technique to this damn thing, but I just couldn’t fathom what that might be. So basically I sawed my way through half of the lid using the curved blade, which took about twenty minutes, and got covered in sweat and tuna water in the process.

I’m not sure the tuna was worth the effort to be honest...

Mees Fowseit - 03/10/07

The head teacher at Ecole Pointe Lynche is called Monsieur Garçon. It’s very apt actually since, despite being fairly old, he’s really very boyish. He’s wiry and athletic with sprinkles of grey in his hair and he welcomed me with a big smile and an energetic handshake, taking great pride in telling me all about his school and the pupils.

I have six classes at Pointe Lynch. It’s an école élémentaire, for kids aged 6-11 years, and it has more than 300 pupils. (Seems a bit on the large side to me - maybe I’ve spent too much time in villages.) I’m going to be teaching levels CM1 and CM2 which I think are roughly Year 5 and Year 6 in UK terms although the system here is something I still haven’t quite managed to get my head around. Too many letters everywhere. CED, CM1, CE2...? What's all that about?

M. Garçon seemed very pleased that I was there. He told me as he sprinted up the spiral staircase, me sweaty and breathlessly trying to keep up, that the children were really missing last year’s assistante d’anglais, from Trinidad and Tobago. I said I’d try to do as good a job as she did. despite being slightly distracted by the thought that I might not be able to manage those stairs more than once a day without expiring from heat exhaustion.

Mr Boy left me with another teacher, with a less memorable name, who spoke to me very hesitantly in English, saying he had spent some time in Exeter of all places, and that he was quite embarrassed by the state of his English. We switched back to French while he helped me work out a timetable and introduce me to my classes, and the next fifteen minutes or so were spent popping into classrooms so that I could stand up at the front and give an impromptu speech about myself in French to the class. I hope the intrigued faces that stared back at me wore expressions of curiosity rather than incomprehension. I suppose I’ll find out soon enough. They seemed to have some difficulty pronouncing my name. Mees Fowseit was the closest anyone got. Oh well. That’ll do I suppose.

I expected to spend the whole morning there being bored observing classes, so I was pleasantly surprised to discover that all I was expected to do that day was say hi to the kids. So I finished work before 9.00 am, something which hasn’t happened since my TV days. And any unexpected time off deserves a celebration in my opinion, so I headed straight to the beach.

The incessant heckling from the local men continued yesterday and today. One man, who looked to be about 70, stopped me on Dead Cat Alley to tell me he was looking for a new wife since he recently got divorced and that he’d really like a white woman this time. I had recently decided to take the precaution of putting a ring on my wedding finger - and luckily I had it on that day – so I flashed it in his direction and said, “Je suis mariée”. That shut him up pretty quickly. Quelle bonne idée! I'll use that again methinks.

Making my Yorkshire tea this morning in the kitchen I stepped on something hard which made a loud crack and made me jump. I thought it was a piece of glass but when I looked down I got a bit of a shock. It was in fact the most enormous cockroach I have ever seen. Normally I’m not really bothered about crawly things, but this beast was HUGE! And despite the sickening noise it made when I stood on it, it wasn’t even dead – it was just lying on its back madly flailing its legs about. I just couldn’t bring myself to touch it, or do anything useful except sweep it outside. Ugh... and I didn’t think I was the squeamish type.

Taekwondo last night was a killer. I’ve done training sessions at home which were a hundred times harder – but never in heat like this. I went a beautiful shade of puce which was very embarrassing and I drank almost three litres of water during the hour and a half. But I survived. And in fact this evening I taught a class of adult beginners which was quite good. I was a bit apprehensive since I hadn't had much cause to learn martial arts vocabulary before I arrived, but with a lot of miming, demonstrating and saying, “Vous faites errr...comme ça” I seemed to just about get my point across. And I now know how to say punch, kick, block, bow, stretch, lengthen, elbow, hips and all manner of very useful vocab like that!

Carry on Doctor - 01/10/2007

The first trial of Heracles was to kill the Lion of Nemea, son of Typhon and Echidna. Another trial was to capture a mad bull which was terrorizing Crete.

My first trial today was to get myself registered with a doctor. My second was to get some money out of the bank to pay my rent and my third was to report to the inspecteur of my circonscription (the schools inspector for that catchment area). And if you’re wondering why I am comparing these seemingly facile tasks to the arduous feats of a divine hero, pray allow me to enlighten you a little...

I arrived at the doctor’s surgery at 10am, armed with papers, passport and all manner of documentation. Despite the French people’s love of all things to do with paperwork I really thought registering would be a simple matter of speaking to the receptionist and writing my name down somewhere. I brought the papers with me just in case because it would have been très annoying to have to trek home in the blistering heat to get them if I did need them.

However when I got there I realised there was no reception and hence no receptionist. You walk straight into the waiting room and there, hanging on the wall, is a bundle of little papers with numbers on them, a bit like the ones you get on a supermarket meat counter only handwritten.

Five or six sickly faces looked up with tired eyes as I opened the door.

“C’est ici le medicin?” I asked, suddenly unsure if I’d just walked into a very odd party at someone’s house by mistake.

“Oui.” they chorused flatly. “Faut prendre un ticket.”

So I took a ticket (number 28) and sat down. I was sitting there for about half an hour with no sign of any movement in and out of the doctor’s actual room. “Oh well,” I thought. “There’s only five people here. It can’t take that long...”

Suddenly a man from the street popped his head round the door.

“C’est quel numero maintenant?” He asked.

The chorus of invalids piped up, “Dix”.

Ten?! What?! I thought they were on number twenty three. That changed things a bit. I decided to go to the bank and the supermarket and come back a bit later.

The bank experience was fairly successful. I had to speak to the woman I’d make a tit of myself on the phone to with the ‘papa’ thing – and she always looks quite amused to see me – but I managed to get my money without any problems or further embarrassment. The supermarket however was another hurdle to further the day’s fruitlessness. When I got there the shutters were down and there was a sign on the door saying they were closed for stock taking. “Well...no problem.” I thought. “I’ll just pop into the doctor’s again to see what number they’re on and then try the other supermarket.

They were on number twelve. I waited an hour, during which time only one more person was seen by the doctor, and I found out from overhearing someone else’s conversation that the other supermarket was stock taking as well and wouldn’t reopen until 2pm. Already mildly annoyed at having wasted precious beach time I resolved to trek up the hill home, eat something quickly and then come back with my swimming stuff in a bag so I could jump straight in the sea after seeing the doc.

It took me half an hour to walk home, by which time I was absolutely drenched with sweat, parched, dizzy with hunger (It seems I need to eat about ten times more here – and ten times more frequently too) and totally red in the face. I thought I was quite fit before I came here but seriously, walking for ten minutes in this heat is like doing three hours with Mr Motivator.

I took a quick shower and replenished my energy stores with water, tea and a tasty stew I’d made out of chicken legs, carrots, onions, lentils, beans and spices. I got changed, slapped on a load of sunscreen and felt much better.

I couldn’t resist having a quick dip on the way down to the doctor’s. I was already dripping wet again anyway (I’m taking three showers a day on average) so I jumped in the sea and floated around for half an hour. The water is incredibly salty and so it’s really easy to float in although not so kind on the eyes. It’s worth the stinging though for the blissful feeling of being suspended in the cool water. Gorgeous.

I got back to the doctor’s at about 2pm. They were on number 21. I had a stroke of luck though when Number 25 decided he couldn’t wait any longer and gave me his ticket on his way out, pushing me forward a precious three places in the queue. However, I waited for an hour and a half and Dr Jean-Marie had still only made it to number 23. As I had to be at the inspecteur’s place in Beausejour (half an hour’s walk from my house in the opposite direction from the doctor’s) by 5pm and I needed to take another shower and get changed again out of my bikini and beach dress and into something respectable before then, I realised I couldn’t stay any longer. And so like the original Number 25, and with a heavy heart, I gave my precious ticket to a delighted ex-Number 29.

My friends, if you had just spent most of the day in a poorly ventilated waiting room with dozens of sick people, all coughing and spluttering, and babies crying, and mosquitoes in abundance, only to walk away at the end of it having achieved virtually nothing, you may well agree with me that my day today rivalled a typical day in the life of Heracles, the paragon of manhood.

...or you might just call me a big drama queen and tell me to shut up...

Oh, I saw a funny sign in the toilets in the Inspecteur’s place. Well I thought it was funny anyway. I’ve uploaded a picture of it - and for those of you who don't speak French, it basically says 'Don't piss round the edge of the toilet'.

Bisous. xx

Poison and Poisson - 30/09/07

There’s a tree in Martinique called the mancenillier which you can see growing all along the beaches here. It looks a bit like a gnarled old apple tree. However the little fruits growing on it are incredibly poisonous, as are the leaves, the bark and the sap. In fact, the tree is so toxic that if you shelter under it during a rainstorm and any drops fall onto your skin they can cause severe burns!

Crabs can run really fast I found out today. Courtney and I chased one along the beach this morning but it got away from us quicker than we could say crabsticks (which incidentally would’ve been unlikely to incite any fear in my little pincered friend since crabsticks contain virtually no crab whatsoever). The curious little fellow had been nipping at my flip flops while I was sunbathing and when I looked up to see what was going on, he zoomed off sideways, on nippertiptoes, winking his little crabby eyes and waving his pincers in the air as if to say “Ha ha! Can’t catch me!” and then ran into a hidey hole in the sand, peeping out every so often to see if we were still there.

I had some delicious fish this evening. It was called dorade, which translates in my dictionary as bream – but I don’t really know what that is or if I’ve had it before. I marinated it in lime juice, garlic and salt for an hour before frying it and ate it with some rice and salad. Mmmm...Delicious!

Sainte Luce 28/09/07

As a ten-year-old avid fan of Mallory Towers and Saint Clare’s I always wanted to go to boarding school. Midnight feasts of tinned sardines and condensed milk - What could be better?

...Well the last few days have well and truly removed that urge from my system. Sharing a bungalow with 6 other women and one toilet roll turned out to be a lot less fun than I had envisaged.

I threw my bag into the least stuffy room to claim it when I arrived, and was promptly told I would have to share the double bed that was in there. Ok, it’s a bit weird to share a bed with someone you’ve only just met, but at the time, in my sweaty state, I was much more concerned about air conditioning than privacy so I acquiesced.

We were crowded seven into a bungalow, there were no shops for miles around and so we could only eat and drink what we were given – which was basically bread and jam in the morning and aeroplane food carefully rationed into tiny plastic containers for lunch and dinner – as well as the few things the brave people who made it to the shops managed to bring back with them. We did have midnight feasts of sorts, only the ginger beer was replaced by rum punch and the tinned sardines by the remnants of our plastic airline meals. I was so hungry I actually considered catching a crab to eat - there were lots of them wandering around - but I didn't really know what you do with them. And besides they were quite cute up close so it seemed a bit wrong throwing them alive into a pot of boiling water to frantically nip till they could nip no more.

But despite nearly fainting with hunger on more than one occasion, our time there was on the whole very enjoyable. There were Spanish people, Brazilians, an Australian, a woman from Trinidad and Tobago, one from Jamaica, loads from the US, a couple of people from Ireland and a whole bunch of Brits too. We drank rum, we swam in the sea, played guitars and sang songs and generally had a great time getting to know each other.

For most of the week’s activities we were joined by some young tourism students who made incredibly sweet speeches in faltering English and Spanish (usually read from a crumpled up and shaking sheet of paper). My favourite was the girl who described the taste of one particular Marinique dish as ‘spiky’. Although I have no right to find this amusing since I have had French people rolling on the floor with laughter at some of the mistakes I’ve made in the past.

One evening these budding linguists gave a presentation of the typical fruits and drinks and foods from Martinique and then invited us to show everyone something from our respective cultures. Of course the Spanish showed everyone up with their enormous selection of cured meats and cheeses (which were muchos yumos by the way). I tried to convince people that Marmite was a delicacy in the UK but most people looked at me as if they thought I was insane. Other very English offerings included Liquorice Allsorts, shortbread and Jammie Dodgers. ...And we wonder why we’re a nation of fatties...?

When all the bureaucracy of France meets all the rum drinking laid back nature of the Caribbean, the result is like oil and water. So despite the fact that there was no one there when we first arrived and we were locked out of the bungalows for about three hours, and that everyone in charge arrived spectacularly late on first day, and that we started at least an hour late on the last morning (after some of the assistants had been really bollocked for turning up about ten minutes late on the previous day, which was a bit confusing), we still had to sit for hours listening to very boring lectures about social security, cartes de sejour, bank accounts and housing benefit, and I left the place with enough forms to start a VERY big bonfire (and yes, I am tempted).

I’m back in my apartment in Trinité now and very much looking forward to some real breakfast. None of this continental rubbish from now on. Bring on the bacon and beans!

Il pleut comme vache qui pisse - 24/09/07

It’s raining like a pissing cow - one of the best French expressions there is in my opinion. Apparently the saying was born out of a much older one; ‘pleurer comme une vache’, or ‘to cry like a cow’. Neither makes much sense if you try and take them too literally but then I suppose ‘raining cats and dogs’ is pretty off the wall too. At least there’s a liquid involved in the French version of the expression – even if it is wee.

So the big Sky Cow was pissing when I woke up this morning. I decided to go for a jog anyway and, despite Dead Cat Alley being a bit slippery, I found that jogging was on the whole much easier in the rain than in the sun.

An hour or so later the rain subsided and there was bright sunshine again so I went to the beach. However, no sooner had I spread out my towel and settled down with my book than the Sky Cow got another urgent call of nature. And it came down like I have never seen rain before in my life! It was quite literally bucketing down and I was soaked to the skin within about 4 seconds.

It didn’t look like it was going to stop so I started squelching my way back to the apartment, desperately wiping the rain out of my eyes so I could see to cross the road and clutching at my bag to stop my book and my mobile phone from drowning. But halfway up the incredibly steep hill the rain stopped again and the sun burst through the clouds shining as brightly ever.

So I turned round again and went back towards the beach. But as I neared the bottom of the hill I noticed that the bright blue sky which had seemed to stretch out for miles, only extended to the road by beach, and that over the sea hung a filthy grey expanse of cloud that looked like it had decided where it would hang out for the rest of the day - right over my sunbathing spot.

So I turned around again...

Back at the apartment Lisette told me it was going to be like this all day. But determined to make the most of the sun’s moments of victory against the rain, I wrapped my phone and book in a plastic bag and set off into town to buy an umbrella. I bought two; a massive blue plastic one and a tiny foldaway one. I also bought a drink made from the juice of prunes de cythère. The tree in my garden that I thought was a lime tree in fact yields this type of fruit, which is amusingly called ambarella in English – I could have done with one of those BEFORE it started raining! At the moment the fruit on the tree is bright green but Lisette told me when it turns yellow you can eat it. The drink is made from the green ones however so it looks like some kind of freshly squeezed alien juice, and has a slightly tart but not unpleasant taste, a bit reminiscent of under ripe apples. Here’s a picture of the fruit if you’re interested.

On my way back to the apartment the weather got suddenly worse again. This time there were enormous cracks of thunder and the sky turned very dark so I decided to forget the beach and go home for a cup of tea and a pâté banane instead.

I’m starting my training tomorrow in Sainte Luce in the south. As yet I have no idea how I’m supposed to be getting there, or when I’m expected. It’s very frustrating being a control freak among such laid back people! I’m working out how to deal with it though.

Ok, the Sky Cow is grumbling very loudly now and my lights are flickering a lot so I’m going to post this before I lose my connection...