Caribbean Courtesy: A Sketch

Today I waited nearly an hour for the bus. Next to me, in the canopy's shade, a group of older women chatted and complained about the wait. They were in their fifties or sixties. No more youth, no more attraction, no more fear, at that age.
A younger woman, about thirty or so, approached, her son in tow. She knew one of the older women and approached to share bisoux and pleasantries. The boy, about seven, with a round face and precocious, blooming personality, tilted his head to get bisous, too. "Bonjour bonjou," he said, making the older women laugh. They giggled, how quick, how flirtatious he was already. The mother didn't like that they laughed.
After a polite amount of conversation, she moved over to another canopy to fit into the shade no one had made for them under the first, tugging her son along. He turned back to the older woman he knew to send her a symbol with his hands, with his thumb, pointer finger and pinkie. Some experts maintain that this is a satanic sign for hexing. Others counter it has been co-opted to mean "I (L)ove U". Whatever it meant to the child, it set the older women to laughing again. Whatever it meant to the older women, it set the mother off. She yanked his arm and yelled she'd told him not to do that. The older women settled into scolding and complaining about kids these days.
"It's all gang signs with them."
"They must learn it at school."
"I never tolerated things like that with my children."
"Oh, no, never ... "
They conspicuously turned to look and gesture and the mother-son pair under the next canopy. After a few moments, the boy must have committed anther betise, because a smack and then a slow cry were heard.
"Ah, good, he's spanked him."
"Oh, thank goodness."
"Kids need it, especially these days."
"Oh, I always spanked my kids. I kept my wooden spoon in my purse at all times."
"All the time!"
"Always."
"Can you believe it, one time a woman told me, 'Oh, he's too handsome it spank', about my son! I had a mind to hit her with the spoon, too."
"Oh, unbelievable ... "
They continued on, still turning their disdainful regards towards the younger pair from time to time.
After several minutes, a driver mounted the bus they were all waiting for and began preparations to leave. He struggled for longer than usual with the controls. The older women began to complain. Words like "tébé" and even "milanez" began to be thrown around as they gathered up their shopping bags and Easter flowers and moved closer together.
Two young women, maybe in their teens or early twenties, chins held high, walked around the slowly assembling mass, toeing up to the line where the bus would pull up.
"What's this?"
"That's not how things are done, girls."
"We've been here for an hour, and you just got here ten minutes ago. You have to let us on first!"
The young women arched their brows at each other, but did not look behind them, making it clear they had no intention of allowing anyone to pass in front of them.
Once the bus pulled up and the young women jumped on, the older women resorted to calling them insults. As they each mounted they complained of the youth these days, how rude young people were, how kids had learned no respect. Surely their mothers had not kept their wooden spoons on them enough. All the while, the older women pressed each other so that, as each one stepped up into the bus, the one right behind was clipped on the chin by the first's bag. They scurried on to grab the handicapped seats, not hesitating to chide any youth that seemed hurried to get on.
Just before the bus pulled out, an old woman, a real granmoun, got onto the bus, her back bowed by her flowers, her little grocery bag, or perhaps just her age. No one spoke to her or got up. She stumbled into the back seat just as the bus pulled out of the depot.

French Bureaucracy X Caribbean Pacing: A Sketch

Early on a Monday afternoon, shortly after the 1 p.m. opening of Bibliothèque Schoelcher, the only public library in the capital of Martinique. I finish my current library book and return it to the Nice Librarian at the front desk. Then I go to a standing computer and, using the library's online catalogue, find another book off my list. The listing in the catalogue indicates that one of the three copies of the book book is in the magasin, the stacks of the library accessible only to librarians. Having played this game before, I meticulously note the books exact title, author, and code, knowing that an error will result in a refusal of the book. Then I get a magasin request form and copy all this info, in addition to my name, library card number, and profession - yeah, I have to tell them my profession as a part of a potential interrogation as to why I want the book.

I then proceed to the magasin desk, where the Mean Librarian is stationed. I say, "Bonjour*", because in French culture you can't ask for anything without saying hello first. She does not respond, only glaring at me. "I would like to borrow this book, please," I continue after a moment, handing her the form. She glances at it for a second then tosses it back at me, saying, "Fonds antillais, first floor", without smiling. Though I know that there is, in addition to the copy in the fonds antillais, a copy in the magasin, and that the fonds antillais are more likely to refuse to lend me the book than the magasin, I smile and thank her before walking up to the fonds antillais.
When I get to that desk, I smile and say, "Bonjour", because in French culture you can't ask for anything without saying hello first. The librarian behind the desk does not respond, only glaring at me. After a moment, I continue, "I would like to borrow this book, please. Should I get the copy in the magasin or in the fonds antillais?" The librarian snatches the form at me, rolls his eyes, and, without answering my question, gets up and walks to the publicly-accessible shelves of the fonds antillais. Of course, I could've found the book on the shelf if he would have answered my question, but he seemed to prefer the opportunity to render an unnecessary service to a library patron so he could sulk about it to my face and complain about it to his colleagues later.
After quickly doing a tour of the wrong shelf, he comes back and announces that the book isn't there, speaking in a voice so low and so muddled that I can hardly understand him. "The catalogue says there are three copies," I insist. He mutters something to the effect that the only copy must be in reserve, so I can consult it at the desk but I can't borrow it. I specify that the library catalogue said there was one in the fonds antillais, one in the magasin, and one in reserve, using a tone to indicate that I wasn't going away just because he was no longer looking at me but at his computer screen.
"The book isn't here," he tries again.
"None of the three copies?" I doubt.
Angrily jumping up, he mumbles as he goes through the door to the magasin that it isn't here but he'll look anyway
Using my original copy of the books details, I turn and, in less than five seconds, find the book on the shelf of the fonds antillais, exactly where it's supposed to be.
A few seconds later (in no universe enough time to have looked for the book), the librarian returns, announcing matter-of-factly that the book isn't there. I hold it out in front of him.
"The book isn't here," he repeats.
"Here it is. It was on the shelf," I answer.
He responds by muttering something about the book having not been shelved correctly.
"No," I counter, "it was right where it was supposed to be."
"It was mal-classé," he insists, "and since it wasn't in the right place, it's in the computer as checked out and so I can't give it to you."
"The computer said there were three copies available," I remind him, causing him to turn and bury his face in his computer again.
I keep standing there until he barks at his younger (woman) colleague that he can't check it out, she has to do it. She completes this task calmly, though with a surprised look on her face. As she tells me what day the book is due, he loudly rips my magasin request form into many pieces.

Listening to My Leaving Playlist

One of my students' beautiful decorations for the school.

What do crabs have to do with Eater? I don't know*, but it's almost Easter!

Not only does that mean that Lent is almost over (not that I would ever complain about the fast I took on voluntarily, or anything), but it also means that my stay in Martinique is almost over.

And I can't wait.

I'm doing my best to make the most of my time here, but I doubt any regular reader (not that I have any) is surprised to know I'm pretty ready to pack my bags.

I don't really have a normative negative judgement of Martinique. The street harassment I experience here is on par with what I endured in Paris before the street harassment law. The public transit is far better than in many cities of equal size, and at least exists, which is more than I can say about where I'm from. While France may be greedily snatching up resources and treating the department like a colony, the people I've met have a sense of humor about it. I feel like as a teacher I'm not learning a lot, but plenty of people with different prior experiences might get a lot out of TAPIF. Sure, I'm bored and hot, but some people consider under-stimulation on a Caribbean island to be, you know, paradise.

But I don't. And I'm ready to leave. 

As such, it's getting harder for me to come up with insightful things to say about my time here. As such, I've decided to re-work my posting schedule. Instead of aiming to post twice a week, I have a few benchmarks set based on events that should be of interest. That way, I don't waste your time with dumb shit to read that's just more whining.

Don't worry, there's still plenty of whining to come. But I'll be ensuring that it's insightful whining.

Look forward to what I've got in drafts for you, and be well. Seriously, go walk or something, eat a coconut. I have, and look at all this weight I've lost ... **

*That's a lie. I was informed upon asking that Martinicans traditionally eats crabs at Easter, not unlike the way many Europeans / Americans cook an Easter ham.
**That's a bad joke, about how people, especially women, reared in this fat-hating, patriarchical world always assume losing weight is a good in and of itself. I'm losing weight, and I shouldn't be. I think I've walked home too many times.
***Yes, I really do have a Leaving Playlist. I've been playing it since November.

The Kids are Chloridconé: What the Hell is Wrong with the Place, According to Locals

Over the course of my time here in Martinique, I've had the opportunity to bavarder with a pretty wide variety of locals, from young teachers and students to quite elderly students of creole. All of them had one thing in common: they know something is fucked up here. However, they differ quite dramatically in terms of their opinons of the source du mal in Martinique. Today, I present a list of my favorite explanations for all of the problems on this island.

• People don't understand that the country isn't as rich as it used to be (?)
• Parents don't hit their kids anymore*
• Teachers don't hit their students anymore*
• Parents expect the teachers to hit their kids for them*
• Teachers expect parents to hit their students for them*
• There are too many outsiders
• Too many Martinicans have lived for a time in the mainland
• Martinicans are too closed-minded
• People don't respect boundaries and distance between each other anymore
• People don't treat each other like family and neighbors anymore
• There are too many people
• The island is too rural
• Too many people believe in local fairies and myths
• Too many people disrespect the local fairies and powers
• The mainland doesn't invest enough in Martinique
• Martinicans expect too much from the Mainland
• Martinicans didn't run of the békés with machetes when they had the chance
• People use online dictionaries
• Too many artist types are running around inadequately clothed
• Too few young people speak creole
• People don't speak French correctly
• Young people make up their own mix of French and English and use that instead of just one language
• The algae blooming because of fertilizer runoff from Brazil are giving off a gas that's going to people's heads
• Unemployment benefits are too generous
• Unemployment benefits are too sparse
• When feminism hit the Caribbean, French Caribbean men murdered their wives and / or became homeless
• Men here are generally too unemployed
• Young people here have access to higher education too easily (?)

And today's addition:

• The kids act wild because they've been chloridconés**

*Corporal punishment for children has been illegal here for some time. Everyone still proudly claims they do it, though
**The runoff of chlodicone into non-banana fields and into the food and soil is a serious problem which you can read about in English here. While the pesticide does appear to have very serious deleterious health effects, I wouldn't go so far as to pin every instance of primary schoolboys misbehaving to it.

A Break from Whining

While I pride myself on the objective accomplishment of writing a blog composed of purely insightful, top-quality cultural insight that never descends into self-pitying complaints, I have been feeling pretty down lately, mostly because of some gros problèmes that the community is currently experiencing with the bus system. (Apparently one government agency has just decided to not pay its share of the cost of running the buses, so now there's no money to run them at all ... ) Still, I think that my constantly negative consistently critical mind has been contributing to my unhappiness.
So, today, rather than providing you with totally concise and provocatively penetrating social analysis, today's post is a list of things I like about being here.

1. My Job

The administration? No. The red tape? No. The teachers? Not 100% of them. But my students are the cutest creatures on the planet, and I have the best job on the island. They all have a natural curiosity verging on obsession about English / the U.S.A. (for both good and bad reasons), and when the older students try to play the blasé know-it-all, I see right through it and it makes them even cuter. I don't grade, discipline (besides occasionally yell), or spend enough time with my little angels for them to grow to dislike me. I basically show up, sing songs, dance and play, correct pronunciation, teach them fun things about culture, and leave, dragging myself out of hug attacks to get out the gate. Does it get better?

2. I'm Getting Super Fit

On days that I work, I walk a minimum of 5km. Since I have so much free time, I work out nearly religiously (though tonight might be an exception, uuugh). I sweat out anything I eat in the constantly 80 degree F-weather. Any food I buy at the store I have to carry home, so I buy less and am getting ripped triceps. When I am on vacation and don't have a car, my primary way of getting out is walking somewhere really far or taking the bus to the mall and walking around. When I'm on vacation and I do have a car, I swim, hike, or both every day.

3. I'm Working on a Several No-Consequences Projects

Especially when compared to my past academic life (since I was literally fifteen), I commit a huge proportion of my time to loisirs, in the deepest sense. If I do shit in creole, don't work on my cross-stitch project for two months (my present situation), if I don't read that chapter I intended to get to or watch a TedTalk today, what's going to happen? If I mess up that calligraphy I'm working on turns out ugly, who's gonna bring it up? I don't fail anything. I don't lose any money. Nothing hurts. It has allowed me to be spontaneous when the opportunity has arisen and has given me the mental space to re-evaluate my priorities.

4. What is it like to Live Completely Alone? To be Able to Walk around in My Underwear? Now I Know.

Technically I do still have one flatmate during the week. But during the week I typically act like a normal, if unlikeable, human being. Then he leaves mid-afternoon on Friday and there is no one to witness me promenading nude, eating at 2 a.m., screeching along to Pure Prairie League, or wasting my life on Tumblr. I can take as long as I want in the bathroom, I can use every dish in the kitchen at once, I can talk on Skype until sunup. There are no consequences. Given that when I repatriate I'll almost certainly have a full-time flatmate and re-commence my search for a romantic partner, who knows if I'll ever be this free again? Now I'll never have to regret not knowing what it means to eat cereal on the kitchen counter in your undies.

5. I am SO INFORMED RIGHT NOW

Which, I'm willing to admit, can be stressful. But I never have to worry that I'm an uninformed global citizen or not reading enough, because I spend 2-3 hours a day reading news and commentary, which my poor Tumblr followers probably wish I wouldn't do, or at least not share so much.

6. I have Eaten More Avocados and Bananas than Any Wretched Human Deserves and I'm Not Stopping Any Time Soon (by FOB)

7. GUAVA JUICE

8. The Nice Old Ladies from my Creole Class

I've learned more about Martinican culture from them than from anybody else. They're hilarious and sweet. Two of them drive me home on Mondays now. #GodBless

9. (*Knock on Wood*) I Think I'm Actually Making Money

Despite my financial worries at the beginning of this adventure, it appears that I'm actually putting back a significant amount of cash right now. As it turns out, when you can't go anywhere, you're far away from your favorite shops, and you effectively can't get anything delivered, you don't spend a lot of money. Coupled with my tutoring gigs, the ink has turned green, unbelievable as that would have seemed a few short months ago.

10. I've Learned to Appreciate Little Things

By living a far less stimulating life, I've come to get really excited about the small things in life, including my friends' blog updates, mail (more than ever), Spotify Discover Weekly, perfectly ripe fruit, good ice cream, leisure reading, the feeling of line-dried laundry, good health, and sales on food you regularly buy.

11. Getting to the Bus Stop Just as the Bus Rolls Up and Feeling Like a Genius for the Next Hour

12. Online Shopping

I did it some before, but right now my sanity hinges on looking at black cutoff overalls online and picking out gifts for my friends' upcoming birthdays.

13. Seeing the Ocean Everywhere

It's cliché, but seeing the vast ocean enveloping your tiny island home every day on your walk work puts things into perspective.

14. Honestly? Things are Fucked Up Here, but When You Come From the U.S....

Macron married his teacher, but he doesn't have a dozen accounts of sexual assault against him. Any violence or homelessness (/social violence) is unacceptable, but those are bothers here compared to the epidemics in American cities. The unemployed, the under-paid, and the elderly have relatively consistent access to public assistance. I've witnessed a grand total of one public xenophobic insult here, rather than hearing them everyday back home. Each person I've met has hobbies, because they're not nearly so worked to death. Other than assistants still awaiting their social security cards, I don't know anyone who doesn't have health insurance. I could go on, but I think you get the idea.

On that somewhat conciliatory note, I still hate it here and can't wait to leave. But I think being grateful is good for you, and I appreciate your wading through this therapeutic exercise with me. 

Please enjoy this photo of a cat playing in a graveyard that I took this morning.

You deserve it.

 

Happy Women's History Month!

Yesterday was International Women's Day, yet, outside of the sacred halls of the Internet, I hardly knew it. I saw exactly two references to the blessed observance, both of which were billboards.

"March 8th?!? Women's rights are everyday. #Queen of everyday" declares this add for a nearby shopping center.

 Obviously shopping centers are wholly invested in promoting only empowering, non-stereotypical, not hyper-sexualized, consumerist images of women.

(in creole) "Woman. McDonald's of Martinique" (in French) "[manager's name], manager of Fort-de-France Location

 Though worker's rights are in a better state in France generally than they are in the U.S., seeing this billboard still made me think of this tweet, because it's an appealing image of a woman that will bring down the patriarchy, not ensuring their equal rights in the workplace, right?
Meanwhile, all of the other billboards in Martinique are totally working on presenting women as equal agents, not at all mere symbols of what money can buy ...

They're supposed to be selling bathroom sinks, here, but I'm not so sure.

If you want to read about the state of feminism in the Caribbean, I would recommend this open letter to Caribbean men by Patrice M. Daniel. 

Fare Frights

This photo has nothing to do with
this post, I just liked the art
commissioned by the board game
store too much to not share.

A word to the wise: when it comes to flights, you get what you pay for.
Don't get me wrong, I fly as cheaply as possible. I am a member of countless airline rewards programs, but I never receive any rewards, because I'm completely un-loyal. Money is a tool, not a good in and of itself., but I just don't think that paying for access to a lounge or to three more inches of legroom for three hours is a sensible way to spend it.
As I have recounted here before, my flight from NYC to Martinique was a nightmare. Fortunately, since the cheapest flight in this case was serviced by Norwegian Air, it fell under European consumer protection law. Unfortunately, even Norwegians have the gall to argue that snow at JFK in January constitutes an "unpredictable" disaster, meaning that, despite my hours-long trials, I did not get a refund. The airline did nevertheless agree to pay me back for my travel costs to the airport and even for my $163 phone bill that I racked up when I called the Norway-based helpline they texted to me at my U.S. number.
Here's the thing though: my mysterious hair loss has responded faster to my complaints.
I finalized my complaint on February 11th for both costs. They responded to my complaint about the travel costs on February 2nd, twenty-two days after, and to my complaint about the phone bill (which I understand is probably stranger) on February 21st, 41 days after. Both emails assured me that my money would be wired to me "in a reasonable amount of time". But the money has yet to appear in my account.
Then, this morning, I received an email saying the travel costs will be reimbursed in fourteen days, 68 days after I filed the complaint. No word yet on the phone bill costs.
Is this normal for corporate business? Does everything European work at a French escargot's pace? Does all of being grown up require this much patience?

The Dangers of Misreading Dates (and Dairy)

What can I say, I'm a living white-American stereotype, and in more than one way. Currently, I'm living in the intersection of three of those ways.
First of all, I drink a lot of milk. A lot of milk. On days that I stay home (which are often on this damn island), I can easily down a liter a day. One good think about living in Martinique is boxed milk, U.H.T. pasteurized milk that's shelf-stable for a long-ass time. One bad thing about it (among a litany) is that I have to carry any milk I buy with my own arms out of the store, onto the bus, along the bus ride if the bus is as full as it usually is, and the short trek into the house from the bus stop. When you drink as much milk as I do, that can lead to a non-negligible strain on your shoulders.
Second of all, I LOVE buying shit in bulk. Entering a thrift store with used clothes in my size, cowboy outlet stores that sell jeans in my size, and discount groceries stores gives me a pure high. So, naturally, when a couple other assistants and I rented a car during the Carnaval break, I took advantage of the horsepower to buy milk. A lot of milk. Enough milk to last me until my departure in May. Fort-eight liters of milk.

Third of all, no matter how long I live an work outside of the U.S., I still instinctively read dates as month/day/year. It's caused a few problems in my life previously, to say the least. Most recently, I read the expiration date on all that boxed milk, which usually lasts several months, as December 3, 2018, when, in fact, it is 12 March 2018. So, all 48 liters of my milk are set to expire over a month before I leave, less than two months after I bought all of it.
Luckily, according to the internet, boxed milk is good for up to a month after the expiration date as long as it is cool and dry, which will buy me nearly enough time to be ready to leave. Otherwise, I'm currently filling the refrigerator and freezer with liter bricks of milk and trying to maximize my calcium-rich consumption.
Wish me luck. And that my flatmate doesn't actually intend on keeping food in the fridge for the next couple weeks.