The croaking of a million frogs
A year afloat: to the Caribbean and back
Sam and Alex Fortescue
Tue 1 Feb 2011 20:43
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14:44.51N
60:57.45W
We're anchored up in a place on Martinque's east
coast which might as well be called World's End. We're tucked in down at the
bottom of a long, coral fringed harbour called La Trinite. Because it faces
north, a fair amount of swell is finding its way in and setting Summer Song
rolling gaily. This means sleep will be hard work. There is a town ranged around
the bay here, garlanded with sodium lamps marking the coast road. But searching
earlier for a single bar, cafe or resto that was open, we drew a complete
blank.
There were plenty of people milling about. Lots of
churches, from whose shady interiors emanated singing and, later, the peal of
bells. There was even a huge EU co-financed tourist office, with no less than
three people in attendance. Yet even they couldn't tell us where to find an
establishment selling either beer or coffee. In a state of mild disbelief, we
returned to the boat and battened down the hatches for a homespun apero of
chilled rose, crisps and dip.
It matters little, as tomorrow we set sail early
for a new island: Dominica. We're not expecting much from this large, verdant
rock, thanks in part to the lukewarm prose in our guide. There are few good
anchorages for small boats and the roads leave much to be desired.
Furthermore, swarms of boat boys are said to descend on every new arrival,
vieing for tourist trade and even scoping out boats for things that are easy to
pinch.
It all sounds a far cry from Martinique, where the
standard of living is noticeably higher than it was farther south. There is
little spontaneous interest from the locals and no hard selling. In fact, it's
probably fair to say that there is not a boat boy on the island. Inhabitants share their mainland French compatriots' fear
of illness and love of a well-stocked pharmacy above all else. Consequently,
even the most flea-bitten towns have brand new chemists, complete with shiny,
sliding doors and the latest anti-cellulite advertising from Paris.
We've been living in our own personal Martinique
for the past few days, far from such distractions. Yesterday, we navigated
between great coral reefs to find our way into Treasure Bay, just east of
Gallion Bay. Close to where we dropped the hook, a gallion bearing huge riches
was reputed to have been lost - whether in stormy conditions or by running onto
the coral chased by pirates, noone knows. Yet bounty hunters from around the
world have tried their luck here; all to no avail... so far.
We didn't light upon any doubloons. In fact, we
could see little at all because the bay is fringed by mangroves, making the
water cloudy. But once the sun went down, we were the only souls for miles,
surrounded by inky blackness and the warbled croaking of a million frogs,
crickets and nocturnal insects hiding among the mangrove
roots.
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