Martinique

Friday 27th November 2009, day 406, 7,477 miles. 14° 38’.66 N, 061° 08’.50 W. Case Pilote, Martinique

We scampered up to Martinique, with a lovely 15-20 knots from the south east, and gently undulating rollers that rush us along at 8 knots. The moon is new, so the stars shine brightly as we skim along. This is still one of the great pleasures of this trip – moving freely from place to place as and when we wish, using only the power of the wind. Being able to up and off when the time feels right, no searching for cheap air fares, or packing, or wondering about where to leave the car. Very nice.

For our second visit to Martinique we go into Le Marin, on the south east corner of the island. The town is at the head of a great big bay, with little mangrove-lined inlets all round. It has a reputation as one of the best hurricane holes in the Caribbean, and we can see why. The entrance to the bay is along a winding channel, not quite adequately buoyed, so Anthony is forced to suspend disbelief as I call up directions to him from the chart plotter, doglegging around unmarked reefs. To our delight, Minx, a boat we met in Grenada, is anchored just behind the spot we have chosen. We keep meeting lovely fun people everywhere, then they sail off and we sail off, and we never know when or if we shall see them again. Minx very sweetly bring us back a couple of baguettes from town – ah, la France.

The rest of the day is spent sorting out why the bilge fills up with water every time we go to sea. We first noticed this on the way up to Carriacou – I gave the bilge a few pumps for appearances’ sake, and … kept on pumping. We got to Carriacou, floated at anchor, nothing came in. Up to Bequia, the same thing. At sea, but only when we are sailing, the water comes in, at anchor it doesn’t. On the trip up to Martinique, we were pumping every half hour, 20 or so pumps, and noting the number of pumps in the log so we could see if it was increasing. Keeping at the back of our mind that we were passing the marina at Rodney Bay, where they could lift us out if necessary. At anchor in Martinique, no more water.

The diagnosis is that it must be coming in from the port side, as the harder we heel, the more water comes in. What have we repaired recently which involves water? The watermaker? The wrong side, and anyway the water in the bilge is salt-ish (as well as diesel-ish and all sorts of other things-ish beside, no doubt some swarf, a bit of engine oil …). The loo? Already checked and rechecked, and anyway, the forward part of the bilge is dry. The cockpit drains? A little damp, but no more than usual. In the end, Anthony checks the bilge pump, and, yes, that’s it. It’s non-return valve presumably failed as soon as it was installed, turning it from a bilge pump to one that works in reverse – an eglib pump. Luckily, now we know what the problem is, it’s easily fixed.

Le Marin is set up for yachts, with plenty of chandlers, repairers and welders, and we make good use of them, as well as the internet café (with boulangerie attached) where we spend hours tracking down parts and having them sent to our friends who are coming out to join us in two weeks’ time. They will get a prize if they can work out what all the assorted elbows and brushes and joints do. In the café, a tiny green gecko scampers around the table, very tame and inquisitive, but uninterested in proffered crumbs of chausson aux pommes. His tiny nostrils, and horse-like muzzle are available for close inspection. These geckos manage to appear like a small cute household pet, while showing absolutely no evidence of warmth for humans. So much for the effect of a bright enquiring eye!

Joy of joys, being in France, we can go shopping for cheeses and salami – our fridge now has the good stink of any decent delicatessen.

One day we take a break from cosseting Tomia, and rent a car and go off for a tour of the island. We take the scenic route up to Fort de France, then the N3 up through the centre of the island. In the southern part it is agricultural, much more organised than in the English (i.e. independent) islands, where it is more scrappy: little bits of cane with a few dasheen in between. This looks like “proper” fields, with somebody actually taking a rational approach to what is planted, how, when, why …

We drive up through the rain forest, around the base of the cloud-shrouded Mt Pelée, the volcano which erupted so devastatingly just over a hundred years ago. And then to the East coast, which we can never visit on Tomia, and drive down past lovely bays, with the Atlantic rollers crashing in. We lunch at Le Phare, unprepossessing from the outside, but good food inside: we eat le menu of accras de morue, poulet rôti avec frites, glace rhum raisin. Madame is most chatty and amusing, and we taste some nice banana flavoured rum. And then, get this, we find a palm-lined beach and sit on it for an hour or so. That doesn’t happen so often. On the way back, in the south, we drive through more rolling pastures, the trees are not parkland oaks or chestnuts, but still the resemblance is there.

It is all very French – it’s not like France, it is France. France with breadfruit and sugar cane, but still la France. One way to put a chill on a conversation with a friendly Martiniquais is to ask if they’ve been to France: “Vous voulez dire le métropole? [The mainland?]” they ask pointedly. Because how can you go to France when you are already in France? The France of Géant Casino, Conforama and Hyper U, of pharmacies with neon green serpents endlessly twirling down neon green staffs, the France of “sandwichs, snack, boissons”, “cédez le passage”, “chien méchant”, “ville jumelée”, of Travaux soutenus par l’Union Européenne, the France of strikes, Canal +, dual flushes and smelly cheeses. Workmen still sit by the side of the road in the shade, but here they are being lectured by someone who is visibly a foreman. Unlike the other islands, the Martiniquais see nothing essentially incongruous in the phrase “fun run”, and nothing sensible or healthy in working through your lunch hour. The cows may have the crescent horns and spiky shoulders of their African forebears, and an attendant court of egrets, but they are still destined to become steak tartare, or a cleverly butchered onglet, not an anonymous collection of gristly lumps for beef stew. This is France au bout de ses ongles, France to the shiny black tips of the boots of the blue-jodhpur’d motorbike traffic cops.