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Sundays in Grand-Camp were quiet. A lot of people went to church, and, since the shops all shut on Saturday lunchtime until Monday morning, it made for quite an eerie feeling. Most of all, though, Sundays were for family.

On one such Sunday, I was introduced to the Beaujolais [...]]]> Based on extracts from The Guadeloupe Diaries, 2000-2001

Previous Chapter

Sundays in Grand-Camp were quiet. A lot of people went to church, and, since the shops all shut on Saturday lunchtime until Monday morning, it made for quite an eerie feeling. Most of all, though, Sundays were for family.

On one such Sunday, I was introduced to the Beaujolais extended family. They lived in the village of Prise d’Eau over on Basse-Terre. Guadeloupe is essentially two islands which fit together to form a butterfly shape. The western side, Basse-Terre, is quite hilly and has the active Soufrière volcano in the middle. It rains a lot there, and much of the island is covered in rainforest. The heat and humidity make it ideal for cultivating bananas. The main town, confusingly, is also called Basse Terre. The side of the island on which I stayed, Grande-Terre is much flatter and drier. Traditionally, this part of the island has been used to cultivate sugar cane.

In a bitter twist of irony, however, the French no longer require so much sugar from the Antilles since sugar beet is commonly grown in the Métropole. Guadeloupe is officially part of the European Union, as is Martinique, which means that due to protectionism, it is more expensive for them to trade with their Caribbean neighbours than with Europe. Since it is due to colonialism that the islanders are reliant on these crops in the first place, it could be argued that Europeans have a moral obligation to continue buying these goods.

Our assistant contracts started on the first Monday in October. I went up to the school again, and this time they were able to sort out practically all my paperwork. I met some of the teachers and students, and then went home again. Nothing happens at lightening pace in Guadeloupe, I was beginning to realise

I had just woken up from my little siesta when the phone rang. It was Leila. Within a few seconds, I understood that this was not a social call.

“You were right after all,” she breathed. So she was learning. “Can I move in tonight?”

Now, it wasn’t my flat, so I couldn’t just say yes. I am not proud of myself for taking pleasure in this, but it felt satisfying to inform her of the following:

“Well, I don’t know now. We’ve had a call from someone else looking for a room.” This was true. More will be revealed to you, dear reader.

“French or English?”

“Well, American, actually.”

“Oh.”

“It’s not certain. I’ll have to ask Madame Beaujolais.”

I did just that. Marie waved her hand dismissively.

“Tell her to call back on Wednesday.”

I suggested to Leila that she call Madame Fleurival, silently adding “Like you should have done before you got here!”

“I’ll be homeless!” she wailed.

“Don’t worry, they’ll find you something,” I said brightly. “I have to go now, Leila. Good luck with the house hunting!”

Marie then called Leila’s school. The secretary said that the line was busy. It was Leila. They put her on hold to speak to Marie, who passed on the message that she would have to wait until Wednesday. It just goes to show that you should be careful not to alienate people as you never know when you might need their help. In case you are thinking that I left Leila to wander the streets, the assistants did find a house together after all, like I knew they would. Not that she bothered to call me to tell me, I found this out a few days later via about ten other people.

I’d mentioned to Leila that we’d had an American interested in the other room. I didn’t just make that up to be mean. It was a guy named Mike, and on Thursday evening, Marie and myself went to pick him up from the airport. We speculated on whether he would be a tanned, muscled Californian. Were we ever disappointed!