The next day, I went to the sous-préfecture, which, conveniently, was closed due to refurbishment. The police station was located next door, and that seemed a logical place to go and ask for directions. The officer on desk duty was a Métro. He looked about eighteen, and severely hung-over. A few minutes later, I found myself walking up the stairs of a rather sombre building. I saw a doorbell with an intercom. I buzzed and a woman answered.
“Excuse me, is this where I can apply for a residence permit?”
“No, you need the fourth floor.”
On I climbed. I was fully expecting to encounter snow at the next turn as the stairs wound on and on. At least I was in the right building, I thought. Eventually, there were no more stairs, but a landing with seats. It looked reassuringly like a waiting room. Someone came out of the door, and when he left, I rang the bell.
“Come in,” called a female voice, barely audible above the sound of a dog barking. Gingerly, I opened the door half way. There was a middle-aged Métro woman talking on the phone with only a towel wrapped round her. Something told me that this was not the place where one applied for a residence permit. I hastily excused myself and left.
Outside on the street the sun was beating down mercilessly. My head was spinning with frustration and helplessness at not being able to complete the simplest of tasks. I sat on the kerb and cried my eyes out. I felt well and truly wretched. I knew that one day I would laugh at this story, but at that point in time the comedy of the situation evaded me. I was ready to pack my bags and leave. So this is what I came here for? To sit on a pavement crying thousands of miles from home? If I never came back to Guadeloupe ever again it would be too soon. Everything was starting to piss me off big time. Like when complete strangers came up to me in the street to offer suggestions for my many mosquito bites. Maybe they were just trying to help, but I would sooner they just minded their own business. What I didn’t realise it that everything is everyone’s business there.
“Hey, it can’t be that bad,” an ample woman wearing a straw hat and a flowery dress spoke to me in English. It turned out that she was from Dominica, and had just been to apply for her carte de séjour. She directed me to the office, which was on the other side of the street. After queuing for over an hour, I came out with a list of documents I needed to apply for my card.
I decided that was enough for one day. I retreated back to Grand-Camp. Maybe Marie would be able to offer me some advice. Or if not, kick me out of my depression. I was sick of the responsibility of being an ambassador for my country, sick of the heat, the humidity, the men, not having my friends from home. I did not want to paint a gloomy picture to the folks back home, nor offend the local people who had been so kind to me. My only solace during those dark moments was to confide in the blank paper of my travel journal, my constant companion. Most of all I felt angry at myself for letting things get to me.
Anyone who has travelled will have experienced this culture shock and basically you have two choices, either to give up and go home, or work through it. I was discovering that it is in precisely those moments when you think you cannot cope that you learn to cope. When all your crutches from your home life are taken away, you find out what really supports you. On that day I wasn’t feeling that much inner strength, but somehow, I knew things would, had to, get better.
Stay tuned for tales of a weird ex-pat British teacher, hitch-hiking and a side serving of politics.
Hi Kate
I am still very much enjoying this reflection.
Though very aware of how little contact we had in that year
xx
[...] started again and I still did not have my degree certificate translated, or my carte de séjour. This was becoming a joke, and not a very funny one at [...]