Magnificent Martinique

Knock, knock

Who's there?

Four days off in Martinique

Four days off in Martinique who?

Four days off in Martinique at the very same time that my good friend's husband, a born and bred Martinican?/ Martinese?/ Martini?/ On the rocks?/ Shaken not stirred? (Note: ask Sebastien what exactly his people are called) is there to celebrate his mother's 60th birthday.

That's not a joke.  That's just you bragging about an incredible stroke of luck. And if you would just spend 2 seconds googling, you would know that Martiniquais is the preferred answer.

What's that, fictional construct that I created in my head?  I can't hear you over this jamming soca music.  And hey, since you are over there, could you pass me the sunscreen?

So, yes, this happened.  I learned that I was going to be in Fort de France for a couple of days, so I immediately called my friend, Diana, to get some tips on what to do while there. She did me one better and provided me with not only an excellent tour guide but also with an invitation to the island's premiere social event. 

Day 1:  Sebastien and his friend picked me up at the hotel and took me to his mom's house.  The plan was to hang out for a bit before he reunited with some old friends for a day out on the water.  Since they were a group of four with a total of 2 jet skis, I would take the ferry across the bay and meet them in the resort area.

Good plan but two things stood in the way of my boarding the ferry. The first was frantic cruise ship wranglers. For reasons unknown (read: probably because I am pasty white), I was not blending in as a local, therefore I must be a tourist.  And if I am a tourist, I must have come on one of the multitude of cruise ships that regularly invade the island.  And if I am a cruise ship person, I should be heading back to the ship that is about to leave and not getting on a passenger ferry boat.  No less than two of the ship's staff (and some passing fellow tourists) felt compelled to tell me this.  Somehow, they deduced that I was unable to tell the difference between a dinky ferry boat, made to transport maybe 20 people back and forth across a small bay and the big-ass cruise ship parked further down the way. Why they would want someone who lacks such basic cognitive skills on their ship is a question that I can not answer.  Yet somehow, I fear this has been an issue in the past.  The cruise ship staff all but grabbed me by the arm and dragged me back to the ship, kicking and screaming "Unhand me!!  I'm not a cruiser, damn it!!  I have a 60th birthday party to go to tomorrow!! I know a Martiniki!!"

That obstacle avoided, I faced another realer struggle.  The ferry was not leaving for another 45 minutes. So, I waited with Sebastien on the beach where his friends were to pick him up. When they arrived, introductions were made and a lively discussion was had.  In French.  Based on the amount of pointing in my general direction, I gleaned that I was the topic of conversation but I knew little else.

When the discussions came to a quick resolution, it was decided that I was no longer going on the ferry.  Instead, we were putting three people on one jet ski and two on the other.

Fast forward to us racing across the bay, standing- let me repeat that part, STANDING- on a jet ski, with me clinging to the driver like a terrified koala and him yelling back in broken english "Please!! Be less scared!"  This because odds are he never learned the phrase "Bitch, you're crushing my ribs."

It took a little while- and let's be honest, a couple of shots of local rum- for me to get the feel for this aquatic menage-a-trois but when I did, it was beyond stunning.  I was in Martinique, the water was crystal clear and the views were amazing. What more could you ask?

Show-off!! 

We stopped for lunch at les Anses d'Arlet.  Since this beach is a relatively long drive from Fort de France, it is mainly populated by boaters and locals.

I call this photo "Children that would prefer to be out on the beach playing, but got bamboozled into attending a  church service."

And here we have their more fortunate counterparts.

As we enjoyed a leisurely lunch (the only kind I suspect they have on the island), the clouds rolled in. This was not seen as a cause for alarm.  It was seen as a reason to order another round. I was told, for what would be the first of many times, the reasons that Martinique's rum is better than even Cuba's (something about using fresh sugar cane juice as opposed to distilled molasses in the production process).  As a Cuban person, I can not legally or morally agree with this statement, but I will concede that they have some mighty good rum.

After the rain, comes the rainbow.  In Martinique's case, you get two of them.

After a somewhat soggy ride back, the skies cleared and we drove up the mountains to the amazingly beautiful home shared by Sebastien's friend Jeff and his girlfriend.

Spectacular view: check

Beautiful island kitty: check

More rum, in boxes, no less: Check

Seriously, you have to admire an island that has decided they would like more rum at their disposal, yet less of those heavy glass bottle.

That evening, I was graciously invited to dinner at the home of yet another group of Sebastien's friends but this would have required a lot of driving back and forth in order to get me to and from my hotel.  It has bad enough I had left one poor guy with bruised ribs.  Also, my hotel had a pretty happening club on property.  I was staying in.

Day 2: Sebastien was engrossed in birthday party preparations and my claims of balloon blowing prowess were met with rampant skepticism, so instead, my friends and I walked to nearby downtown Fort-de-France.

On the day we arrived, the hotel clerk told us that everything would be closed because it was a holiday.  And the next two days, everything would be closed because it was a weekend. Our final day?  Closed because: Monday.  I am not entirely convinced that the businesses in Martinique ever open.

We walked around an architecturally interesting, but primarily desolate downtown, while I attempted to find a suitable birthday gift for Sebastien's mother.

In the end, my choices were either an ultra-tight spandex dress, a string bikini or something from the supermarket.  I brought a bottle of wine.

The Schoelcher Library

That evening, I, along with what seemed to be the entire population of the island, attended the birthday bash.  As usual, I brought along my camera, however, there is no evidence of this to be found, as I spend the 4-5 hours dancing, chatting and meeting new people.  Everyone was incredibly gracious and by the end of the night, I had convinced myself that I could speak French.

Early the next morning (or later that night, however you choose to look at it), a very sleep-deprived Sebastien had to board a flight home. How he did not pass out on a luggage trolley is a mystery to me.

Day 3:  We had now lost one guide and acquired one rental car.  Our plan: to circumnavigate the island.  First, we headed north towards St. Pierre, the site of some ruins, some cannons...you know, generally fort-ish type stuff.  What captivated our interested more was the funky Wahoo Cafe.

Laid-back vibe.  Cold beers. Nice breeze.  Our "conquer the island" plan became significantly less ambitious.

We eventually unglued ourselves from the beach chairs and headed south towards Les Salines, which is said to be the island's nicest beach.  Only by this time, it was a bit too late to go swimming but too early to eat.  Not one place in nearby Sainte-Anne was serving food, which would have been ok but we had one very hungry Brit in our midst.  Eventually, one place took pity on us and opened their kitchen.  They provided us not only with sustenance but also with a perfect sunset view.

Day 4: Was spent contently lounging by the pool, soaking in some Caribbean rays.  After all, one does not want to work too hard.  That's right, I think I may have forgotten to mention that I was there for work, as in getting paid to enjoy a spectacular time with friends and some of the best tour guides a person could ask for.

You suck!  You know that, right.  You really do.

That's not nice.  And, by the way, I'm still waiting on that sunscreen. Chop chop.