Guadeloupe: Between France And The Tropics (cont.)

Humidity seeps into my skin and into the buildings around me, as if filling them with Caribbean, tropical life, far from anything known on the European continent that this region belongs to. In fact the effects of the tropical heat and storms are clearly apparent. Beautiful Galois-inspired architecture is in the midst of erosion and streaked with black. Ironwork, twisted and curved to provide for balconies on upper apartments, look like saddened bodies, lined with rust. The existence of more orderly buildings adds to the visual distinction between new and old. A bright yellow painted church stands tall and proud on the edge of Place de la Victoire, the main square next to the other clean and immense French administrative buildings.

Palm trees line the square, which is well-groomed and tended to, in the typical French spirit. French style cafés with grand awnings line both sides of the square leading toward the water. Here the feel of France stops and the Caribbean starts as the well-kept feel of Place de la Victoire turns into the lively market. The smell of fresh fish is strong, with an undertone of ripe star fruit and bananas. Fishermen, their feet still wet from the salty water, discuss the day’s catch. Even as I continue into the fruit and vegetable section, the all-consuming odor is matched with the loud voices of local farmers and vendors selling their goods.

“Vous aimez l’ananas chéri?” (Do you like pineapple sweetheart?) the large woman in a brightly colored dress demands, her smile inviting, like the one of my own grandmother.

“Oui, mais je reviendrai plus tard.” I say I will come back later, knowing very well that this is normally my polite response, which inevitably means no. I do not want to disappoint her although I realize that her smile beaming towards me is not special; it is the same routine for any other tourist. Her pineapple will be sold to someone else in awe of the fresh tropical fruit.

Although I pass up the pineapple, I do stop to chat with a vendor of spices that are significantly more inexpensive, and above all more pungent, than any sold in this country’s various French supermarkets. She gives me her list of descriptions of each spice that she sells: vanilla by the stick, mustard seeds ready to the pulverized, colombe, used for making the Creole chicken specialty. The list goes on. I am tempted to buy one of each kind (the woman continues peaking my interest by running a new variety by my nose every time I look ready to settle); however, I decide on the combo pack for 3 euros and a bag of colombe, with a strong smell similar to curry.

Walking away from the market and out of Place de la Victoire, Pointe-à-Pitre quickly turns residential, with apartments so crammed together that they seem to spill over onto the streets. Dirty white buildings, falling apart from water damage, are squashed into tiny spaces. Some are beautifully constructed in the Creole style; others are approaching their death. I ask myself what these small, cramped living spaces must cost a month. Despite a high poverty level and a grave dependence on French subsidies for Guadeloupe’s daily existence, housing and living costs are similar and often higher than in the métropole.

As it is lunch time, most stores are closed; and people line up to food carts selling baguette sandwiches on the street. Cell phones ring while business is discussed, reminding me that despite the homeless dog across the street from me and the eroded sidewalks spanning the city, this is a society well into the technological age. With daily non-stop flights to Paris, French culture permeates Guadeloupe and its people on an everyday level. And somehow this culture manages to interweave itself with the Caribbean roots that are evident everywhere.

As I pass a boulangerie, I note that the awning, advertising undeniably French patisseries, is also written in the local language of Creole. On the same street as a national French bank there is an open storefront selling grilled chicken, cooked in the local manner. At the table sits an old man speaking with the female cook, I understand the half of the conversation which is in French, but the Creole half is lost on me. The combination, and sometimes the clash, of two cultures, never skips a beat.

I decide to return home shortly after lunch. My feet drag my body onto the bus. I am overwhelmed by the outside temperature as well as the sensory overload that defines this trip to the city. The bus meets me with a slightly less intense heat, but is filled with the smell of afternoon sweat. I notice that the eclectic mix of Guadeloupe and French pop music is still the sound of choice. As I sit down my head starts to nod, and I fall asleep instantly, somehow entranced by this dual cultural lullaby diffused from the speakers above.

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