Martinique

More than anything, more than the culture shock when I first arrived in Martinique, the suffocating humidity, the incessant catcalls of the men everywhere in the streets, the tendency of everyone to burst into Creole n’importe quand, the disorganization and inefficiency and lack of public transport here, I found it hard to get used to the pace of life.

In general, I like to be busy. Thrive on it, even. As Alice put it before, the American in me wanted to go, go, go.

The attitude towards work was most surprising. I meet people all the time who tell me, oh, I never work Fridays or Tuesdays. (Can be substituted for Mondays or Thursdays. Or Wednesday mornings. Et cetera.) Martiniquan people work much, much less than their metropolitan counterparts. And all the métros I talk to here tell me they don’t miss France at all. Which completely boggled my mind at first. How could you not miss the (semi-) efficiency, organization, and diversity of the good old Hexagone?

But, as one collège prof I met told me, I work eighteen hours a week at school (considered full-time for a teacher here), and three more at home. And on the weekends, I get to go to bivouacs and go surfing and canyoning and kayaking, sans souci. “La vie est douce ici,” another métro told me. Indeed.

Once I asked another métro how the heck this island is still up and running when it seems like no one works at all. He told me that it’s kind of a national attitude. People here aren’t married to their careers the way they are in America. Work is something that they do just enough of to get by; instead, they prioritize things like leisure time, family time, even old-fashioned pastimes, like sewing and cooking and cleaning. And with that attitude comes inefficiency, things happening slowly (or not at all), long lines, and stuff closing at five every day (and at noon on Saturdays). But everyone’s just accepted, decided even, that that’s simply the way it’s going to be here.

And after almost five months, I can kind of see the point. I’m finally starting to appreciate how lovely it is here, to live simply, amongst nature, free of worry and constant stress over school, to have the time to read for pleasure, to not have to think at all before going to a social event (Do I really have time to do this?).

I also (knock on wood) haven’t gotten sick since I’ve come to Martinique, even though, relatively speaking, I’m sleeping and eating rather poorly here. (My bed isn’t very comfortable, and the Caribbean diet is pretty meat and starch-heavy.)

At Berkeley, on the other hand, I was averaging about two colds a semester. My friends marveled at how I could get sick so much. But I know now not to underestimate the effects of stress on your well-being. I think people in America are aware of this, too, deep down. But it’s our national attitude that you have to work hard to get ahead, and be the best at your career. Job stress and workaholism are rampant, a part of everyone’s daily life. We’re almost enslaved by it. There’s no escaping it.

So, to get to the real point here, I’ve been thinking a lot about going to med school next year and what it will mean.

I’m excited to be busy again, of course. But when else in my life will I ever get to take a hike through the tropical rainforest with sweeping ocean views and mountain views and butterflies stunning balisier flowers on a Wednesday morning?

Les Pitons du Carbet

Papillon, Boucle d'Absalon

Balisier

Or go on an adventure, all by myself, to the Jardin de Balata, in the winding hills north of Fort de France, to see orchids and hibiscus and porcelain roses and walk on rickety bridges amongst the trees on a Tuesday afternoon just because school was on strike?

Or spend literally the entire weekend at the beach, bivouac-ing with assistants and splashing through the waves at dusk and watching the moon rise over the Atlantic?

[Supposed to be another picture here but Blogger is acting up]

Martinique has been an adventure, to say the least, filled with the most dramatic ups and downs I think I've ever experienced, at least in awhile. But now, just as I’m approaching the end of my stay -- just five weeks left here after the Vacances de Carnaval is over -- I can honestly say that I’ll miss it when I go. Really and truly. But it’s always like that, isn’t it? When you don’t fully appreciate a place until right as you’re about to leave?