Sunday, September 30, 2007

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!

Saturday, September 29, 2007

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!

Monday, September 24, 2007

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...

Saturday, September 22, 2007

Not very Catholic... 22/09/07


While I was jogging down Dead Cat Alley this morning on my way for an early morning dip, (The road’s actually called Chemin de Desmarinières but I think my name is more evocative.) I saw a sun-dried lizard AND a drowned rat. Not kidding! It must be the place where the little creatures come to die. The half cat has gone now by the way. Gone to kitty heaven.

There was another group of grannies in the sea today along with a fit-looking 60 something Metropolitain (someone from mainland France). And it looked like they were having swimming lessons. Intrigued, I decided to go and ask – I’ve realised it’s completely acceptable to wander up to people here, even if they look very busy, and ask them what they’re up to – He told me they were doing gymnase aquatique (aqua aerobics) but that you can get swimming lessons at the piscine in Sainte Marie. Then he suddenly switched from French and addressed me in English, of sorts...

“Where do you come tree?” He asked, looking very pleased with himself.

“Erm... pardon?” I replied.

“Where DO youwrr cohwmtree?”, he clarified.

Hazarding a guess I said; “England...?” which seemed to satisfy him.

“Yeyss. Eeeengland. Good.”

I wondered why we weren’t speaking French any more. Surely my French wasn’t so bad we needed to resort to his terrible English. I decided he must just be showing off his amazing linguistic skills to the grannies - to be fair they did look quite impressed - so I decided not to take it too personally. We bid each other good day and I sploshed off.

My shower was blocked when I got back which led to a lot of scraping around with a cotton bud and finding vile clumps of someone else’s scummy old hair which I then had to try and get to the bin without touching. Ugh. Although after seeing that rat earlier I was a bit scared of what I might find so the clumpy hair was quite a relief really.

Afterwards, while pottering around getting dressed and slapping on the factor 30 I heard someone call for me from outside – it was Lisette’s friend, Ziko, who I’ve seen around a few times and who’s very friendly – we’d already had a conversation about us both having small feet. She said she was off to Carrefour (the big supermarket near the mountains) and insisted that I go with her to do my shopping too. It was a welcome invitation since my nearest supermarket, Match, is about a 15 minute walk down an incredibly steep hill which means I have to put a strict weight limit on what I buy in order to be able to get back up the hill. The first time I went I made the foolish mistake of buying a six pack of water as well as loads of tinned tomatoes and green beans. I might as well have bought a hippo. I had to stop every three paces on the way back home in the blazing heat to put everything down and drink some of the water only to pick it all back up again for the next three painful steps. The worst thing was that a man walked past me and offered to help me but I had to refuse, fearing another attack of lecherousness. So it took me about an hour to get the stuff home, by which time I was about ready to drop dead.

I’ve noticed that people drive somewhat erratically in Martinique. It’s like a national sport – the aim is to see how many people you can piss off by cutting them up. Then you make rude hand gestures and shout ‘putain!’ out of the window at them when they look irritated. I can’t wait till I’ve got a car. I’m going to enter the National Road Rage Championships! I’m already practising my hand gestures.

We arrived alive at Carrefour – where I realised that Ziko’s trolley driving was a bit like her car driving; confrontational shall we say. I can’t say I understood every exchange she had but one in particular sounded rather heated, and she definitely accused someone of ‘not being very Catholic’, which, for some reason, in a supermarket context surrounded by spinach and mangoes, struck me as being quite funny. I had to pretend to look at the pâtés bananes at that point just so I didn’t laugh out loud.

I made it to taekwondo last night. Jessica found my house and we got there on time. It was ok – a bit tame, but to be honest I’m not sure I could manage a normal training session in this heat yet. At the end the instructor gave a talk about how the lessons would be arranged, and who would be teaching what. I was listening and understanding most of it but got a sudden shock when I heard my name mentioned – apparently I’m teaching the Wednesday class! Erm... ok... as long as I can do it in sign language.

I had a floup on the way home. Don’t ask... Ok, it’s an ice pop. It was pretty revolting – grenadine and mint flavour. I enjoyed the coldness of it but I think I’ll try a different flavour next time. I want to like them just because they have such a silly name!

Friday, September 21, 2007

Taxicos - 21/09/07


What’s that saying...? ‘Horses sweat, men perspire and women glow.’ ...Bollocks! I’ve lost about 3 litres today already and there’s no way I ‘glowed’ all that lot out.

I’ve just got back from the housing benefit office (the CAF) – it seems I might be eligible for some help with my rent which is good news if true. The CAF is in Sainte Marie – a lively town with an enormous and eerily ornate graveyard on its approach road, whose inhabitants are called ‘Samaritains’. However most of the inhabitants I saw today looked more like junkies, drunks and layabouts than their biblical namesakes. There was some Caribbean music blaring out from a shop on the corner of one road which added a bit of atmosphere to the town, but on the whole, if you took away the beautiful sunshine, it was pretty much like going to Skegness out of season.

While wandering around looking for the CAF a woman came up to me and asked me for money. I did a confused face and said in my best English accent “Err je ne parle paz froncay” but then much to my chagrin she proceeded to tell me all of her woes in English. I didn’t have any change in my pocket and was a bit reluctant to start flashing my wallet around in Junkieville so I just said no, at which point she gave me a look that could have killed Satan, flung her empty beer can over the wall and walked off in a strop shouting obscenities. Needless to say I didn’t hang around there long.

The man at the CAF was very friendly and helpful. He complimented me on my French, saying he used to speak English very well himself but that he was out of practice and perhaps I could ‘learn’ him again. And we laughed and I thanked him and left with my huge bundle of forms to fill in – the French have a thing for bureaucracy; if it doesn’t have more than ten pages it’s just not a real form.

I got to Sainte Marie by taxico (or taxi collectif), a kind of minibus-cum-taxi that you hail from the street like a cab but which follows a specific route between two towns. They’re really cheap – it cost 1 euro 10 cents to get to Sainte Marie which is about 7 km away from Trinité - and everyone piles in and then shouts “Arrete!” when they want to get off. Today I was squashed up between two massively fat Martinique women and their shopping bags, who had what sounded like a hilarious conversation in Creole over my head (in both senses). And I got a face full of one of the women’s enormous arse as she manoeuvred her way off, which was a bit scary. It’s all good fun though...

I’m going to taekwondo again tonight providing that Jessica, a woman who goes to the club, manages to find where I live from my slightly wobbly directions. I’m terrible at giving and receiving directions in English so what hope is there for me in French?!

Wednesday, September 19, 2007

Why did the chicken cross the road? - 19/09/07


Having spent most of the morning sweeping up mangled corpses of various insects and arachnids (I’m killing indiscriminately now – it’s no longer just the mosquitoes that must be destroyed), I decided to wander down to the beach. I’d been for a jog earlier in the morning so I reckoned I deserved some lazing about time – well I am officially on holiday until Monday so I can do what I want. Ha!

I went past the half kitten to inspect it so I could file a progress report, and I can now inform you that today it’s not even half a kitten. It’s just a bit of squashed and dirty fur with the almost recognisable remains of a cat face. Someone had a feline feast last night... Yuk.

My neighbours, the Rastafarians, were smoking and playing drums when I walked past and on to the beach. As I got closer I saw a group of people in the water, all in a neat formation and all waving their hands in the air. I panicked at first because I thought they were all drowning (in a very orderly fashion) but then I realised that these serried ranks were in fact grannies doing aqua aerobics in the sea. And it looked like they were having a great time! I hope when I’m a granny I can have that much fun.

I spent an hour on the beach – any more than that and I would have frazzled. I was wearing factor 30 sun cream but I don’t want to risk the humiliation of being the stupid Brit that fell asleep on the beach only to wake up looking like a lobster. I took some pictures while I was out and about but the ones of myself are appalling. I always look confused when I’m trying to take a photo – it’s clearly very difficult to smile AND press a button at the same time.

I saw a VERY weird caterpillar today that was red with long furry tufts of black hair. It looked like a really small and brightly coloured bog brush. I also saw a chicken crossing a road which was funny – I really wanted to ask someone why it had but I wasn’t sure if the joke existed in France so I decided not to risk the embarrassment.

Tonight, after almost burning down the house (The oven has two settings; Extremely Hot and Raging Inferno.) I dined on mildly charred chicken with limes and hot chilli sauce and stir fried vegetables. I’m trying to avoid buying things that aren’t local wherever possible due to the enormous cost but there’s a bit of a limit to what you can make with bananas, coconuts, limes, rum and sugar – apart from punch of course!

Tuesday, September 18, 2007

Half a cat - 18/09/07


After a few days of successfully avoiding mosquitoes by way of carefully coordinated pre-emptive strikes they have finally caught up with me. Little bastards. I’ve got a bite on my leg, one on my elbow (VERY itchy) another one on my arm and one on my back. My normal evening routine is a shower followed by spraying myself with DEET, followed by at least half an hour’s ruthless hunt around the apartment armed with insecticide before I can settle down and eat. This strategy had proved quite effective up until last night but I think I angered the flying freaks by killing their insect brothers, so they ganged up on me yesterday to bite me up good and proper. I need to put more effort into my systematic murder of these beasts, especially since there’s a Dengue Fever epidemic here at the moment. Mental note – must try harder with the killing.

I saw half a cat today. Well it was a kitten actually, and the first time I saw it, on my way to the Post Office, it was a whole kitten. It was lying on its side on the road with blood round its mouth with its tiny tongue poking out - and clearly dead. I felt sad for a moment because it was so small, but I carried on walking and thought about what to have for lunch instead. When I came back that way about an hour later, the top half, i.e. the entire left side of its body (think Damian Hirst’s cow) had disappeared. I don’t know what had happened, maybe insects had been chipping away at it all that time, but it was sincerely gross.

While I was in town (and while the cat was getting manged – the Franglais mange, not the English - though it might have had that too I suppose), I went into a bakery and bought something called a pâté guyave, which was a kind of sweet pasty with guava inside, all hot and sticky. It was a truly tasty treat. They had banana ones and coconut ones which I’d like to try too but I’d better not get too used to them otherwise I’ll come back looking like the side of a house. Just because something has fruit in it doesn’t mean it won’t make you fat! That’s what I keep telling my dad anyway.

I felt a bit more like I lived here today when a car drove past me in town and the driver called out “Eh Lindsey! Ca va?” It was Jean Charles, a slightly overly-helpful security guard at my local supermarket, ‘Match!’. He had talked me into buying some coconut rum punch (which was admittedly very nice) yesterday and then proceeded to follow me around the supermarket asking me what I was looking for and if he could help me find it. It was very kind of him but really I just wanted to wander around looking at stuff and being outraged at the prices, e.g. 7 Euros per kilo for broccoli!!! Anyway he seemed friendly enough but after Sunday’s experience I’m not sure how much I trust Martinique guys to just be friends. I could have used his help finding peanut butter, which I’m missing, but I don’t know how to pronounce (or spell) the French word for peanut and I don’t want to make a fool of myself too many times in one week - I’ve definitely used up my allowance for this week already. It’s cahahuehehuhette... chahuehttte... cahahue... Oh I give up! Suffice to say it’s got far too many vowels and hs to be in any way pronounceable.

I went to a taekwondo club today. It was a bit disappointing because there was no training – it was just a meeting to discuss the start of the new term. It was also a bit embarrassing because I’m a higher grade than the instructor (he’s a first Dan) and so in the middle of this meeting he ‘presented’ me to the group as a new fountain of knowledge for everyone to learn from. I did my vague smiling and nodding that I’m getting so good at but inside I was wishing for immediate invisibility. I don’t mind teaching a bit but I’d prefer just to train. I don’t care what grade the instructor is as long as he or she can run a class and just because I’m a second Dan doesn’t mean I know any more than he about taekwondo. I only do it to keep fit! I’m not even aggressive – honest!

I made LOADS of phone calls today – some more successful than others... I spent about ten minutes trying to guess what letter the woman at the bank was saying to me in a code I needed to make a transfer. It was P. And she was saying, “Papa, Papa” to me. But for some reason I completely disassociated that with the fact that she was telling me a letter. I just kept thinking, “What has your dad got to do with any of this? Just tell me what the goddamn letter stands for will you?!” Your brain does funny things though when it’s trying to compute two languages. I’ve noticed a delay between hearing and comprehending for example. I virtually always ask people to repeat what they just said and then interrupt them before they finish once my brain has caught up with my ears. It’s most embarrassing but I’m guessing it’ll get easier once I get used to the rhythm of the accent.

Right. Must sleep. I just had a tiny glass of that punch and I’m glad I didn’t go back for a second one. I can hardly keep my eyes open! xx

A day of rest...? 16/09/07


This décalage business is getting annoying now. I forced myself to stay awake till 11pm last night thinking it would make me sleep till a reasonable hour today. But I woke up at 4am anyway and there was no way I was going back to Snoozeland. There’s no peace for anyone at that hour due to the chorus of cockerels battling with each other for the biggest beak award. If you don’t sleep through the first few shrieks you’ve had it. Honestly it’s like listening to Chinese opera on maximum volume - worse in fact.

By 6am I realised I needed to do something more entertaining than staring at the ceiling listening to a round of ‘COCK-A- DOODLE DOOOS!’ every ten seconds. So I went for a jog. There were loads of people already running up and down the beach and doing funny looking exercises. One woman was lying on her back on a picnic table waving her legs in the air – not sure what she was doing... leg semaphore perhaps? I didn’t like to ask in case she had just escaped from somewhere. So I went on, remembering to say my bonjours to the other joggers.

I jogged (and sometimes walked) for miles all the way to Sainte Marie, at least that’s where I think I was - and paddled in the sea up there. I really wanted to go for a swim but I was wearing these big flappy shorts and I didn’t want to walk back soaked in case people thought I was some kind of raging Sweaty Betty and shunned me from thenceforward. I went to my beach 5 minutes from the apartment later on though for my long awaited swim in the Atlantic. It was gorgeous! However, the day was a slightly marred by my realisation that going into the town on Sunday as a lone woman is NOT a good idea...

Sundays are different from other days in Trinité. It would appear that, far from being a day of rest, Sunday in Trinité is in fact a day of sleazy men lurking on benches and in doorways and lavishing unwanted pathetically sexist attention on women that pass by ...particularly white women ...particularly me. I heard so many wolf whistles and calls of ‘bonjour princess’ – like that’s going to work on anyone with a brain? Fools. And semi drunk and stoned blokes kept beckoning me over or shouting weird questions at me. All the single men in a two mile radius were hanging around the Bourg (that’s the bit where the shops are) hoping some hapless tourist would wander into their midst like I did today. I’m not venturing in that direction next week. That’s for sure!

This evening Lisette took me on a little tour of Tartane in the car. I was really glad of the distraction and the company – I’d begun to feel a bit isolated and a little bit sad after realising I couldn’t really go anywhere on my own without having to deal with annoying wankers. I can’t wait till I’ve got some form of transport. I’m looking for a moped because I think it’ll make me look really cool. 50cc... Come on!! xx

On dit bonjour ici... 15/09/07


I went into the town today and was accosted by Mormons AND Jehovah’s Witnesses. All in one morning! I smiled politely at the Mormon (who was speaking dodgy French with an American accent), shook his hand and took his card, which told me to call this number for the secret of eternal life, and promptly deposited it in the nearest bin. The Jehovah’s Witnesses were more cunning however and managed to draw me into a conversation. I’d already noticed that the leaflet the man was holding had one of those classic Beardy-God-in-the-Clouds pictures on it so I was on my guard but he turned out to be surprisingly friendly and engaging. He wasn’t even wearing a boring suit. Those miserable zombified-looking ones that knocked at my door in Sheffield the other week could learn a lot from this guy!

He didn’t really seem surprised or put out when I told him I’d heard of Jehovah’s Witnesses and wasn’t in the least bit interested in joining up. So we shook hands and said how pleasant it had been to make one another’s acquaintance, we promised not to try and convert each other and then we went our separate ways.

Going out and about today was my first culture ...not shock exactly, more like a ‘culture reminder’ of what I’d been told to expect. Everyone says bonjour to everyone – even complete strangers. A couple of older people said good morning to me as I passed them, and I returned the greeting, but I didn’t manage to find the courage to say it without a prompt until after a man told me in a rather stern voice: “On dit bonjour ici.” just after I’d passed him, smiling rather blandly. I thought he was really cross with me but when I sheepishly said: “Pardon. Bonjour!” he just laughed. Phew. My first cultural faux pas resolved nicely.

In other news... a coconut fell out of a tree right opposite where I was sitting on my patio this morning. It was just across the road from me and it made me jump out of my skin! As soon as I realised what it was I jumped up (losing several layers of skin in the unsticking process – did I mention it’s a bit warm here?) and chased it down the hill. Then, walking back, with my trophy proudly held out before me, I bumped into Lisette’s husband who I hadn’t met before. We said hello, ça va etc but I was so bursting with excitement about the coconut that I practically threw it at him. “Look!” I said. “J’ai trouvé un coconu ...coco...err” trailing off as I realised I didn’t actually know the French word for my amazing discovery. He smiled, the way you would smile at a two year old who’s just realised how to put his arm in his sleeve by himself. “Yes”, he told me. “They grow on trees”.

Speaking of trees, there are two banana trees and a lime tree in my garden. And I had no idea that bananas grew upside down! Well actually I suppose it depends which way round you think a banana should go, but I had always imagined them growing hanging from the fibrous stalky end but in fact they grow upwards from there. I felt a bit silly when I realised - but a bit less silly than during that coconut experience.

I think I’m going to stay here in Trinité instead of looking for another place. Geneviève (my tutor) drove me through Le Robert yesterday, which is the place ten minutes’ drive down the coast where I’ll be working, and it’s not a patch on here. The beach is a five minute walk away here – there’s no beach at Robert, there are loads of shops within walking distance and the apartment is fantastic and big enough to have guests.

So get those flights booked people. I’ve got a spare room! xx

Je suis arrivée! 14/09/07


...and it’s very hot and sweaty. There was a sudden downpour a few minutes ago (it’s 8.30pm here now) but that didn’t seem to make it any cooler. I’m so glad I’ve got air con in my room. It’s fresh as a lettuce in there right now - That’s my new favourite Portuguese expression by the way.

The flight was ...well... long. The food was surprisingly ok though and I had the good fortune of having three seats all to myself, although the man in the seat behind me snoring like a dugong all the way made my desired state of true peacefulness very difficult to achieve. I was also feeling really sad after leaving Jimu in Manchester so I tried to cheer myself up with the Carpenters. (Oh, and in case you’re thinking of trying that method of cheering, I really wouldn’t recommend it. The lyrics are as depressing as a very grim death and all you’ll think about outside of your own misery is the fact that Karen killed herself slowly by starving in order to escape the futility and pain of her life - I’ve decided to try Abba next time. I’ll let you know how that goes.)

I’m staying chez Lisette – well it’s a downstairs apartment in her house. It’s fully furnished - got a washing machine and everything! But a bit out of my price range so I’m going to stay here this week while I have a look around for somewhere cheaper. Lisette is really nice though. She just took me to the supermarket in her car so I could buy a strange combination of items including salami, an apple and what looks like a hairy potato. Wonder what you do with that. Any suggestions? And please don’t anyone tell me to stick it where the sun don’t shine - It’s far too large and rotund for that kind of carry on.

Oooh! When the plane was coming into Martinique it was so exciting! We circled the island (which was quite a useful geography lesson) first but it’s such a tiny place that the very last part of the descent, just before the landing, was just a few metres over the sea. I did think for a moment we’d have to swim the final few kilometres but we made it to solid ground and the touchdown was as smooth as Patrick Swayze in Dirty Dancing.

I don’t know how I got online. I just connected to some random network I found. I don’t know how wise it is to do that either but after my lonely salami and olive supper I just had the urge to communicate with the outside world. I suppose I’d better sign off now though before someone steals my identity – or worse, starts messing up my Scrabulous statistics.

My plan for tomorrow is to get a sim card for my phone (une puce – hehe). I’ll put my number on here when I have it so you can text or call if you want to get in touch. You can also send texts to my UK phone – although I don’t know for how long or if I’ll reply because my credit is running low and I can’t make the call I need to top it up annoyingly.

Bonne nuit mes amis. xx