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