Cashew Nuts

The cashew nut guy was, it turns out, extremely generous. Once in Soufriere at the volcano and sulphur springs, I was informed that the cashew tree produces a fruit from which the nut is harvested and roasted. Only one nut per fruit and I believe it only fruits once a year. Cashew nuts are expensive, to state the obvious, now I know why. I'm sad that I missed the fruit harvesting, but I saw the tree or one of the trees nearby. I also missed the roasting, but saw the stove which he had used. We ate loads of nuts and he gave me what was left. They were delicious, amazingly fresh.

We sat and chatted for a while, the time was nearing for me to head to the airport so I didn't stay for ages. He had a tattoo on his arm which said 'kill dem all den'. I had a Louis Theroux moment of polite interrogation as I jokingly and innocently read it out loud and asked him why he had such a statement tattooed on his arm. Everyone present laughed and he replied that he had some enemies and that he had been in a fight the previous night. It turns out it was the guy with the gash in his arm. A fight with a knife and broken glass. He had some cuts in his head but it seemed to me as though he walked away the less injured warrior.

We ate mangoes and listened to some music, he showed me his hand made harpoon gun, a wooden construction that was sprung with thick black rubber. He fired the spike into some bushes across the road. There was a way of disengaging it so it was safer to walk around with. It was a cool object, a nicely made piece of work. And I'm certain it did it's job when out fishing.

I was calm, relaxed. I really get a buzz from finding myself chatting and hanging out with people I don't know who have grown up in alien environments to me, lived and experienced things I will never know about.

I left, heading to the airport, happy that I had had a real St Lucian experince before the comfort of the family holiday that awaited me.

Fish gut soup, cock fights and karaoke

Upon arrival in St Lucia, I joyfully got out off the boat, out of the airless immigration queue and energetically decided to take a little walk around Castries to re familiarise myself with the capital and find some food and refreshment. I was on a quest  for some delicious, cheap,  St Lucian food. Ital, fish, yam, cassava, anything fresh and tasty. I failed, it ended up being a slightly retarded idea . My backpack though far lighter than previous excursions soon became lead-like and utterly backbreaking. The mid-afternoon tropical sun beating down as I waddled through the streets soon became too much and I decided to abort the food mission and head straight for the bus. A driver who was trying to convince me I was going to Soufriere, (wanted the fare and to direct me to a hostel for a cut) annoyed when I told him no, I'm going to Vieux Fort, lied to me to push his own sale. He told me that he was the last bus to leave  and that I had probably missed the bus to Vieux Fort. I strode off in a bit of a panic, asking for directions only to discover that the buses leaving for Vieux Fort depart from outside the port, my walk had been almost completely pointless. I knew this stop as well, it stirred a distant memory, a few years ago when I found myself in St Lucia and hanging out with a rather unsavory character who took me to Vieux Fort because he had family there.

The reason I was heading in the direction of Vieux Fort this time and not to Rodney Bay or Gros Islets (touristy, vibrant at night) was because I was supposed to be surfing a couch in a place called Praslin. I had written this down in my phone which wouldn't  even let me into see my messages or contacts because it was so perturbed by St Lucian phone networks. I had remembered the bus number but only that the place I needed to go to began with P. I got on the bus and tried to look out for sign posts along the way for this P something. I never saw it. There are not many road signs in St Lucia, for the record. I ended up in Vieux Fort and I don't know if things actually worked out for the better but I had a cool night. A night which featured cock fighting, fish gut soup tasting and karaoke.

I needed internet to make a quick decision on what to do, wondering if I should just look for a guest house since the airport was in spitting distance and I could meet my family the next day. No wifi, I asked and it seemed that there was nowhere open I could go to. Soon enough I had caught the attention of three boys who asked me if I needed any help. Hesitant, because sometimes help offered in these parts is in fact the exact opposite, I smiled and decided to take the risk, answering - yes. Internet or a guesthouse, please. After a bit of a chat and some group problem solving I went back with them as night was falling. They lived in a small village near Ozier. I wasn't sure if they were inviting me to stay at theirs or were going to direct me to a cheap guest house but I decided to just go with it.

Backpack off, I had a beer, and sat and chatted to one of the brothers whilst he prepared some rather scary looking fish gut soup. I didn't even know you could eat fish guts! It looked entirely unappetising. I tried to temper my response and come across as intrigued a little surprised but not horrified when he showed me the various different parts of fish entrails that he fished out of a large soupy fish gut and blood bowl in the sink. Liver, heart, stomach. I don't eat meat, I do eat fish but I'm not actually sure where I stand when it comes to fish guts? It seems a step too far. I mean, animal insides are quite out there for some meat eaters. It sort of seems a step past meat eating and way outside the bounds of the half-arsed fish eating veggie diet I have chosen for myself. Nevertheless, in spite of the moral debate in my head there were other forces at play. In the spirit of adventure I wanted to try something weird and local that was out there. And a strong dose of English manners, be polite to these young men who have just picked you up off the street and are going to feed you and entertain you tonight.

Their house was next to a shop/bar space where they had karaoke (a craze that seems to have taken St Lucia by force, I don't remember it from previous trips). They also offered dominoes and pool. The bar was not that well stocked but they had bought a bottle of Campari to sell and drink by the shot. I think we drunk more than half of it, but they managed to reclaim some of the cash in selling it on to friends and locals drinking at the bar.

Inside, the house had a rough concrete finish, tired furniture, and a damp smell that was particularly potent near the bathroom. I have to say showering there was not an experience that made me feel much cleaner. Back to basics. It was nonetheless, homely and pleasant. A cat, a fish tank, net curtains. I watched and chatted as he chopped and peeled potatoes, carrots and other veg. I was fortunately taken for a little walking visit through the village before I got to witness the chopping of all the guts. A relief.

Stark contrast to Martinique where people are locked up and in front of their TVs at night, this small village in St Lucia was bustling with people strolling around at night, children, adults and canines (alarming numbers of stray dogs in St Lucia, all the females seem to be feeding young, with saggy dog boobs). Everyone knows everyone so I was introduced to everyone. I met Rex the little puppy of the third boy, cousin to the two others. Cute, but heart breakingly the little thing at two months and full of energy was tied up.

A guy with an open gash on his shoulder after a fight still pumped with adrenaline was the only thing that upset the calm, tranquility and the sense of safety. People in St Lucia are amazingly friendly but there is an undercurrent of violence which often crops up. Binary opposites symptomatic of such a small population with a violent history, perhaps...

Back home, I changed and we carried the huge pot of fish gut soup to the cock fighting ring. I couldn't bring myself to watch any of the fights, I only saw feathers flying and the male-dominated crowd excitedly leaning over the ring cheering. It seems to be more for the gambling than the sport, I hope. Quite a lot of money is put down, won, lost. Each fight lasts 10 minutes, and a winner is decided if it hasn't been a fight to the death. This was encouraging for me because I was quite uncomfortable with the idea of the poor defeated cock struggling to the end of his life being pecked and scratched to death as a crowd cheers. I had a bowl of fish gut soup (not as disgusting as expected but if it hadn't been so well seasoned it would have been rather overpoweringly fish-guty and not too tasty, I imagine). It was alright and I was starving so it went down well. It, however, was not a good mix with the bitter neat Campari we were drinking.

We then moved on to some place where the boys sang and tried rather exhaustingly to get me to join in.  Karaoke. It strikes fear deep into my heart. I politely declined, several times.

Tired, soon after I walked back to the house with one of the boys and was hoping for a good night's sleep. This didn't happen since he came on to me HARD. We were eating crabs and watching a bizarre Jamaican film and he was insisting that I go to bed with him in front of all the others in the room. It was embarrassing to have to not be horrifically direct to save his face in front of them but at the same time he insisted in spite of me refusing and I wondered how long the saga would go on for. In the end I gave in and went to the room only to leave 15 minutes later when he wouldn't stop trying to hug me and touch me. I rejoined the others and soon four drunk girls got back and it was only in the early hours of the morning that we went to sleep.

The next morning I hung out with the girls. 100% more friendly than females in Martinique. Breakfast, a shower, a trip to a guy who was roasting cashew nuts and then I got on the bus to the airport.

Escape

So I've been in Martinique for a while now. My blogging of late has been a backlog of the traveling I did through South America. It was a great escape on dull days (far too frequent here) to re-immerse myself in my memories of South American backpacking. Martinique is a great place to be if you have money and a car. Sadly I have neither. So on Sundays I'm house bound with little to do other than get over a harsh rum hangovers from the previous night and catch up with sleep. It's boring. Martinique has been hard work, I found the most awful job on the planet. It's not easy to find work here which is why I tortured myself with it for so long. Monday through to Saturday. Slavery. Teaching English for total c**ts and they really merit that description, I promise. I and all the other former employees (everyone has left) wish them a serious dose of karma for being so hideous. I hope to never have to endure such awful people in the work place ever again. Needless to say it was exhausting and I was paid a pittance. Weeks and months passed by, I will elaborate and blog about some of the essential details of my life thoughout this period although there is not much to do but whinge and expose my strange reactions to quite intense experiences. It has been what seems like one hard endless battle.

I love the Caribbean but I feel the restrictions that life on such a small island imposes after traveling through the vastness of South America where I was truly charmed but the cities (La Paz excluded) and all the other places I passed though, Peruvian jungle remains a highlight. It's cool to know in such a vast and varied continent that there is so much at your disposal. Had enough of the city? Need a change of scenery? Why not catch the bus or plane to the coast do a bit of surfing (I wish) or go to the mountians for some hiking. Have a bit of an outdoor, roots experience. see some floating islands or go deep into the Amazon. This is how, in my fantasies, life would be if I lived Latin. Martinique was a longed for dream that just hasn't marry up to it's over-imagined rose-tinted vision.

Where did it all go wrong Martinique? Not just for me but this place in general has some serious issues it needs to face up to. Socially, culturally and economically. This island is close minded and very annoying if you don't have cash. It's also infuriating if you are female. Daily hassle and harrassment are par for the course. It has been an important immersion into male dominated society. Women are seen as property here, not in the sense that you are bound to a husband forever as in some Muslim societies because there is such a sexual free-for-all. Cheating in rife, sluttiness encouraged (just take a look at some dancehall vids and you get more than an idea of how things go down in this part of the world) and it's endemic, perhaps a product of such a small place, or born out of it's roots in slavery somehow. If you're seeing someone you need to just forget the idea of having male friends. First of all it's impossible because that very idea is not only foreign but extra-terrestrial. I thought I could navigate it but my boyfriend is simply too jealous to ever make it comfortable and on top of that even the guys who approach you knowing the score and seeming to present themselves as understanding friends who just want to chat and pass time won't hesitate to full on jump you as soon as a moment alone presents itself. Something to be avoided at all costs because NO is not easily understood here. Their persistence is a pain, really taxing, exhausting. There is no shame, they try and try and try and TRY. It becomes horribly uncomfortable and it is such a regular occurence that it's boring and awkward if you think you want to still be friends with them (not worth it by the way). The case studies are endless.

There is fortunately an outlet if you ever find yourself alone in Martinique battling work issues and struggling to  make friends that want to be your freind and not sleep with you. It will cost you a mere €119 alle-retour crossing. The ferry to St Lucia. Catamaran or sailing boat crossings are even better if you can find someone to take you for free or not too much since you get to sleep on board whilst there which cuts accommodation costs and makes for a pretty cool holiday experience. Living on a boat is brilliant, especially when you wake up anchored off a Caribbean bay and can jump straight into clear tropical water every morning for a swim. Water taxis with rastas or fishermen are also pretty fun, and hanging out in marinas is well worth doing since you seem to come across all sorts of people all wrapped up in a little sailing haven bubble, which in all honesty is a very nice little bubble to be in.

You can of course also go to Dominica, the island to the north of Martinique. And this is definitely on my to do list, by all accounts it's beautiful and people there are freindly, open, one of a kind. Dominica is wild, and hiker friendly, it seems to me less of a party island than St Lucia.

So I caught the ferry to join my family on a short holiday in St Lucia but had a day on either side of their week on the island knocking around on my own. Which was ace.