A story about tourism

Into town this morning for pastries and coffee, and to watch the comings and goings of the locals and day trippers alike. Daytrippers, you say? To a sleepy island like Marie-Galante? Yes - we observed their patterns yesterday on our way to Murat, when we arrived in time for the 10 am rush of tour buses and minibuses and tour groups everywhere. They are the same people that we saw in the centre of town just a bit earlier the same morning, dressed in bathing suits and cover-ups, browsing the stalls at the market. They have come in on the morning ferry. They will visit a history element in the morning, as seen at Chateau Murat, stop for lunch at some beachside restaurant, maybe in Saint-Louis, then invade a poor, unsuspecting beach somewhere, before getting bused back to the Port, and the Ferry to Pointe-à-Pitre. Likely to an awaiting cruise ship.

So this morning, we sit here, watching the show. Next to us at the cafe, three americans discuss their shopping plans and what they need to pick up for dinner. Behind me, I can hear the unmistakable accent of a Quebecois, deciding whether to include tuna in their pasta salad for lunch. In front, I watch locals line up at thebank, waiting for it to open. The door is still closed. Meanwhile, I sip my coffee and write postcards about fish.

Planning to while away the hours on the beach today, we pass by the bokits stall near the sports complex, the one where all the highschool kids line up for lunch. We get two of the tasty fried bread sandwiches, stuffed with codfish and cheese and the tangy-yet-spicy sauce chien inside. We return to the rental apartment for bathing suits, flipflops, snorkels and towels, load up the car and then head further north. We drive past Saint-Louis, past Belle-Hôtesse, past the hiking trail that criss-crosses the road, up to Plage Moustique, in search of something different.

Plage Moustique was long and empty and beautiful on our hike 2 days ago, and it still is, most of the morning's sunbathers having gone home for lunch by now. What we noticed less while hiking, but more while lounging, is how strong the wind is, and how intense the waves are. Now, lying on a towel on the beach, the sand is whipping around, sticking in the sunscreen that coats my skin. I don my mask to test out the waves, and thankfully my water shoes too, as the water is full of little shells, lumpy but pounded smooth by the surf. Further, the sandy, shelly floor gives way to rough limestone, falling into small clefts where fish take refuge from the strong current. The waves push and pull me around - swimming is hard. The waves splash at me, filling my breathing tube, and my mouth, with salt. Eventually, I relent to the power of the ocean, and return to shore, winded and defeated.

We do stay a bit longer at Plage Moustique, snacking on one of the bokit sandwiches, searching for bits of colourful beach glass among all those shells, listening to the waves run along them like a big, bubbly percussion instrument. This beach has its perks, but today, Mario and I are looking for relaxation, so we shake our towels free of sand and move on to Trois Îlets. 

Fish-spotting of the day?
A Lionfish, with long dorsal fins

Calm, serenity, tranquility, waves to float on, waters to glide through, and fish to see: this is the  beach at Trois Îlets, and this is why it has become our favorite beach on the island of Marie-Galante. The daily boat tour is anchored next to the beach, its day-trippers from Saint-Francois hiding in the shade of the raisinier trees for lunch. Our go-to spot, in a little grove of trees, is free, so we settle in, and I nap, and Mario naps, and we eat that second bokit, and we snorkel or just listen as the soft waves lap at the fine, sandy shore. 

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Thought of the day: There's nothing better after a day at the beach, covered in sand and salt and sunscreen and sweat, that a cool, refreshing shower, and a soft, clean dress to put on afterwards. 

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Our last evening here, so we leave the beach a little earlier than usual, and head to Roussel-Trianon, to the vestiges of an old sugar refinery and plantation, for sunset. The air is cool, and the sun, low in the sky, lights of the ruins with a warm, golden glow. A couple of people walk around the large site, but otherwise, we are alone, sitting high in one of the doorways of the old windmill. If I were to plan a tour on this island, I would bring people here, teach them the history of the place, let them explore the ruins, then have them come and sit above everything, enjoy the breeze blowing through, watching the sunset, and maybe even sipping on a Ti'Punch. It would make the moment that much sweeter.

Artsy shot of a rusted out distillation stack

Chicken from Henry's Grill

Mario and I head into town, to get some of Henry's chicken just once before we leave this island. Like last time, we plan to place our order, then wander about town, browse the shops that are still open, or are just opening for the night, maybe pick up some vegetables for a salad - basically waste an hour of time before heading back to picking up our chicken, hopefully timing it just right to not have to wait too long. We arrive, I order two legs, Henry askes if we want sauce...then he takes two legs from a chafing dish on the counter, wraps them in foil with a generous squirt of his own creamy sauce chien, drops the package into a small bag and hands it over. I am caught totally off guard. Normally we have to WAIT - we watch other clients get impatient, we laugh as Henry tells them off or makes them sit back down to wait, we pet the stray cats that hang around...it's a whole routine. This is great service, but also confusing.  

The only thing I can figure is that Henry has managed to streamline his business. His big woodfire grill is now replaced by two smaller, but more efficient, smokers out back. It seems that his wife and daughter are now present in the kitchen with him, where once he was always working alone. And he is smiling as he takes our order, not scowling at all the impatient people trying to jump the line. It's nice to see. Good for him.