Explore with me the exotic island of Martinique

One more time, my wife carefully inspected our luggage, making sure that nothing important had been forgotten. Meanwhile, my son Jr. had already made a mess out of his new clothes between playing with his little sister Rachelle, and rolling over the floor with the yellow truck he had gotten last Christmas. Looking a bit uneasy, my wife checked her watch and mumbled impatiently
- "Jesus Christ, It has been twenty minutes already!... Where is this cab?"
- "Don't worry," I reassured her, "we ain't gonna be late."

In the minute that followed, we intercepted a grave sound coming from the street. I quickly glimpsed at the windows to verify that it was our cab.
- "Marie, let's go, it's our cab," I shouted.
- "Alright," she replied, hastily sweeping Rachelle away from her crib and pulling Jr.'s arm to walk him to the cab. I pocketed our tickets and passports, locked the doors, and followed with our luggage.
- "Logan airport please...," I told the driver.
- "Yes sir..." he replied nicely.

As we were heading east on Highland Avenue in Somerville, my wife asked worriedly,
-" Are you sure you have everything honey?"
-"Of course..." I replied, checking my pocket once again.

At this instant, the driver turned and looked at me with a smile, as if he wanted to agree with my thought of the moment: 'Women... you can never be too careful with them.' Right there, I thought I recognized the feature of a young Haitian man, even with his Jamaican's style braided hair, and his eyes hidden behind a pair of dark glasses.
- "Sak pasé," I instinctively threw at him, patiently waiting for an answer to verify whether or not my intuition had failed me.
- "Ou konnen, ... map viré ron nan lari ya," he replied. I wanted to ask him why this inappropriate disguise, but I put my thought to rest, for this was obviously not my business.

Since the previous years the percentage of Haitian cab drivers killed in the line of duty had raised considerably. They themselves, were easily spotted with their heavy French-Creole accent, therefore making a clear target for eventual stalkers. Seemingly, their kindness and easy going ways had been taken for granted by clients who wished to be brought in remote areas at night. At several instances, the drivers were either mugged, killed or both. As a result, many have tried to alter their look by substituting their outfits and their language style to Jamaican's who seemed to be more respected and perhaps feared in the streets of Boston.

Thirty minutes had passed already when we arrived at the airport. In the lobby swarming with travelers, siblings and friends, we made our way to one of the American Eagle' booths, checked our papers and scurried to board the plane. At the door, a young long legged beautiful attendant greeted us and pointed at our seats: 24 E, F, G, H. Ten minutes later, our plane was sifting through the air making a large turn toward South East. As we passed over the puzzle-like Downtown Boston, I shuddered a little at the view of the Prudential and John Handcock buildings' antennas right under our feet.

- "Martinique here we come," I comically remarked, squeezing my son Jr.'s right cheek. He looked at me as if I were crazy, and leaned toward his mother. Soon the plane reached its desired altitude, and the seat belt signs went off. We were bound to remain in that course for more than six hours perhaps. So, we decided that we were going be as cozy as we could.

That morning, we were served a comfortable breakfast, which was followed by a solemn invitation to watch the movie Jurassic Park, a service made available by the American Eagle's in-flight theater crew. We hooked up our earphones and glued our eyes to the nearby screen. Sometimes later, in the middle of the movie, my wife whispered:
- "I wish we had some popcorn..."
- "Too bad," I laughed. I myself, loathe popcorn, and she knew it. The thought of it all made me thirsty.
- "May I have something to drink please," I asked a stewardess passing by.
- "What would you like Sir?" she answered.
- " Hmmh !!! about some Pérrier please," I said.
- "About you Ma'am," she asked my wife.
- "Oh!... just a cup of water for me, and some orange juice for my son," my wife replied.

The movie went on excitedly and time flied by. But, I could not help noticing the fearful expression in my boy's eyes. To him, these colossal dinosaurs were nothing like Barney whom he adored. At several instances, he tried to seek refuge under my arms, as if I were to protect him from the beasts.

After several long hours, we flew over the southern tip of the Island of Hispaniola comprising of Haiti and the Dominican Republic, before reaching San Juan, Puerto Rico. From the air, the Latin island was so beautiful. We somehow found it quite unfortunate that we did not have time to explore its beauty. The weather, the beaches, those green mountains were all so inviting. We only spent a meager hour there before we boarded another plane to Martinique.

The Caribbean sky was very clear, and under us, the ocean quite visible. I rested my eyes for a long time on the water, crazily hoping to see a dolphin, a shark or anything, but that was to no avail. At times, Jr. would point out other planes spotted by his little curious eyes.
- "Airplane Daddy,... airplane !!!" he would say.
- "No! It's a bird, it's Superman," I would joke, getting him all furious and disappointed.

Next, we flew over the valleys of St. Croix, Névis, and the beautiful mountains of Monserat, and turned gradually south-west toward Guadeloupe, Dominica, and finally Martinique.

Being one of the lesser Antilles, Martinique has an area of 417 square miles, and a population approaching 500,000. It was reached by Spanish navigators in 1493 and became a French colony in 1635. Since 1972, it has been a French overseas region. Also of considerable importance, history has shown that Empress Joséphine, the spouse of the great General Napoléon Bonaparte of France was born in this island. The capital of Martinique is Fort-de-France, and their official language remains French, although a very high percentage of the population utilizes Creole in their daily conversation.

The plane circled the bay of Fort-de France for a while before landing in one of the runaways of that busy Lamentin International Airport. It was about five o'clock when we arrived at the airport. However, it took us almost an hour to check our papers. The floor was overcrowded with both natives and tourists coming from everywhere to enjoy the hot flavor of summer in this paradisiac Caribbean island. Through that hurly-burly, we made our way outside in the street, where we were being pulled like strings by taxi drivers who wished to bring us to our hotel and make a little bit of money. Well at that point, we had already made up our mind. We had decided to rent a car, for that was the only way to find our way around, and truly scan the Island. With the aid of a map we drove to our hotel situated half way north-west between Fort-de-France and the town of Schoelcher, a mere 20 minutes drive.

The sun was being set, and the road became darker as we advanced on. We had gotten there on time to see the lights in the streets of the Capital go on. But, even the darkness could not hinder, nor hide the beauty of that splendid city. Passing through La Savanne, we got a glimpse of the Martiniquans social life. A 12 acre park of lawn, shade trees, footpath and benches, and the city's central park, La Savanne offers an inviting environment where families relax, children play, and old men get lost in serious games of dominoes.

In a slow descent, the sun had spread its beautiful rays over the sky, coloring it with a bright orange that gradually contrasted with the dark blue of the ocean in the horizon. Those multicolored rays were glinting off the undulating surface of the waves, a view to captivate even the most casual visitor. The weather was incredibly excellent; and the cool breeze that was blowing ashore had brought a final touch to the perfection of that afternoon.

Noise was everywhere. Each and every one around seemed to have contributed to the euphoria overwhelming the little avenue lying along the bay of that splendid Caribbean island. The air was filled with a scent of potpourri. A dazzling kaleidoscope of gay colors that seemed to repeat, had exacerbated our confusion and attenuated our sense of direction. Here and there, scattered along the sides of the road, buyers and sellers were trading all sort of commodities. Others were merely drinking and enjoying the spicy food selections of the island.

The crowd was dense, and the continuing va-et-vient had been steady throughout the day; a trademark of the yearly Regatta festivity held at Ste Luce. For a moment, I peeked at my three year old son Jr. whom looked somewhat puzzled by the festive environment, and rather oblivious to my wife's many observations.
- "boy !!.. he is quiet !" I thought. I guess he was just trying to get use to the rhythm of the local troubadour. As his eyes crossed mine, we exchanged a smile, and he suddenly started to dance, stamping the earth heavily with his strong little legs.

Earlier that morning, we had driven south pass Fort-de-France, Ducos, Rivière Salée, Diamant and reached Ste Luce a village of 5000 inhabitants. In the way, we stopped at Diamant to get a glimpse of the Rocher du Diamant, a renowned, rock standing defiant in the middle of the ocean. The locals confided that the English Captains, passing by, always stop to salute the symbolic rock.

Our first stop was the church of Ste. Luce where we assisted the morning mass, or more precisely part of it. The little church overlooking the main street, had been overcrowded with both young and old folks coming from all over the place. Prior to the beginning of the mass, the charismatic priest had admonished the assembly and admitted his discontent regarding massive littering associated with the Regatta's festivity.
- "The perimeter of the church should remain immaculate, and the sanctity of Ste Luce not be violated by people who see in that day a time for total foolish enjoyment," he added.

Minutes later, the view of the overloaded charity baskets seemingly had smoothed out the priest's mood and particularly the tension that reigned in the church. As she was feeding Rachelle, and nodding in the direction of the baskets, my wife whispered mockingly:
- "I guess he has a reason to cool down now !!!". I smiled.

Instinctively, I ran my eyes to my right where Jr. was sitting. And, as I was about to realize his absence, I saw him running toward me in the small alley that parted the church in two. The wooden carved car that I noticed in his hand, explained the screaming of the little boy that was trailing him. I quickly took possession of the toy and returned it to the boy. The latter one's face illuminated with happiness, as if he had no hope of recovering his car. Of course Jr. was keen, and his strength literally overwhelming for his age. The boy seemed to walk away a little faster as my son let out a shrill cry:
- "miiiine..., mine...," he yelled in a tone of voice that attracted general attention. I could suddenly see the lines of contraction on the priest's forehead. This distraction had turned him a bit darker. A feeling of guilt engulfed me, and I felt like a violator caught in a taboo sanctuary. To myself I mumbled,
- "Gosh! Jr. always Jr....".

I took him in my arms and made my way out, trying to cope with the annoying frequency level of his voice. My wife followed precipitately to escape the uneasiness created by the situation. Jr. was still crying... He only stopped when he saw us bargaining for a similar car right outside the church.
- "C'est combien les petites voitures?" I asked the half-nude young man selling them. His hair style was most unconventional: a flat-top with a trace in the middle that looked more like a scar made by a mad African medicine man's machete. His smile revealed a number of teeth ravaged under dental carelessness.
- "Five dollars Sir" he answered.
- "Quoi! Cinq dollars pour ce truc là ? Voyons, nous ne sommes pas des touristes" my wife replied with a stunned face.
- "Oh! Pardon ma'am Ah! Ah! deux dollars pour vous" he added ironically.
- "Ah oui! surpris hein ? je suis aussi intelligente que toi..." my wife finished.

Not surprisingly, I had been willing to pay much more to calm my son, and get some peace. He took the toy from my wife's hand, and proceeded to scrutinize it for an entire minute, as teardrops streamed down his face. Then, satisfied, he shyly let a smile in the corner of his mouth but, said nothing. In the meantime, the mass was over and a stream of people, among them the boy and his parents, were heading out of the church. For a moment, Jr.' eyes crossed his and almost at the same time, they both had thrown their hands behind their back, in an attempt to hide the toys from one another. The other boy parents and us went in an opposite direction, but the two kids kept on turning back to look as if to say goodbye. That movement went on until the other family got lost in the melée.

Next, we had driven closer to the beach where canoe races were taken place. Supposedly, this is the principal activity of Ste. Luce. On that day, canoe and sailing teams from all over the island had converged on the village's beach to compete before the afternoon concert and festivities. We had arrived on time to see the tactful moves of the teams from the towns of Le Robert, Le Francois, and Vauclin, famous for their ability to handle vessels in the rough conditions of the Atlantic Ocean. Once the races finished, trophies had been distributed to the winners in a little ceremony hosted by the mayor. Thereafter, the actual band members assembled on a muticolored float set along the little avenue, and the concert started.

The music was quite contagious, the type that put ants in your legs. The sound of home made steel drums, mannoobas, guitars, banjos, accordions, bamboo flutes, empty bottles, tins, and tcha-tchas, were carefully blended with some local chants which words we totally ignored. We managed to pick up some of the French-Creole slang and hummed along with the folks around.

I joined Jr. in his dancing. Together, we did our little moves under the envious eyes of my wife. She abstained to shake herself too much, as Rachelle had just begun to sleep in the little baby carrier we had brought along. I guess our daughter had gotten used to the surrounding noise, for she never did wake up.

A bit breathless we got to the other side of the road, closer to the beach. We reached one of those little huts made out of bamboo and large palm leaves. In one corner, a paunchy, toothless old man stood between a set of shelves filled with bottles of rum and a shaky counter buried under a thick layer of dirt that hid its original dark gray color. His eyes were invisible: literally two dimmed glares of light hidden between a nest a wrinkles. Nonetheless, he could see just as well, since he smiled widely at Jr. who could not stop staring at him. On those shelves, alcohol had no diversity boundary. Its range extended from the Haitian Clairin, Jamaican Stout to the fiery Mexican Tequila, and of course the famous Martiniquan Punch. In the opposite side four chairs were set around a scratchy table with a bottle of catsup and some napkins in the middle. The chairs were painted in a fluorescent blue that covered the yellowish color of the banana tree leaves which they were made of. My son sat down first, then my wife and I followed.

As I was sitting, I could not help noticing the flame raging over those juicy steaks on the grill of a nearby barbecue. A red wine was being sprinkled over the pieces of meat as a complement to a Ragu sauce. The smell of it all could even tickle the nose of a French fine culinary expert. My mouth watered intensively as the overweight lady in charge yelled:
- "Approchez! approchez et goutez".

I turned around and looked at my wife, as to seek her approval. She moved her shoulder in an I-don't-care mimic. I joined the line while observing the lady flipping tactfully the steaks. In her right, a diligent little girl was passing plates and pointing out a pile of freshly baked bread, tomato and lettuce covered by a thick clear plastic to avoid contact with dust. In a moment I was at our table with three large plates. At first, my wife grimaced a little at the sight of the thick meat still frying in our plates. But, in the minutes that followed everything was gone.

Right after, a man readied three coconuts at my wife's demand. As I leaned my head backward to enjoy the fresh juice, I suddenly felt like I was been watched. Instinctively, I turned to my right and almost choked at the view of a dirty little hand held toward me. That was a grasshopper-like, emaciated, but pretty little girl dressed in some tattered multicolored clothes. The colors seemed to have been withered in the dimness of time. Her hair had formed a single bunch which obviously indicated that she had not used a comb for a very long time. The blisters on her feet were quite visible; perhaps the result of walking constantly barefoot under an average of 80 degrees weather.

We needed not be rocket scientists to see that she was an orphan, a pauper. Of course in third world countries like this Caribbean island, such a thing is far from being an irregularity. Undoubtedly, she was one among too many who had incurred the great burden of misfortune exacerbated by the society's prejudice and selfishness. It is a compelling factual state that has gained great acceptance among the people. From what I understood she wanted our nuts.
- "Poor little girl," muttered my wife. I guess she figured that we were not about to open the fruit and that we only wanted the juice inside. We called her, and addressing her in Creole, attempted to offer her a meal. But, in a barely audible voice, she murmured that she would rather have the money. We had the coconuts broken apart for her. She finished them hastily, and a few minutes later, she walked away with a ten dollars bill in her tightly closed hand. We watched her running away with a happy little face until she vanished through the crowd.

I glanced a little at Jr., and I could read the stupefaction in his face. Since the very moment the girl had showed up, he had been looking at her as if she were the product of another planet. Matter-of-factly, his eyes had followed her until she disappeared. I pulled him toward me, hugged him as to express my endless love for him. Rachelle herself was still sleeping.
So far the day had been very pleasant. But, being out all day had gotten us a little tired, specially after those steaks. We walked along the beach on our way to our car. Here and there, countless people, some in bikinis, were walking on the sand watching the last sun rays being swallowed by the horizon. Many have gathered in the water for a ball game, while others were plainly enjoying a swim. We reached our car parked in a nearby parking lot, and drove to our hotel.

The road seemed to be interminable, but finally we reached the somewhat familiar, huge billbard anouncing 'La Batelière Hotel'. We turned left to a little entrance that reminded me of the streets in some old village of France. A little rocky drive-in, bordered in both sides by a flatly trimmed green grass contoured by some colorful tropical flowers, ended in a big parking lot in front of the lobby. We proceeded toward the squeaky shiny floor of the lobby. As we stepped in, we casually responded to the greeting of the doorman, a lightly gray-hair man in his fifty's perhaps. We made our way to the elevator, went up to the fourth floor, and into our apartment.

Located on a 6.5 acres on a bluff overlooking the sea, this five-story hotel have all the modern amenities. The guest rooms are comfortable and very spacious. For recreation, there are nine tennis courts, a pool, excursions in a cabin cruiser, and a fine sandy beach. In addition, there are several restaurants, a discotheque and a casino. Our quarter was a modernized one with a Caribbean touch, designed for a little family like ours to stay. There were two bedrooms, a kitchenette and a porch from where one can savour the beauty the Caribbean sea. The walls were made out of concrete, and boasted some expensive looking Italian marbles, a feature that keeps the place fresh and cool during the summer season.

Tired a bit, I sat down on the couch, flanked by Jr.. Then, we turned the TV onto a local channel and started to watch a French version of Tom and Jerry, as my wife hurried to put Rachelle to bed. Obviously, Jr. did not get any of the speaking words. But, he sure noticed the mayhem perpetrated by Jerry on the person of Tom the cat. We laugh for a good while until Jr. started to scratch both his head and eyes, a sign that usually tells us that he is sleepy. In the moment that followed, he was deeply gone. I silently lifted his little curled body from the couch and carried him to his bed. Meanwhile, Marie had just gotten out of the shower. She looked a little relieved when she saw both kids sleeping.
- "Oh boy! thank God...," she said.

Later on we both gathered on the porch for some fresh air. The splendor of the scene in front of us gave a new twist to the phrase: a room with a view. This was what I called, a perfect setting for a romantic escape. Quietly, we watched the pink-orange afterglow of the sunset disappearing in the horizon inches by inches. A cool breeze coming from the sea was flirting with our faces and whistling through the enormous branches of the coconut trees around. The serenity and divine still of the night were at time interrupted by the chirping of crickets in the surrounding 12 acres of tropical gardens. Once in a while a firefly passed by, then got lost in between the trees' folliage. Atop our heads, the dark color of the sky had emphasized the beauty of the shining stars seemingly peered by a half-shadowed moon. From where we were, it looked like the water was dancing with the moon. In my mind, I imagined them responding to that intermittent sound of drum brought to us by the wind from the villages surrounding the town of Schoelcher.

Sometimes later, we had ordered some appetizers and champagne to celebrate our first time alone since the start of the day. We stayed late that night, talking about us, our children, and many other things. We were literally happy. Of course, after so many years living in Boston, this was our first trip outside North America. We wanted so much to get away from the busy life in the US, the specter of stress at the job, internal family affairs etc...

As the night made its course, the champagne obviously started to affect both of us. My wife was laughing her head off after each and every one of my jokes. I myself, felt very groggy and joyful. And, we could hear our own cackling voice echoing in the night.

The next morning, I woke up to the echo of the waves washing the sand off the beach in a wild, placid kind of mood. I got out to the porch, letting out a very long yawn. Far away, behind the mountains, like in an opened cocoon, the sun gradually appeared in an explosion of glowing rays which quickly expanded over the entire valley. A warm wind blowing from the sea, had brought a strong odor of salt. To me, that was just the beginning of a long beautiful day; and what better way to have started it, than with a little walk on the coast.

I passed on the short pants I had bought at the airport upon our arrival, and joined the few tourists jogging through the beautiful tropical gardens overlooking the sea. For a moment, I thought about my friends in Boston. Precisely at that time, they were undoubtedly readying themselves for work. I instinctively let out a rather mocking smile in the corner of my mouth. "Glad to be away…" I thought.

I ran a couple miles, breathing heavily the fresh morning air. At several instances, I slowed down to admire the beautiful colors of those tropical butterflies flying all around. They appeared to be dancing a ballad with the yellow and purple wild flowers that surrounded me. At some point, I remember stopping to follow a little path leading to the sea. After catching my breath, I entered the warm water and swam for a while. Curiously, I watched some of the nearby fishermen at work far away in the deep sea, and wondered a bit about their laborious task. That morning, I had a really hard time leaving the water. But, I reluctantly, pulled myself out and headed back to our suite.

When I finally arrived there, breakfast was already on the table: ripe plantains, scramble eggs, red sauce, and some vegetables. On the side we were served some delicious beat juice and sweet potato pie, a special du jour. As I passed the table, I could not help noticing the juice's stain on the floor.
- "Jr. had done it again," I said to myself.

At this very instant, my wife came out of the bedroom, followed by Jr. Rachelle herself was laying supine on the bed and seemed to be carrying a conversation with the ceiling.
- "Good morning folks," I said.
- "Good morning honey... Look, I had to replace all his clothes. He had spilled everything" she replied.
- "Daddy!! Daddy!! Mommy yelled at me," my son cried.
- "Don't worry son, Daddy will avenge you," I added mockingly.

Meanwhile, Rachelle was paying great attention to me, staring with her bright little eyes. She started her usual jumps, laughing literally loud as I approached the bed.
- "Hmmpuuph," I kissed her in the cheek.
- "Did she eat ?" I asked my wife.
- "Yes," she replied.
- "Boy! You guys are fast," I added.

In the hour that followed, we were all packed in the Volkswagen, in our way to Mount Pelée and its surrounding places. We drove up the main road to the north of the Island, inhaling abundantly the morning fresh air caressing our faces. Our curious eyes were wandering here and there, stopping sometimes at some particular points of interest. Also, at several instances, I had to answer many questions which my son directed at me.

At about seven kilometers from Fort-de-France, we reached the plateau of Didier that dominates the Capital. In an atmosphere of quiet opulence, the vast mansions were concealed amidst immense gardens of carefully nurtured tropical vegetation. This was the home of the Békés, the aristocracy of Martinique. Mostly colonial heritages, these homes had remained unchanged. Some were built of wood with their spacious rooms surrounded by a wide verandah. Huge trees of hundred or more years old sheltered the gardens from the intense tropical sun, while beautiful flowers grew in orderly profusion: hibiscus, bougainvillea, allamanda, anthurium etc.

Everywhere were order and beauty, luxury, tranquillity and voluptuousness. Inside those homes, the shining furnitures, polished by the ages, were spaced far apart, lost in the vastness of the homes. They were made of precious local wood, and though copied from European models, had during the years developed a character of their own: style Martinique. They included four-poster beds, wardrobes, settees and rocking chairs.

Next, we drove by Le Carbet, a village separated into two by a stream which rose in the peak above the town. From the road we could see the beach which, bordered by coconuts palms, spread its white sand for more than a mile. Many fishermen had their fish drying in the sand while they were repairing their nets. Also, under the shelter of those palms trees, several canoes were awaiting their next fishing trip. Overlooking the beach, were the peaks of Carbet, a tempting refuge for amateur hikers. Usually, the climbers were rewarded with a magnificent view over most of the island and neighboring La Dominique. The vegetation on both sides of the path to the peaks, made the climb even more fulfilling: tropical forest, dense patches of a bush which the locals call wild olive.

Some miles headed we reached the famous city of St Pierre. According to the Martiniquan history, on the 8th of May 1902, at 7:50 AM, a gigantic explosion caused the earth to shudder and the sea to boil. An enormous mass of fire, stone and mud hurled itself on the city, covering it, choking it, and setting it aflame. Then, the larva continued to roll onwards into the sea spreading in all directions. In less than five minutes, the city and its surrounding areas were devastated. 30,000 people perished either asphyxiated or burned to death, the Governor of the island and the Mayor included.

The sole witness to the obliteration of this proud city was a prisoner named Sylbaris, locked in the solitary confinement cell of a jail situated at the foot of Morne Abel, and was thus protected by this small hillock. He could not understand what was causing the intense heat during those five awful minutes of the disaster. For years afterward, this fortunate survivor was displayed as a curiosity throughout the world by the Barnum Circus.

The eruption continued sporadically until the month of August, when the final convulsion of the volcano on the thirtiest day of the month was equally as severe as the first, destroying Morne-Rouge and Ajoupa-Bouillon. The legend goes that this was a curse put upon the Martiniquans by the last of the Caribbean Indians in 1658. After a violent battle, many of the surviving Indians gathered on the edge of a precipice, gouged out their eyes, and hurled themselves to their death on the rocks below, rather than being subservient to the colonists. They died while threatening the mountain of fire as revenge.

Today, St. Pierre still bears the sinister marks, and the scars of its torture. In the background of the town and its beautiful bay, Mount Pelée still stands dominating and menacing. Nevertheless, the town lives again, rebuilt over the years around the remnants of its prestigious past.

We visited the ruins of the former college, the cemetery, the theater, the former cell of Sylbaris and the ruins of the church of the fort of Roxelane. Then, we continued toward the village of Le Prêcheur, situated at ten kilometers north of St. Pierre. The road from St. Pierre to Le Prêcheur crosses the river chaude, and continues past the Tombeau des Caraïbes, the precipice from which the last Indians threw themselves when pursued by the colonists. Next, it traverses the site of the former village of St. Philomène, which was destroyed by the eruption of 1902.

Further north between, Le Prêcheur and Grande-Rivière, there is a small but passable road which traverses the region called 'Abymes'. This road comes to an end at Anse Céron, where the sea is often rough, the beach beautiful, and one can see the picturesque Ilet de la perle in the distance.

Beyond Anse Céron, the road is no more than a track 15 kilometers long leading to Grande-Rivière. That village situated at the extremity of the island, and facing out towards La Dominique seems to be constantly battered by the sea. The people there divide their time between cultivating the hills that dominate the village, and fishing in the open sea. They are renowned as intrepid sailors, and for their fishing skills.

Past Grande-Rivière, and more toward the east, the huge palm trees which limited our view all along the main road, gave way to some tall, multicolored wild flowers that hid the infinite plain of sugar canes settled in both sides of the road. About a mile or two ahead, we reached a little church and a cemetery on the left side of the road. At the entrance, a gigantic black cross stood tall with a number of colored candles at its foot, some still lit.
- "We must not be too far from the village of Macouba" I said. Evidently, a quarter of mile ahead we spotted a group of people going in the direction of the cemetery. Two men carrying a little coffin were trailed by a number of screaming mourners in black, white, and purple. Instinctively, one lady let out a shrill cry that came as a surprise to all of us in the car. Her legs literally gave up, as she fell in the ground. Next, she started to roll crazily over the dirt, throwing away her headband and pulling strongly her short braided hair. It took four strong men to pull her out of her trance. Faced with that scene, Jr. suddenly began to cry.
- "Oohh! Its OK honey," my wife reassured him. Of course, my son was a very active and strong boy. However, he was often found to be quite sensitive to other's predicament. I have to admit that every one reacts differently when faced with a given situation. I myself, felt weakened by the sudden reaction of the bereaved lady. It made me love and appreciate my little family more and more. The thought of being in the lady's shoes flashed in my mind. But, I quickly struggled to recant the idea.

A divine silence reigned in the car until we reached the village. A small army post stood at the entrance. A half-sleepy, bonny officer who could barely support his rather massive old rifle guarded the shaky building, partly made out of bamboo. He jumped a bit at the sound of our Volkswagen's motor. JR waved to him… I thought I saw him smile and waving back. We proceeded on the village's only road toward Le Relais Vert restaurant. There, we ate a good lunch before taking on the road again.

Not too far from the restaurant, lied a little market place, the favorite haunts of Martiniquan women. Several of them, wearing very large hats under some temporary tents, were lined up along the road to sell all types of goodies: Cigarettes, candies, fried peanuts, Sugar, cassava and rapadou -A sort of dark, tick shoe-wax like candy derived from sugar canes molasses, kids delight-. In the background, a powerful fragrance of spices, cloves, bois d'Inde, pepper and colored pimentos was mixed with that of guayavas, bananas, mangoes, apples, avocados, pears, oranges, potatoes, tapioca, watercress, cabbage, sugar cane, corn, coconuts, to name just a few. Those women were joyously animated their bargaining and disputes over the smallest transaction. My wife bought some mangoes, then we continued our way.

Along the road, we passed several groups of people, some riding turtle-like donkeys, others walking barefoot and leading heavily packed ones. Our next stop was the village of Basse Pointe, where the well known writer Aimé Césaire was born in 1913. All along the coast of that small commune, children renowned as skillful surfers were seen practicing the sport on the Atlantic waves.

Around noontime, we made it to the village of Ajoupa-Bouillon, an important center for the cultivation of bananas and pineapples. It is there that excursion leaves for the waterfall of Saut-Babin, accessible first by car, then by a small tow-path which descends around the gorges of the river Capot. We finally reached a ranch at the foot of the mountain. There, we traded our car for two donkeys rented at two dollars each. I rode one with Jr. in front of me, while my wife settled with Rachelle. Soon, we followed a footpath that meandered through a densely vegetated area stretched around the mountain. The trees were strong and tall, and the foliage provided a relatively umbrageous protection from the sun. Atop, the sun light seemed to be struggling for a way through. Once in a while, the leaves barely let through a jet of sun rays that contrasted with the dark green color under. We crossed several flat rivers. Usually, the echo of the sound of 'Batwels' - A piece of wood shaped like a racket-ball which people use to beat the dirt out of their wet clothes - hinted us about how close we were from the rivers. They were the rendez-vous of the washerwomen. Their work progressed joyfully between bursts of laughter and singing. Over the nearby bushes and the clean rocks of the banks, multicolored garments were spread upon for a few hours to dry.

The vegetation got more and more moist as we approached the waterfall. From far away, we could hear the rumbling of the water. Also, as soon as we were able to see the sky, we could spot the misty cloud overlooking the fall. We finally made it there, eager to rest our bones. From the very top, the water was rolling fifteen feet down a clean bed of rock tailored by mother nature; an untamed, irresistible feature. The powerful misty falling water had created a very large crater which depth seemed to have considerably increased in time. Also visible, was a little cavern which curvy walls shimmered with lights and shadows created by the sun's reflection over the water. The beauty of it all had been emphasized by the presence of some strong tropical trees which large branches hanged wildly over the water.
- "Water, wateeer Daddy," my son screamed.

Since the summer of 1993 when I brought him and his cousins, Jake and Kevin, to Walden Pond in Concord, Massachusetts, Jr. had developed an urging passion for water. I remember on several occasions, having to take him at night for a ride by the Charles river, near Downtown Boston, just to get him to sleep.

The place was swarming with campers scattered around both sides of the tumultuous basin of water. The environment was gay and appealing. Everybody seemed to be having a good time. We were all ready for a wild and enticing day at Saut-Babin. Most visible were the Martiniquan men around, all of them flanked by a bottle of rum or a glass filled with some other alcohol substance. Not too far, a group of people had formed a circle around a hot grill filled of fresh corn, as a tall skinny native guy entertained them with seemingly delirious jokes. The wind through the surrounding foliage had brought to our ears a bit of their laughter and happiness. Further down stream, at the windows of a long diner that looked like it had been built there, everything was being served at one's convenience: ice cream, candies, sodas, cigarettes, alcohol, post cards, and even recordings of some of the popular local groups.

While seeking for a place to rest, we passed some couples laying in the sun, covered with oil. Kids were running all around or playing on the rocks at the riverbank under the careful eyes of their peers. As my eyes wandered around, they stopped on a group of women in multicolored bikinis that boasted their very pronounced butts. They were dancing, joking, and screaming as the envious eyes of the machos around plainly undressed them. We stumbled over the rocks to get closer to the fall. There, some people were throwing their canoes in the water to embark in some fun trips down stream. We decided to seek shelter under the shadow of a little mango tree, a perfect shield to keep us from getting burned by the hot sun. For a while I wondered what it would be like making love there, under the cherry moon at midnight.
- "Perhaps it would be a veritable romantic experience: dark sky, bright stars and a symphony orchestra of crickets..." I confided to my wife. The thought quickly vanished as soon as I entered the warm water As the day went by, my wife and I, we took turns swimming with Jr., watching and feeding Rachelle. At one time, my son and I, we even canoed down stream with one native of the island as my wife and daughter napped soundly, totally caught under the spell of the flirting breeze.

As we entered the alley leading to the hotel's parking lot, we came upon a barrier of four men in tight black T-shirts with a logo of the international KASSAV, the group that was to perform at the beach that night. The size of their biceps and the look in their faces told us we had to stop. "We're staying at the hotel," I quickly said, pulling the yellow ticket we were given while checking in. Apparently, the 25 dollars for the concert were exempted for the customers of the hotel. We rushed to our room to get ready for the occasion. 30 minutes later, we were in our way out to the corridor outside our door. We waited impatiently for the elevator, as the sound of the music downstairs flirted with our ears. Of course, we were not the only waiting party there.
- "Come on !... come on," yelled a little girl flanked by her parents, her eyes glued to the floor indicator of the elevator.

The next minutes, we found ourselves packed like sardines in the little elevator, somewhat begging for some fresh air.

- "Trois... Deux... Un," the little girl counted, and finally the door opened in front of several groups of people in bright tropical colors. We crossed the large lobby and proceeded toward the beach area, partly transformed into a gigantic stage. There, hundreds of people had gathered to rejoice this enticing setting under the clear sky of that young, promising night. The cool, but grave voice of the singer Jacob Dévarieux, blended with the harmonious beat of the Caribbean Zouk, contained the entire atmosphere, defying the warm wind that was blowing from the sea. The crowd was most exhilarating, singing frantically along. But, most of the men around had their eyes focused on the two ladies dancing on stage. They were incredibly brilliant. Their very charming voice, added to the inviting and curious scenery created by their tempting costumes had cast a spell on the entire crowd. Their bodies looking more like silhouettes molded inside those négligés, were moving with such grace. The four of us, we watched the audience responding crazily to this once in a life time performance. For a moment, I felt a bit out of touch. Between work and house related stuff, I had no time for nights like that one. Consequently, I had not heard such sounds and lived such a show since 1987 when I saw KASSAV performing along with the Haitian numero uno, TABOU COMBO, in Miami, Florida.

Things had gotten more and more exciting by the minutes. At times, some of the audience literally jumped in the ocean, as the hotel' guards watched, perplexed. This was the fastest way to cool off and drain away the heat brought by both the music and the bottle, and of course to regain the energy needed for the hours to come. Every one was so engrossed in the concert that nobody seemed to realize the change in the weather. Heavy running clouds visibly transformed the sky that had been studded with stars earlier. Suddenly, a distant rolling thunder drove close from the mountains as if to warn about what was coming ahead. Yet, the people did not seem to care. The beat had conquered their very soul. The crowd became all the more rowdier. After all the rain would have been undoubtedly a blessing to them. Contrarily to the freezing rains that we have experienced in New England, the Caribbean rains are rather warm, and delightful. This is not only children's but also some of the grown-ups' happiest moments. For the former, it is a time for jogging, playing games like soccer, volley-ball etc... For the latter, it is a God given nutrient for the crops, a blessing.

The thunders kept rolling closer and closer, followed alternatively by lightning that slashed and silvered the sky at the horizon. We could smell the rain coming. The early precipitation atop the mountains had spread a strong aroma emanating from the hot dirt, over the entire valley. In no time, heavy droplets of rain lashed over the audience. We grabbed the kids and ran to seek refuge in the lobby. The crowd was not quite disturbed. A meager amount of people, most of them tourists, followed us. Protected from the rain, the band kept on playing at the great satisfaction of an ecstatic crowd.

Once in the lobby, we were invited to take the elevator up to the fifth floor. There, we were ushered up some broad steps to a sliding door, and to a terrace with a view over the beach. In one corner, on a small stage, was a native combo of guitar, bass, piano and steel drums, casually playing a soft Reggae tune. In another corner, stood a full bar with three white-jacketed waiters who looked rather busy. We reached a little garden with a beautiful running fountain right under an overhung dimmed chandelier. We decided to settle on a comfortable couch not too far from the bar, where we could easily observe everybody. Little groups of people were seen here and there. We could hear different languages being spoken, French, Creole, Spanish, and English. In the nearby dance floor, several couples tightly mingled, were laughing freely while enjoying the music.

Well, the next morning came out to be more charming than ever. My wife and I, we woke up almost at the same time while the kids were still asleep, tired after yesterday's long hours. I walked to the porch to see the sun rising, while my wife surveyed herself in a mirror. Later she joined me to share the enchantment of the view in front of our eyes. The sky was of a clear blue, spotted here and there by the white color of some flying sea birds. The mysterious maze of the valley looked so inviting.
- "What do we do today ?" my wife asked.
- "How about we go on one of those cruises, touring the presqu'ïle de la Caravelle, and spend the day on the beaches of Tartane?" I replied. That's exactly what we did. An hour later, the little beetle was once again packed, ready to head to the town of Trinité. There, we were to take a ferry around the presqu'ïle, and to Tartane.

We drove a little south east to Le Lamentin. Then we turned north toward Le Robert and finally Trinité. The voyage was very slow at times due to the condition of the roads that literally cut through many streams. We stopped at Le Robert for gas and food before proceeding toward Trinité. The town was small, but buzzy. Here and there, along both sides of the single road leading to the docks, lined colonial style edifices brightly painted. They held mostly restaurants, clothing and local touristic artifacts stores. At a mere ten miles per hour, we still had to be careful not to hit anybody while going through the crowd.

Intermittently, the carnival like atmosphere was interrupted by the honking of ferries leaving the docks for a tour around the peninsula. Far from being annoying to the ear, these sounds had brought us a feeling of adventure that got us more and more anxious. We turned right toward the back of one busy restaurant, 'Le Poisson' that was. There, we found a parking lot, which we rented for the day.

Five minutes later, we were mixed with the crowd, walking along the long wooden deck that joined the front of each block of buildings. These architectures resembled those seen in the old cowboy movies except that there, people wore brightly colored T-shirts and short pants, rather than hats and boots. We proceeded toward a little boot over the main dock, where we bought our tickets for the ten o'clock ferry. After the next 10 minutes, we boarded the ferry. It seemed like we had waited too long before the Captain's announcement came through the speakers. Finally the boat departed with a loud siren that seemed to have shaken the serenity of the sea.

The weather was quite perfect. The beautiful golden sunlight sparkled over the clear water as the undulating waves randomly reverberated the jet of rays to our faces. All along the way, we passed several lone fishermen sailing lazily in the serene water. Jr. seemed to have had a good time. He was loudly imitating the "Quack!.. Quack!.." of the white sea bird flying low aside the boat. Rachelle, herself was quite agitated, watching each and every move of her peer brother, and reacting frantically by kicking her little feet forward. I guess she was just trying to make sense of what was going on, getting as much fun as she could at the same time. At times, she let out some sharp laughs that got the attention of many of the folks around. And old lady from Florida approached us:
- "what's her name?" she asked.
- "Rachelle..." my wife replied.
- "Oh!.. look at her, how cute" she added, trying to hold my daughter's hand. But, Rachelle did not let her. She reacted with a fist movement that left the lady stunned.
- "Gosh !... she's so strong," the lady acknowledged. We all laughed at Rachelle's stupefaction, as she looked back and forth at our faces and at the lady's, as if to ask us who the heck is that. At one year old, Rachelle's strength had baffled even her doctor. She had a firmly built body that was a bit unusual coming from a premature baby. She could be at times, unpredictably mean with those fists of hers. Oftentimes, we had to literally force Jr.'s hair out of her grip, while she mockingly displayed her only two front teeth in a broad and squeaky laugh.

As we got further from the shore, the water became more and more intense. Its color was now of a dark green, a sign that we were in deep water. Many passengers had gathered at the tip of the boat to watch those strong waves that came crashing through, being split apart. For a moment, I thought a little about the life of all those creatures under us. The thought suddenly vanished as my son screamed:
- "Look, Daddy look..., over there". Amazed by his curriousness and perspicacity, I turned around wondering how these little eyes of his could spot this dark silhouette in the far horizon. Then, it did not take me long to acknowledge that kids are far more alert than we grown-ups really give them credit for. Right in the middle of the peninsula and on the very tip of the highest pick, a Meteorological station stood alone and solitary braving all kinds of weather.

The dark form became more and more visible, and the distance grew more and more shorter. The boat circled the peninsula, and proceeded toward the beaches of Tartane. Everybody suddenly seemed very anxious to get there. Many had brought along their bikes, camping accessories, food, clothes, etc... Others were simply in shorts and empty handed, eager to go for a deep exploration of the small peninsula or swimming. From where we were, we could see the beautiful white, sandy beach. Also glamourously looking, were those coconut trees with large branches hanging freely all around the beach. La Caravelle peninsula, a deserted wilderness on the northern face, is adorned on the southern side by the splendid Bay Calion and Trésor. The latter bay is renowned for the ruins of the former settlement of a family named Dubuc de la Rivery who played an active role in the history of the area.

Ponhhh!...ponhhh!, the captain honked twice, and announced that we had arrived. Slowly the ferry glided over the water and accosted to a small dock with the help of two diligent, muscular young men. Quickly, the passengers had formed a line over the bridge, visibly eager to leave the ferry. One after the other we all made our way out to the dock. Everybody seemed to have enjoyed a puff of fresh air, setting foot on the swaying docks. It was nice and breezy, as we proceeded by foot on the little furrow that stretched all around the place. Several paths were leaving the beach up to the hills where the station was. And, since many people were heading there, we simply decided to go along, instead of going straight to the water. After all, a good walk was what we needed to stretch out our feet, and breathe some fresh air.

We followed a long, twisted path through another one of these densely vegetated areas. The trees' large leaves, seemed to be sharing a melody with both the wind and the birds. In both sides of the path, some colorful flowers newly blossomed, contributed to the freshness of that morning. In the way, we came upon a gigantic, tall oak tree that had gotten our attention all. The trunk may have been about 15 feet in diameter. The roots, strong and thick, had been scattered all around by mother nature. One of its branches had been outstretched further away to go back in the ground, forming itself another tree. As my wife and many others positioned themselves to take some pictures, I could not help noticing that light reflection in the far right between the roots of the tree.
- "Do you see that?" I asked my wife.
- " what?" she said.
- " This light" I replied unsure of myself. Curiously, I got closer, as my wife whispered
- " Don't go there Evings!!!" Firmly she grabbed my son's arm to keep him from following me. I proceeded anyway tumbling a bit over those heavy roots. There, in the middle of a variety of colored leaves meticulously arranged over a white piece of clothe shaped like a star, three candles were burning vividly. Right beside, a portion of the tree had been literally chopped off and polished. On the neatly finished surface of it, were engraved some magical inscriptions, which none of us could decipher. Under this area, three half filled white bottles, each with a wooden cross drowned in a red liquid inside, were laid to rest along with a sort of tcha-tcha. Surprisingly enough, the wind did not disturb the leaves, nor did it blow off the candles. I shuddered a little at the sight of it all. Several other people came closer to take a look. Many took pictures of the scene, while others visibly shaken, stood perplexed and abstained to do so.

Despite the fact that almost all Martiniquans are Christians, the beliefs inherited from their African ancestors remain very much alive. We tend to believe that magic is not as prevalent in Martinique as it is in Haiti, where the voodoo Dahomey is practiced. Nevertheless, is it very well known and practiced by Martiniquans. The Quimboiseur, the equivalent of the Haitian Hougan, is the intermediary between the occult forces and the living. He heals, gives advices and intervenes to arrange matters and settle disputes, as well as using his influence to call upon the supernatural powers, both good and evil. The magic spell in Martinique is called 'Quimbois.' It is said that the word derives from the days of a missionary named Father Labbat during the colonial time, who when treating the sick, gave them a potion saying: " Tiens, bois"(here, drink). Besides practice of sorcery, the cosmology of the Antilles is peopled by spirits who have come back from the land of the dead to survey and threaten the living.

Later, we joined another group heading toward the station. Many times in the way there, we had stopped and turned to admire the beauty of the bay laying behind us. Between the green color of the mostly mango and coconut trees and the blue of the inviting sea, laid a thick trace of white sand. From where we were, the water seemed so stagnant and undisturbed. However the continuing movement simulated by those multicolored dots on the beach had proven the contrary.

The land became dryer as we got closer to the station. Some of the women seemed to have been struggling a little before we finally made it to the top. At this point, most of us had some beads of sweat running down our faces. Unfortunately, there wasn't any shelter to run to. The sun was taping hard down our head, and our legs got tired. Nevertheless, we felt good walking, for it was a bit windy, and the kids seemed to have enjoyed the adventure. The station happened to be a rectangular building surmounted by antennas that stood defiant to the wind. It was fenced all around, and locked. Several old rusty canon balls had been seen in the ground, hinting that this place was perhaps a fort at some point of time. From where we stood, I imagined that a soldier could have literally no problem spotting the enemy miles away. Together, we wandered around the place, and took picture of the vast emptiness before us. About thirty minutes later, we decided to head back to the beach, this time taking another path that led us to the same point where we begun our climbing before.

The trip ended faster than we had anticipated. The sand was clean and fine, the ocean warm and clear. All along the beach, several little huts facing the ocean have been built to respond to the tourists needs. Their roofs, shaped like an upside down V, were made out of tiny bamboo. The front painted in a light yellow, had a little gallery extension where a table and four chairs were set. Each house, an exact replica of the next one, had a single room with two windows, a sizeable bed, and a convenient bathroom with a tub. The windows were made out of slabs of glass, which when returned vertically separated the outside air from the inside, something typical of the Caribbean architecture.

In front of each cabin, at some fifty meters, a coconut tree was standing in the middle of a round concrete table contoured itself by short, wide poles, which people used as chairs. Several local troubadours were joggling from table to table, chanting and playing for everyone who so desired, for a mere five bucks. We rented a cabin for the day, changed our clothes and settled under a coconut tree. There, we had ourselves entertained while enjoying the superb food du jour: smoked conch, sautéed spicy fish, rice and bean, vegetables, and coconut juice. Life was so good and stressless...

Later on, we headed to the ocean, making our way through a sea of people, some playing soccer, badminton, volleyball, others laying on the sand or swimming. As we passed a group of women in bikinis, - "Hmmh!..Hmmh!..Hmmh!.." I remarked jokingly. At that point, with a smile in the corner of her mouth, and although she knew that I was teasing her, my wife regarded me with an uncanny, protective eye and pinched me.
- "Vagabond..." she added casually. I laughed...

We got closer to the water, where we could actually smell it. We laid our towels over the sand, and sat for a while to get a sense of direction. Almost instinctively Jr. started to play in the sand, as Rachelle watched puzzled. She seemed to be wondering what her brother was doing. And slowly, she begun to crawl toward him. My wife and I, we made sure to look over her, for many times she tried to put those fine little grains in her mouth. At each instant, I had to carry her to the water and cleaned her hands. Finally, I sat her down in front of me, placing our feet where the waves could reach them. Meanwhile, Marie had started to coat her body with a sun protective oil, ready to be tanned. In the minutes that followed, she was lying supinely on the sand, her eyes covered with a towel. As for Jr., he apparently became very annoyed, for the castle that he attempted to build, kept on crumbling. Finally, he decided to join me and Rachelle, attracted by my daughter's laughs, as the waves tickled her feet. Soon, the gravitational effect of the moon was quite visible. The water level moved up to our waist, and Rachelle had her first taste of good salt water. Her little tongue kept on going from left to right, as I poured some of the salty liquid over her head.

Finally, the afternoon came unnoticed, but we could not complain, having had such a good time going in and out of the warm water. Later on, we retired in our bungalow to remove the salt on our skin, and relax while waiting for the arrival of the next ferry. The latter one came around five o'clock PM. At that point, we were already at the dock mixed with a crowd of satisfied faces, and waiting to go home. Ten minutes later, the ferry departed for the town of Trinité. The somber the huts on the beach became at the horizon, the more nostalgic I got myself. The impatience of that morning was soon replaced by regrets and sadness. I had wished to stay longer at Tartane, and who cares, perhaps never leave that paradise.

In the meantime, the sun had lost its intensity, and the brilliance of the day was fading by the minutes. Soon, we made it to the town; and comparatively with that morning, the distance seemed to be so short. Then, it came to me that my mind was too much preoccupied with the idea of staying in the peninsula. Therefore, there was no way of realizing that we were gaining on the distance.

That Friday morning was more than ever bright. The sun was already quite high when we finally woke up. Right after breakfast, we ironed some wrinkles out of our clothes, dressed the children, and packed everything else. That day, we were to go around Fort-de-France and visit the village of Trois-Ilets across the bay, before catching the 3:45 PM flight to Boston. At about 9:00 o'clock AM we left the hotel, and headed down south. With great eagerness, we plunged ourselves into the streets of Fort-de-France in search of all hidden delights they had to offer: the exotic markets, the dazzling colors, intoxicating fragrances, and the beautiful women carrying themselves so elegantly, and gracefully.

During the nineteenth century, the city was the victim of several disasters. An earthquake damaged many public buildings in 1839; a great fire ravaged the city in 1890, and in the following year, it was devastated by a cyclone. Fort-de-France increased greatly in importance, after the eruption of Mount Pelée wiped the city of St. Pierre off the map at the beginning of the century. Formerly only the administrative and military Capital, Fort-de-France became the commercial as well as intellectual and cultural hub of the island. Buildings grew more rapidly than the vegetation, as they sprout like mushroom on the hills, and on the new housing developments, which now shelter more than a third of the island's population.

We scanned through the park La Savane, an area full of exotic floras, stretching along the sea-front, and the nucleus to which all roads lead. Its adjacent streets are narrow with beautiful balconies overhanging sidewalks filled with shops and restaurants. The port, close by, is attached to the flanks of the park to which the passenger liners appear to tie their mooring lines.

We visited the Palais De Justice, where a statue of Victor Schoelcher is proudly displayed. Victor was a liberal journalist who became the champion for the abolition of slavery after a voyage to the United States and the West Indies. A library in his honor holding more than 24000 books, could be seen close to the La Savane area, along with the Hotel de Ville, and the Saint Louis Cathedral with its metal framework. The library is the city's architectural pride and joy. It is a Romanesque Byzantine treasure constructed a century ago for the Paris Exposition of 1889. It was then dismantled and shipped to Martinique piece by piece.

We continued our way toward the villages of Ducos and Rivière Salée, before turning west to the Trois-Ilets. The small village owes its name to the fact that it is situated on a plateau giving a splendid view of the three islets in the bay of Fort-de-France. Most of the town seemed to be a memorial of the Creole girl who won the heart of the great general Napoléon Bonaparte. A few kilometers along from Trois-Ilets is the estate of La Pagerie, where the Empress entered the world on June 23rd 1763. Born to Joseph Gaspard Tascher de La Pagerie and Rose Claire des Vergers de Sannois, she was Baptized Marie-Joseph Rose on July 27th 1763 in a nearby church that still stands today. Her first ten years were spent in the tranquillity of the estate, which was known as La Petite Guinée. She was then sent to boarding school at Fort-de-France, then Fort-Royal. Two events of importance in her early years were firstly the hurricane which ravaged the buildings of the estate in 1776 and forced the family to take refuge in the church, and secondly in 1777 when an old Negro fortune-teller named Euphémis David predicted that someday, she would become more than a queen.

In 1779, at the age of sixteen while in France, she married Alexandre de Beauharnais, a former Governor-General of the Leeward Islands. Two children Eugène and Hortense, were born to this union, which brought unhappiness to both parties. On July 21st 1794, during the French revolution, she watched her husband mount the scaffold and she narrowly escaped a similar fate.

Six years later, she married another general Napoléon Bonaparte, and thus entered the history of France. But, after nine years, since she had not produced any son and heir to the general, the latter one obtained permission from the Pope to divorce her. She died on may 29th 1814 at La Malmaison in France, without having seen again her beloved homeland.

The estate de La Pagerie is now the property of Doctor Rose Rosette, who has renovated the place and meticulously arranged the small objects and early mementos of the childhood of the Empress Joséphine. The Bedroom of Madame de La Pagerie has been arranged as the actual museum which is open to the public. All remaining belongings of the Creole Martiniquan family of the period are on display: pottery, local basket works, kitchen utensils, iron collars and fetters of slaves etc. There are also several original documents and souvenirs of the infant Marie-Joseph Rose: certificate of birth and baptism, her first cot, and many reminders of her years as Empress of France, including one passionate love letter written by General Napoléon himself. We were prevented from taking pictures, but we did learn a great deal of history.

The streets of Trois-Ilets were a continuous display of beautiful pottery works, a local traditional artisanal production of jars, water pitchers, and bricks. We walked along the quay, watching the sun reverberating far across over the houses of Fort-de-France, a very captivating view. At several instances, we stopped to buy some local wooden artifacts and paintings that festooned the sides of the road.
- "I think we've seen it all, perhaps we should head back..." my wife mumbled sometimes later, peeking at her watch. It was about 1:00 PM, we had to go back to the hotel.

In a sharp curve, the little Volkswagen volte-faced over the rocky road leaving behind a trace of dust that followed us for miles. We made it to the hotel at exactly 2:00 PM. Then, leaving my wife and the kids in the lobby, I rushed upstairs to take our luggage. Soon we checked out and drove to the airport, where we returned the car. We joined the long line proceeding toward the immigration service for a final paper check. Once finished we were ushered to a large room with glass windows facing the landing zone. There, dozens of people were already waiting impatiently for the arrival of the plane. There was no air conditioning system available. Suddenly with all the rushing around, it felt extremely hot, and pearls of sweat could be seen in everybody's face.

Waiting for our flight was a true agony in that furnace; the minutes seemed incredibly long. Nevertheless, nobody murmured a single complaint. The plane arrived 15 minutes late. As it touched down, everyone stood up restless, ready to embark. Once again we had to wait over 30 more minutes before we could set foot in the plane. In those pressing moments, the suitcase of an impatient lady opened wide, letting out most of her clothes in the dusty runaway. But, she was quickly being helped by a guard standing by. We proceeded slowly up the steps, into the alleys of the plane, and finally rested in our seat. Soon the embarkment was all over, and the plane took off.

As the plane shifted toward the north, I found myself looking chagrinely at the window, as if I were about to loose something precious. Suddenly I realized that all I was loosing was perhaps this sense of freedom that I had acquired and nurtured for these past days. From that little rectangle, I watched the beautiful island disappearing slowly. Ironically, this envious scenic atmosphere and the thought of going back to Boston engulfed me with a mixture of satisfaction and sadness. I turned around uneasy, to face my wife's eyes as the northern tip of the island literally vanished under a layer of clouds. From that moment on, this whole adventure became nothing but a bitter-sweet memory. My wife kept on staring at me, and grinned a smile that disclosed her obvious monitoring of my deep contemplation. Vaguely, I puffed a long sigh and anchored my head back in the cushioned seat with my eyes closed: "That was quite an adventure...," I concurred with myself.