Mouse Attack

Les jours feriés sont des jours de fête civile ou religeuse ...and they have MILLIONS of them in Martinique. I'm sure there have been five or six since I got here, and there are three more in the next two weeks, two of which are on Thursdays. Bank Holiday Thursday! Did you ever hear of such a thing?

...Ok, I have some catching up to do. Remember my friends the mice? Well they finally chewed a hole in the perspex barrier big enough to get into the cupboard under the sink. We heard a lot of scrabbling and scuffling coming from in there the other day so Jennie and I opened the door to take a peek just in time to see a large furry flurry disappear into the darkness and then sit on the other side of the perspex, peering at us, undoubtedly coveting my snacks, and rubbing his hands together in glee at the thought of edging ever closer to his goal.

Fearing an infestation I immediately reinstated my defence system (a piece of wood and a chair) to stop mighty mouse opening the door and getting into the kitchen. I also blocked up a gap in one of the drawers with a rolled up floor mat. But the teeth of the mouse must not be underestimated. Only an hour or so later it had gnawed its way through and was running around in my kitchen trying to decide which tasty treat to go for first.

Angered by the threat to my food supplies I ran towards it, not really sure what I was going to do (food is sacred to me), but the beast eluded me once more, climbing fearlessly up the drawers and pushing the remains of the mat out of its way to run through the gap and back into the cupboard. And I’m sure I heard it laughing at me as it scuttled back through the hole.

After many wild hand gestures and much breathless conversation with Lisette, I managed to convince her to erect a more solid barrier to try and prevent further invasions. So now I have a metal plate between me and mouse world. And after thoroughly disinfecting the drawers and anything that was in them I can finally rest knowing my precious food is safe from tiny teeth...for now at least...

I'm off to the Post Office this afternoon to stand in a ridiculously long queue of sweaty people for several hours. I wish they'd just sort it out and get more workers on the desk. I think if I added up all the time I've spent queuing there since September it would make about a month. Wish me luck!

Day of Mourning

Yesterday I switched the TV on as I was sleepily and grumpily getting ready for work (having lots of guests is fun but quite exhausting) and I noticed several channels were playing strange wailing music and showing a frozen screen with an old man’s face on it and today’s date. And I eventually guessed using the cunning power of reading a scrolling subtitle that the great Aimé Césaire had died that morning.

At school, Mme Trunchbull had lined all the kids up class by class in the playground when I arrived and was yelling into a microphone at them; “QU’EST-CE QUI S’EST PASSÉ AUJOURD’HUI LES ENFANTS??” as the little ones looked confused and the big ones looked at the floor. Eventually some brave (or foolish) child put his hand up and was summoned up to the microphone where he whispered; “Aimé Césaire est mort” only to be told to; “PARLE PLUS FORT!!” Then the question was re-posed several times at megadecibels until the terrified enfants shouted back in unison; “AIMÉ CÉSAIRE EST MORT” ...by which time I was quite sure my guess was correct, and also that the children were unlikely ever to forget this day as they would probably be traumatised by the playground experience for the rest of their lives.

Later on I got a message from my tutor, who I was expecting to come and observe me the following day, saying school would be closed on Friday as a mark of respect (YAY!!) and that it may not be open on Monday either depending on whether or not the funeral happened on Sunday.

I knew a tiny bit about Césaire before yesterday, but I was so happy to get the day off that I decided, as my own mark of respect, to educate myself properly about him. I might even read one of his books, you never know.

It’s been lovely having guests and doing the tourist thing again – Jennie’s still here for another week – but unfortunately it means I don’t get much time for myself or blogging. So please excuse my absence. I’ll try and get back on track when my house is calm again.

Accrochement

Wow... I had no idea how addicted I am to the internet. It's been playing up for a few weeks and simply not working at all most days. And recently I've been haunted by a song that keeps going round and round in my head, occasionally bursting out when I least expect it, like when I'm walking around the supermarket looking for cheese - you know the one? Dusty Springfield? I just don't know what to do with myself. I've honestly never had such an affinity with a lyric...

Going to the movies only makes me sad,
Parties make me feel as bad,
When I'm not with you I just don't know what to do.

It's been absolutely traumatic.

Happily my ennui is about to be assuaged since cousins are arriving on Tuesday and a friend from uni is coming on Sunday. And the BIG news is that J is finally coming too ...today! It was a last minute decision - I got a phone call at 3am yesterday and then spent the rest of the night flipping my pillow over and getting tangled up in the sheets and switching the light on to check the time and generally not being able to sleep. And then at school I walked around all day like a zombie, only realising I was actually alive when my little wee kid told me I have 'très beaux yeux', sparking off a volley of raucous laughter from the children around him.

We’ve been doing ‘the zoo’ this week which has been really hilarious. I had all the kids jumping around pretending to be lions and zebras (what noise does a zebra make? We were whinnying and hrrrrumphing – I assume they do that) which they really enjoyed. I’m thinking of teaching them the ‘We’re off to the animal fair’ song next week. I just hope they don’t ask too many questions about the ‘gay’ baboon.

You may have noticed I uploaded a few more pictures to photobucket, which you can access by clicking on the big arse depicted below. On Easter Monday, after the roast lamb dinner I hosted the night before, we all went (nursing hangovers - never drink something called 'Shrub'. It's got a stupid name, it tastes like crap and it causes only pain and sadness) to watch a crab race at Sainte Marie. It was quite fun actually although I felt sorry for the crabs, which, after being poked and prodded and teased into racing the six foot course, were made into Matoutou for the spectators to eat. I went for crayfish curry and lentils instead. There should be some pictures of the race and the competitors (before they were stewed) as well as some of the Easter dinner.

As I’ll be busy entertaining guests for the next three weeks (and as my internet is complete shit) you might not hear from me for a while. So if you feel lonely, just think of Dusty Springfield. It won’t help, but at least I can console myself with the fact that someone, somewhere, is suffering the irritation that song brings, just like I’ve been doing for the last like EVER!

Photobucket Album

Feeling crabby

I’ve come to the conclusion that the traditional Easter dish here must be crabs. The supermarkets are full of the little snappers, and I saw a man on the street with a big chicken wire cage crawling with them today, all trying to sneak and pincer their way out to no avail. I’ve never eaten crab. I told Mr Lazimo this the other day and he was horrified. I suppose I should try it. I just really don’t fancy the idea of plunging one into a vat of boiling water, and it seems somehow wrong to get someone else to do my dirty work for me while I reap (or should I say eat) the benefits.

I was doing some work on my Créole project a few days ago when I was distracted by a duck outside my patio door. It was parading up and down, regarding itself in the glass and looking distinctly pleased with itself. I quite enjoyed the show until it did a poo just by the door and then walked in it, spreading it all around outside my house.

Still on the topic of uninvited guests, I had another scolopendre in the house this week. I killed it of course. I’ve heard too many horror stories to leave it wandering around my house. And since then I’ve taken the precaution of putting masking tape over any crack, gap or hole I have found in the house. I don’t want to see another one. And if my preventative measures keep the cockroaches out too that will be a bonus!

I think there’s a Good Friday thing going on in town this evening. I saw a load of scribes and Pharisees and soldiers parading around the square when I went out for a walk earlier. No sign of Jesus though...

Oh yes, I braided my hair. What do you think? It nearly made my arms fall off so I hope it lasts longer than a week this time.

Scary scolopendra

The other day as I was standing in a stuffy classroom waiting for the kids to arrive, feeling sweaty, tired and stressed, carrying a hundred folders and dropping my photocopies all over the floor, a little boy came running up to me, beaming, and whispered breathlessly in my ear, ‘vous êtes sublime’, before throwing himself into his chair, arms folded, sitting up straight, and waiting excitedly for the ‘hello song’. Well that pretty much made my day. Though I think he has a tiny teacher crush after an incident that happened last week...

There’s no nice way to say this but this little boy smells of wee. He is the class ‘wee kid’. You know the type - every school has one or two – small, usually looking somewhat malnourished, probably having horrendously neglectful parent(s), and smelling quite distinctly of wee. And understandably the other children never want to talk to him when we’re doing group and pair work. So last week when we were doing a survey asking each other ‘what’s in your pencil case?’, I saw him sitting on his own at his table, head in his hands, staring at his carefully drawn survey table with a melancholy glaze in his eyes. I went over to see what was wrong (that’s when I realised that what I had previously taken to be the generalised urine stench of the classroom was actually emanating from him alone) and he said that no one wanted to do the survey with him. So I asked him who he wanted to interview and then collared the unfortunate chosen ones and make them sit with him. And he looked so pleased to have company that I stopped feeling sorry for the ‘victims’ and simply enjoyed the fact that he was joining in with the lesson. So anyway I think that’s why he likes me.

I remember not wanting to be anywhere near the wee kids when I was in primary school – but I also remember the strange air of sadness that hung around them too. Why do people have children when they don’t have the means or will to take care of them? It’s very sad.

I’ve got limited internet access at the moment, hence the long absences.

Can’t really do much about it though.

Oh my goodness! I nearly forgot to mention the latest ‘beastie’ to wend its weary (AND VERY UNWELCOME) way into my house. Voici le scolopendre. I woke up in the middle of the night needing a glass of water, to find this terrifying thing scuttling around my living room. I've been warned about it. Apparently its sting is one of the most painful you can encounter on this island, and therefore the best thing to do is stamp on it hard and kill it. Unfortunately I don’t sleep in shoes, so I grabbed a broom and, with a feeling of silent hysterical terror, beat it close to death and swept it outside. Then I went back to bed (where I didn’t sleep thanks to creepy crawly thoughts.)

In the morning Lisette saw the mangled corpse and asked me if I’d killed the beast. Suddenly thinking she might be angry that I’d left its carcass right outside the house, I freaked out and denied all knowledge of ever having seen it. She wasn’t angry at all - she said Meat Cookie must have had it, and that it was a shame it wasn’t me that killed it, because the slayer of a scolopendre is purported to come into money quite soon after the slaughter.

Yay! Money please!

Arse Wine

Yesterday I bought a bottle of wine called, and I kid you not, Seigneurie d’Arse. I admit I bought it for its hilarious name rather than its alleged powerful aromas and ruby red body. But in fact it tastes more like arse than any other wine I’ve ever had. I won’t be buying it again.