Cannelle

A far more pleasurable experience than I was initially expecting. Yes, pleasurable. Man was made to do things with his hands and embrace nature, it even helps to battle depression, or so they say. We were slightly bullied into doing it to help out some mates of the people I'm now living with. This got things off to the wrong start for me, since when do you force your friends into doing free manual labour to be able to then make money out of something? Err, you don't. You just don't. Fortunately the experience was something rare, unique and worth getting into - so far I've never met anyone who has told me they have harvested cinnamon.

We gathered around the table with drinks and started tapping away. Once the branches of the cinnamon tree are cut, firstly you scratch off the first layer of bark, then tap on the wood, there is an orange brown layer which is the cinnamon, the harder wood of the tree underneath. You tap to separate the cinnamon from the wood and then slide a knife underneath, tap a bit more, edge the knife in further, tap again and repeat until you have teased off a section of cinnamon. Then section off the next and start again. The pleasant tone that the wood tapping made and the fun and challenging process of easing the layer of 'cannelle' from the branch was satisfyingly fun. It was so fun it was annoying that we were too many per piece of wood stump and necessary tools.

It's good to do things with your hands.

I took some uninspired photos and will be packing my souvenir cinnamon with me when I leave. Maybe one day when I have a garden I'll grown my own cannelle and in times of stress I'll harvest, tap and tease off to be able to unwind.

Caudalie

source: blog.sasa.com.my

source: ritournelleblog.com

Spending Christmas alone this year. Well, not entirely alone but my boyfriend moved to French Guyana a few months ago and I've been stranded alone in Martinique since. I'm tying up lose ends which seems to involve struggling to navigate French bureaucratic labyrinths, taking former dishonest, thieving, late paying, non-paying bosses to court and working out the end of the most torturous work contract. I'm also waiting for a new passport to come through which has alarmingly bought highlighted that English bureaucracy has somehow (I didn't think this was possible) shamefully proved itself WORSE than its French counterpart. I think the lesson learnt here has been that it is a time to draw an end to my nomadic style of living. Cain is stirring inside, sharpening his knife, it's not practical living out of a backpack long term. Roots must be planted but NOT in Martinique. I've spent far too long here, I'm getting the hell out.

On the positive side of things I'm in a cool house share at last but I'm kind of couch surfing/squatting. Had the most awful experience, which I will blog about, living in house with medical students. Dysfunctional as HELL. The worst experience of my life to date. Ever since I met a south London sculptor who blazed like a comet through my life for three entire weeks, leaving a trail of dust, I've wanted to squat. Traveling through South America, I wanted to do more couch surfing but went with the comfortable option of joining up with people and traveling and hosteling with them. Strange how you somehow get what you wish for but never under he terms you wished for the wish to be.

So I felt I needed to spoil myself a little given the bleak reality I've been subjected to in recent months here in Martinique and I decided upon a free facial (no obligation to purchase, but I did because it's Christmas and I wanted a new moisturiser). Alarmingly, it was conducted on the shop floor of a local pharmacy, much to my horror upon arrival. In spite of my initial fear of being on display, I let myself go to the relaxing sensation, closed my eyes and very much enjoyed the experience. I had happened upon the offer by pure chance and decided to book myself an appointment not really knowing what to expect. I don't know anything about French skin care companies, at least not the ones on sale here which are within my price range.

I'm a discreet skin care addict, I can't cope if I don't have a refreshing, gentle yet deep cleaning cleanser and a skin plumping moisturiser. Bad skin care products make for very bad days, it's uncomfortable more than anything. Thanks to my mum, her lotions and potions, instilled fear of aging and difficult skin as a teenager I'm in the skin care freak cult. Skin care is a religion. Having said that, I have been thieved out of hundreds of pounds from skilled sales staff at beauty counters who have convinced me that I'll live life long in second rate, dull, problem riddled skin if I get out my visa debit and purchase their outrageously priced product. It could be seen as a vice, only if you don't inform yourself and buy the right products. I'm not so much a fan of the high price tag stuff that does much the same, or sometimes doesn't even work as well as a product that is half the price or less. Companies know that great looking skin is priceless but I don't like being ripped off.

I'm a fan of plant based, good quality skin care that is reasonably priced. My skin is sensitive. So I was pleasantly surprised to be introduced to this product - Caudalie. Made entirely from anti-oxidant rich grapes and vines and born as a by-product of a vineyard in Bordeaux. A very clever entrepreneurial off-shoot, I say.

It's been a long time since I had a facial, something I should do more regularly. Since it was free I was more willing to spend out on the products afterwards, I'm going to make this my tack-tic from now on and see what I can try before I buy. Many shops have a beauty advisers which I never take the time to talk to for advice, unfortunate but practical consequence of my fear of being attacked by hard sales driving. She used a variety of products, cleansers, an exfoliator, even a mask which was unexpected, finishing off with serums and moisturisers, leaving me a Caudalie convert. The products ranged from vine-like to wine shop-like in scent and were fresh, light and gentle. Not over scented, which is a good sign and testament for the quality of the product, ie 100% natural, no pafums or corners cut. The web page has filled me with even more confidence that this is a brand to invest in - click the cosm'ethique section. They support and re-invest in rain forest trusts giving 1% from every sale to reforestation programs and charities. They are eco-friendly AND they have opened a few Caudalie spas.

I paid a mere €14.90 for a cleanser(bargain!) and €20.90 for a moisturiser and she kindly gave me FIVE free samples!! Yes, Merry Christmas indeed. The staff in the shop were nice and their glowing smiles when I paid put me strangely at ease with my shop-floor facial experience. 'You looked so relaxed, did you enjoy it, what did you think?'

Instant foaming cleanser, grapes and sage and Vinosource Creme sorbet hidratante

You know you're old when you become your own Father Christmas. At least he did his homework this year. Nevertheless, I'm hoping to spend Christmas 2014 with family and friends. I was depressingly homesick this year, Martinique has turned me into a hermit and I really don't like this isolated existence. It's a shame that the consequences of the high saturation of users, weirdos and arseholes here has such a profound effect on one's way of being. I always considered myself sociable and positive towards getting 'out there'. I can't wait for this misadventure to end, I have my fingers crossed that things can only get better after this because another turn for the worse is more than I can muster the strength to cope with at the moment.

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.

Real Life

I woke up the next morning feeling surprisingly at ease seeing as I was in a house full of strangers and was invited to have some breakfast and coffee on the balcony.

Later on that day we went to the river to have some beers, swim and chat. Alma river in the centre/north of the island, we just pitched up and plonked ourselves in the water. The rivers you have to walk to are better because the sense of being in nature is that much more powerful. Once back at the house I settled into a sofa, tv and Internet session. I was asking myself if I was going to see him that day and what on earth he might be doing, I thought it somewhat an obligation that if a girl comes to visit you after five years of absence, you kind of have to hang out with her. If nothing other than sheer curiosity for motivation to come no matter how he felt. He would come. And it would have to be at some point tonight, right? He appeared at the door and rounded the room to sit down next to me, he fed me some crepe and asked me about my day. He seemed (jokingly) annoyed when the other boys recounted the day we had passed, that they had taken me to the river. 'Without my permission?' Was his response, with serious undertones. But she is mine. I know this is something that I need to get over but I LOVE how possessive and controlling the men here are. I don't know what's in my personality, being someone who is relatively independent, travel solo, live in London and fend for myself. I don't know why I am so attracted to men that have tendencies to want to dominate. I think I'm looking for signs of strength and I see it as a manifestation of strength. But it comes out more like - 'Objectify me, please! I want to belong to you.' I like to know where I stand and with a guy like that I guess you do, but just because it's simple in that sense doesn't mean that you stand in any better position than in any other relationship. Especially not in a place like the Caribbean where the vast majority of males are cheating scumbags.

He made some polite conversation with the others but soon suggested that we leave to go to his. Whispering into my ear that he was happy to see me again and then laying his head down in my lap. On journey back along the twisted roads under the stars, I was instructed to listen carefully to a song, perhaps two. The lyrics seemed to echo our story, I didn't know how to process it because if the song was as deep as I thought and he really did feel like that then he had suffered when I left last time I was too stoned and overwhelmed. He was left not dumped, I just disappeared. It's weird because I felt like those feelings existed only for me. I wondered at the time how he failed to feel the intensity of what I felt when we spent nights together. It was too real, even though I was on such a love adrenaline rush that those memories are so difficult to grasp, I was so in the moment that I wasn't thinking, nothing was registering, I had totally abandoned myself. In any case he made little effort outside his bed to try and keep me. Or that he just didn't think about these things at all.

We got through the doorway in the dark and he swept me up and we dissolved into a long hug, he said wanted to hold me, to look at me. Something Inside me wouldn't let go like before. Older? Wiser? Jaded? Dead Inside? It was unnerving to not feel totally overpowered by that moment because I had wished and waited for it for so long. Maybe I'd remember him if we had sex again. Our bodies had been so in tune it would be like a reconnection, I was just using my head too much at the moment. Suddenly we were naked, but I was so aware  of myself, we were struggling, jolting, it was mechanical. It was different from before. And then he was sick.

I have to ask myself if my memories have betrayed me, was I simply absent before because of the weed. It's possible.

I wanted so badly to re access those feelings of ecstasy, pure delight. I felt betrayed. Myself for not being able to love like that anymore. By life in between being so hard. By him for changing. Was it all just in my head before? When are things not down to inturpretation though, so why is it no longer the same?Meaningless, what had meant so much for so long. Time eventually changes everything you have. Memories are all that is left but they too change with time, memory is just a warped illusion of reality, an interpretation of what happened. The present is all but an interpretation os what is happening. All I seem to be left with now is a false truth, total confusion. The way I felt about him bordered on religious in the sense that I had total faith the fact that we were ment to be together. This night somehow simultaneously freed me and shattered all my illusions. I had mythologised him over the years. He was perfect in my mind. No one is perfect. He is mortal just like me, I have changed, he has too. In life, things can change so radically it's hard to believe in anything, what you believe to be rock-like can be eroded away.

Puzzled about how I felt at the end of that night and then a further three days together. I told myself only time would tell this time round. Be mature this time and get to know him, maybe those gut instincts weren't wrong...

A la recherche de temps perdu

I left Santa Marta in a bit of a rush. Bursting at the seams and praying for a generous baggage allowance on the numerous planes I needed to catch. The bright morning was bleeding into my back to basics hostel dorm room. Flight day, destination the Caribbean. I really liked Martinique for all it's idiosyncrecies and I have always wanted to go back. Hate being regretful, don't want to spend my whole life thinking what if, but maybe there is always a what if...? I think there coud always be a what if, but I just didn't want this one. So, after years of thinking I wanted to go back, and never closing the door, I was finally realising some long and longed for lost dreams. Horrible hangovers in grey, bleak London, waking up on a sofa alone, my comfort would often be a Caribbean island that I felt connected to, and a boy.

In less that 48 hours we were to be re-united. No pressure.

But not before a lot of layovers in airports on other Caribbean islands.

One night in Curacao - somehow managed to make a friend at the airport and avoid paying an extortionate night in a hotel, which seemed to be the only option. Sudden and unwelcome change from the backpacker, cheap hostel, traveler delight that is South America.

One night in St Lucia.

Not much sleep and a night out in Gros Islets. I guess that's a whole other story.

I got to Martinique and had no idea where I was going to be sleeping that night or what really to do. French, dead and buried, I used to be able to speak this language. Everything was familiar but in a very distant sense. Almost dreamlike. Some details were as clear as day the same as before and others weren't. It was hard to tell the difference between what I had misremembered, what I had forgotten and what had actually changed.