Suite Martiniquaise: blog d'un retour au pays natal

#4 Music

Martiniquan music follows the same general processes of other music of the African diaspora, with perhaps the main difference being the French influence. The basic rhythm is an interpretation of the 3 in a 3-2 clave (I don't know if there's a proper name for it) that's found in calypso and central African music, for example. It's also prominent on David Murray's second Creole Project album Yonn Dé (which is excellent, by the way. I haven't heard the first. I've heard a bit of the new one, Gwotet which sounds good, but is much more funk-oriented. Yonn dé captured the atmosphere of a film like La Rue Case Nègres extremely well, I thought (let's ignore the fact that the film was made in Martinique), with Guy Konket as griot. On Gwotet Konket is much less present, with the guitar taking a major role).

So the oldest sources of modern Martiniquan music are the rural bèlè (very African, drum- and call-and-response-based) in which, despite the percussive density, the basic 3-accent beat is audible and various forms of French "light music", such as biguines, quadrilles and mazurkas (a creole mazurka is pretty far removed from a Chopin mazurka!). Influences have continued to aggregate: jazz and dancehall (more so than rap). One particularly incredible amalgam of all (or most) of this is to be found in the group Malavoi. There, a rhythm section laid down the syncopated beat, the excellent Paolo Rosine brought in jazz and classical influences on piano and the mid-sized string section completed this with the French tradition evoked above. The Martiniquan violin sound is less histrionic (vibrato-laden and statospheric) than the classical violin, but also less wild than American or Irish fiddling traditions (I don't think there's much, if any, double string playing, for example). It's a nice middle point. Singers such as Ralph Thamar came in on some tunes. If you can get a double disc best of, I highly highly highly recommend it. The son of Malavoi's founder recently created his own group, Mahogany, which extends the defunct Malavoi's concept, by adding a horn section, broadening the influences to Cuban music and beefing up the arrangements. The self-titled debut is a bit uneven and perhaps less catchy than Malavoi, but still good.

Stepping outside of the Martiniquan realm, we went to see France's latest r'n'b sensation, Corneille (in brief: Rwandan, parents killed during genocide as he hid behind sofa, flees to Canada, sings about his life, becomes superstar). I think that it was the first time that my whole family (all four of us) had been to a concert together and probably the first "screaming girl fan" concert I'd ever been to. I'd seen Corneille on TV singing a Sam Cooke song extremely well, so even though I didn't know any of his songs, I was somewhat interested. He began with "Redemption Song" and ended with two Marvin Gaye songs. The rest of the time he played his own songs, providing an interesting quick overview of 30 years of evolution of soul singing, in a nutshell from warm and tuneful to colder and a bit tuneless. Still, he played a new song (or so he said) that turned out to be my favourite, with an afro-funk feel.

Returning to the Martiniquan realm, a highly recommended CD is that of Mario Canonge, Rhizome. The pianist invites a somewhat lacklustre Roy Hargrove on a great caribbo-boogaloo track, but otherwise mainly takes the lead, with heavy percussive backup. Great pianist.

OK, now this damn suite is done. Finally.

#3 Food

Is 25 too old to go on holiday with your family? While I'm asking questions, here's an unrelated one: is it just the trip to Mexico or is On The Road truly better appreciated away from home? I ask the first question as a tangent to the phrase I initially wanted to begin this post with.

One of the main reasons to look forward to going to Martinique is the food. I'm not a seafood fan, so there will be no discussion of crabs, lobsters, sea urchins or the like.

Let's start with the basics. Red beans, possibly with rice, preferably with manioc flour. Because the flour is in some senses tastier than the rice, but also because obtaining exactly the right beans-to-sauce-to-flour ratio adds a bit of artistry to the dish. This can be accompanied by yams and dachines. The two are almost always together, I think for aesthetic (the former are grey and generally cut into rough pentagons or hexagons, the latter yellow and more small potato-shaped) and textural (yams are crumbly, dachines a bit buttery) reasons. And why not throw some breadfruit in there too. Cod (but I prefer the French word morue) or meat completes the dish.

Boudin. Blood, guts and the pepper. It's only when I arrived in Europe that I discovered that people considered black sausage a bit disgusting. Perhaps, but maybe their's isn't as good as ours? Squeeze out the boiled blood with a fork, scoop it onto a piece of bread or mix it with something else on your plate (rare, as it's mostly eaten as an entré), swallow. Another top entré: marinades, also known as accras, small balls of batter mixed with cod and fired to be slightly crunchy on the outside, chewy on the inside.

There are lots of great dishes, quiches and other delicacies, but let's skip to dessert and pastries. Chocolat et pain au beurre. Chocolate and butter-bread. Might not sound like much, but those 5 words have almost magical powers. Both homemade, the chocolate reminds you that Nesquik is an ersatz. Thick and dark, with a thin skin of milk forming on top after a while. My mother's has a heavy dose of peanut butter, others' vary. The bread is traditionally braided into a large empty square, with intricate "flowers" at each corner. Most people simply dip the bread into the chocolate, I put mine in and push all the air out with a spoon, for maximum soakage.

Banana jam is the best jam in the world. It's a counter-intuitive red. Goyava jam isn't bad either, pink and drier. Both can be found in the corresponding pâtés. There are many others, coconut-based for example, but alongside chocolate, my favourite desert is flan coco. When my mother made this, there were always two: a smooth one in the deep round mold with a hole in the middle and a grainy one in the shallow, no-hole mold. When we moved to France and I first saw flan listed as desert at the shcool cafeteria, I got excited. I all-too-quickly discovered that the French had a different - and passably disgusting - conception of flan: flan au caramel. I couldn't eat more than a spoonful or two of the stuff. I've come to accept the idea, but there's still only one real flan.

#2 Nature

Martinique is a hilly island with 400,000 inhabitants. There's a highway featuring round-the-clock traffic jams, but you have abandoned cars being reclaimed by vegetation to look at to pass the time. There are no trains but there are old buses and unreliable boats mascarading as public transportation.

The hills are called mornes. The newer roads are straighter, imposing their will on the environment. The older roads snake up and down. When building a house, the disadvantage is that you're most likely to be on a slopey plot. The advantage is that a well-situated slopey plot gives you an awesome, kilometers-long view. Higher than the hills is the Montagne Pelée, a volcano that last erupted in 1902, razing the city of Saint-Pierre and famously leaving a prisoner under thick fortifications as lone survivor.

There's the Atlantic side and the Carribbean side. The former is wilder, with black sand beaches, colder water and dangerous currents. The latter is more swimmer- and lounger-friendly. The Carribbean side decisively shaped my opinion of what a sea was: small, curved beaches with white-ish sand, blue water and brown seaweed. Hence my enduring repulsion at the idea of bathing at Brighton Beach. Some beaches have little bits of mangrove. These used to be considered foul mosquito breeding grounds. Later, too much later, their ecological importance was recognised.

One of the first animals I met was a red and black crab, affectionately known as a loulou. He tried to run (or side-scramble) away through the grass, but when I got close to him he stopped and confronted me. He spread his claws wide and seemed to be saying You want some of this, ese?, just like a Latino gangster from Los Angeles. I don't know where a Martiniquan crab would have picked that up from. There are also fireflies, known more elegantly in french as lucioles and awesome red dragonflies, which are called an overly cutesy libellule.

As my father and I walked down Fort-de-France's sea front, schools of small fish suddenly appeared out of the water like a bad rash, looking and sounding like they'd been dropped on a hot skillet.

In the late afternoon, the symphony of frogs and crickets starts up. It's not something that starts or ends: at some point you realise that it has started, but can't know how long it has been going on; it stops during your sleep. The frogs provide a continuous, undulating and mellifluous texture, which the crickets overlay with their shrill high-pitched drones. If I knew anything about Minimalism, I'd probably draw a comparaison. Feel free to do so now, if you have such knowledge.

Among other things, there are plants whose leaves close when you touch them and at night when they go to sleep.

#1 Departures
Getting off the Brussels-Paris Nord train, I spot two customs officers at the other end of the platform. I know they'll stop me. As they search through my suitcase, they launch pleasanteries at me, which I deflect with a smile and terse replies.

Where are you going?

Martinique.

Are you carrying narcotics?

No.

(jokingly) You'll be able to get everything you need over there anyway.

*smile*

The RER (subway lines that extend into the suburbs) takes me to the airport. Returning, there will be an incredibly beautiful café au lait-skinned woman - doubtless a model, as my neighbours on the subway will agree - waiting to take the RER. There will also be the interesting sight (but not sound) of a guy seemingly succesfully flirting with her. I will almost be able to see his brain furiously scrambling to come up with things to say to her. She will go sit next to him when the subway arrives. They will walk together when they get out at Paris-Nord. I will lose sight of them as he, realising that they are soon to separate, gets ready to ask for her phone number.

A small two-wagon conducterless train whisks me to the terminal. We go through tunnels lit only by lamps on the ceiling or on either side. It feels like a cross between an evil genius's underground lair and Indiana Jones, minus the boulder.

I get to the check-in counter. This is where Martinique begins. A massive line of variously coloured people, many luggin massive packages for the folks back home. Those who simply have too much overweight are seeking out fellow travellers with lighter loads. The family visits, the meals, the smells, the music and the beaches are almost tangible here, an Atlantic Ocean away.

Trickle-down theory works in the airline industry, if nowhere else. Since the last time I flew long-distance, individual TV screens have trickled to the back of the plane.