One can only unite the French under the threat of danger.
One cannot simply bring together a nation
that produces 256 kinds of cheese.
-Charles De Gaulle-
The steep volcanic shore forces one to anchor very close to the beach. But the quickly deepening water is always clear and clean.
256 Riot Police sent from Paris to Martinique?
Bonjour, my friend. And now I'm going to talk about France, yes? Oui, Merci. And that's my problem. I don't speak french. The best I can do is have a piss over the side, naked of course, and yell out "Bonjour" to the passing dinghies and neighbuouring yachts as I shake the last drops out. But that's already quite French, ay? I know how to ask a little more water in my Pastis and I know how to make the kissing sound when touching cheeks, three times. I know how to say "Un Baguette" and "Four Croissant please-sivluplee". In fact the only way I get along in French-speaking countries is with my continuous apologetic smile. By the time we got to the French Caribbean island of Martinique, I had aquired the added skill of touching fists with the black youth. But I didn't yet know how to say in Patois: "Sakafe, garson" (What's 'appenin' maaan?)
It's a drive-by used car battery recycling centre in Saint Pierre. One only needs to slow down and push the old battery out of the moving vehicle. Clever!
It's a real shame. The frogs kinda stick to themselves. It's not fair that a french man speaking poor english with a strong french accent souds SEXY, but me speaking hardly any french with a weird accent is leaving people just staring and smiling but not turned on at all. The French islands of St. Barthelemy, Guadeloupe, St. Martin and Martinique are a world of their own. To me, they were all a world behind a language barrier. I felt that Antigua and Dominica were both original, the people truly Caribbean, their ancestry was truly African and they did not display any qualities, behaviour or mannerism of their former "masters". But in Martinique, even the black descendants of African slaves were French. They were just soooooo fuckin' French! There's nothing bad aobout being french. What I mean is, that I failed to make any connection with the locals, we had no common language, apart from the smile.
There's something about the French culture that I like. There is something aloof, something whingy, something sad and unhappy in them. Yet, there is something boheem and something wonderfully emotional about them too. A bit of wine and fresh bread and cheese. A song to sing and something to complain about - hey, you'll have a party that lasts until morning. There is something appealing in the heated discussions and the intellectual, artistic, wine-sucking bohemianism. Yet, it is almost impossible to make a contact with this annoyingly unique inside circle of being "French". Unless you speak french, of course. I don't, and that brings me back to the beginning of this story. Or does it throw me right to the end?
The French have basically two options for cruising: Aluminium monohull or plastic catamaran. The cats are slowly taking over the Caribbean.
Jeez, I'm not going to bore you with shit that you can google yourself. Mount Pelèe, Saint Pierre township and so on. As for us, we were happy that the shops were still open, despite a general strike going on for the second week. There was still three-dollar wine on the shelves and we got fresh baguettes every day. (No body does them like the french do...) We also scored some cheese and some fresh vege, but other than that, Martinique was a non-event for us.
After a nice meal, all I wanted was a strong coffee and a small glass of liqueur. But they insisted on giving me the whole bottle. It made me look a bit of an alcoholic to the others, I felt, a bit embarrassed.
The anchorage was filling fast, mostly french catamarans from Fort de France, the capital further south. One yacht had had their dinghy slashed to pieces and there were reports of more. Yet, some others said there was no trouble at all. After saying "Bonjour" to every dude on the street, we up anchored and continued south. No wind, of course, so Yanmar was ticking over again. Past Fort the France and turn left at the end. Ended up in St. Anne.
Ah... Life is beautiful!
St. Anne is a place called St. Anne. (Is it obvious, that I'm not overly excited about St. Anne?) Hmmm.. we got a fresh baguette again but still no internet in France. A walk on the beach. A swim. A sleep. Next morning the weather was perfect. The last impression of the last French island was a french man squatting at the back of his boat, doing a shit in the water, as we motored past. Lovely. Au revoir!
PS. This page is in no way a good representation of the island of Martinique. It simply reflects my mood, the mood of a riot- and strike-stricken (can you say strike-stricken? I suppose you can, after all, I once contemplated beating the shit out of some crap... nevermind.) island and the limits that those two things, together with a language barrier, put on our experience. Such is life. Such is this website. Pointless shit dribbling for your entertainment...
The gaps between the islands can be rough, but this time we were lucky. Down to St. Lucia...