An American in Martinique
The volcanic island of Martinique lies nestled in the curve of the Antilles islands, not too far from more touristed tropics like Barbados and St. Lucia—but I found it hard to find much information about the country when I snagged a cheap ticket on Norwegian Air to this French overseas territory. That’s largely because American tourists have come mostly in the form of cruise ship passengers stopping at Fort-de-France on day excursions, never seeing much more than the capital city. As a travel planning fanatic, not having updated guidebooks or extensive TripAdvisor reviews in English made me a bit wary, but also excited to explore.
I arrived in Martinique on New Year’s Eve and my AirBnB host immediately initiated me into her family with champagne, French cheese, and homemade chocolate mousse. Martinique has virtually no public transportation to speak of, so I chose a rental in the town of Le Diamant, where I could walk just a block to the beach. Diamant is a sleepy little slip of a town, but provided everything I needed for a tropical getaway: a tremendous French bakery, snack shacks overlooking the ocean, and a couple of miles of beautiful beach.
Waking up on New Year’s Day, I knew the town would be quite quiet, so I took advantage to relax on the beach with a book and a few industrious ghost crabs burrowing briskly in the sand next to me. With so many places closed for the holiday, I was lucky to find Pam, a friendly woman cooking up a fragrant feast in a truck near the ocean. I eagerly ordered fresh panfried dorado accompanied by gratin aux christophines, a starch not unlike potatoes. I dug into my lunch hungrily, taking shelter from the whipping winds on a nearby plastic picnic table with my paper plate groaning under the weight of my island bounty. A stray tortoiseshell cat wound its way around my legs, and I couldn’t resist tossing it some of my fish scraps. Like me, it was alone and just hoping for a good meal.
I was constantly surprised by the goodwill and kindness of Martinicans, despite the language barrier. As I finished my fish, a friendly family sitting next to me wished me a happy New Year and inquired about where I was from. After a brief exchange in my faltering French, the father walked away, and came back moments later with a small espresso for me. Such a hospitable gesture from perfect strangers.
The next day found me traversing the north of the island with Meri, a fantastic guide I found online. Meri came to Martinique by way of Finland, so she speaks fluent French and English (those overachieving Scandinavians!) We hurtled around the volcanic north, visiting the beautiful botanical Jardin de Balata, the ruins of St. Pierre and the volcano that caused them, and a rhum agricole distillery where I tasted rum made from freshly squeezed sugar cane juice. Meri and I became fast friends as we discussed everything from politics to reality tv over a Creole lunch of breadfruit soup and coconut ice cream. We rounded out the day by taking a sunset dip in the ocean, then zipping back along the twisty roads, singing along to Bob Dylan at the top of our lungs.
One of the benefits of using Airbnb became apparent the following day when my host graciously invited me on a boat trip with her fisherman friend Bébêche. We piled into the small boat with a bunch of other Frenchies, and Bébêche ferried us out to a small sand bank where we were all invited to hop out and wade in the warm Caribbean while drinking planteur punch and snacking on accras, fried cod fritters. After having our fill, we sped to a private beach where my new French friends and I swung in hammocks, splashed about, and, most importantly, feasted on fresh-caught grilled langoustines, rice and beans, plantains, and chilled rosé wine. I didn’t speak a word of English that day, and was grateful for my years of French study, upon which I was desperately drawing from as I grasped for the words that had escaped me in the years since I last opened a textbook.
For my final day in Martinique, I waited in line for a flaky pain au chocolat, which would be my fuel for a hike to Cap 110, a moving memorial of statues symbolizing the men and women who perished in a 19th century slave shipwreck. Alone in the small park, I gazed out over the sea along with the brooding statues, thinking about the darker side of Martinique, deeper than the colorful flowers and aquamarine seas and head-fuzzying rhum.
Martinique felt like having two vacations in one: The glittering sea fun of the Caribbean with the incomparable food of France, plus a complex history to dig into. As tourism inevitably ramps up with the new Norwegian flights, I hope Martinique remains a haven for Francophiles, giving us a reason to dust off our phrasebooks and forget about English for a while.
