St. Pierre and the Worst/Funniest Part of the Trip

Day 2 in Martinique, we started out our morning at Village Pomme Canelle on the town of Le Precheur. We had breakfast in their lovely dining area, overlooking the pool and the Caribbean sea.

I wish all hotels did breakfast this way! Fresh fruit from the orchard, pain au chocolat, croissants, fresh made juice, eggs, hot chocolate, and spicy pickled peppers.

The kids begged and I relented, they visited the pool one more time before check out.

Then we made the short drive to the town of St. Pierre just a few miles to the south. St Pierre has a very interesting and tragic history. It was called the Paris of the Caribbean, the cultural and economic center of Martinique, until 1902.

 

St. Pierre is now a smallish town built around the ruins of the old town, and this small museum tells the story of the tragedy that destroyed St. Pierre and all the people in it.

In the spring of 1902, Mont Pelee started showing signs of volcanic activity. For months it dropped ash and smoke lanced with lightning on the nearby farms a villages. All the signs of an imminent eruption, only no one had really studied volcanoes at this point. People fled those smaller villages and farms and came to St. Pierre, which many perceived as safely distant from the ash, smoke, and lava.

As the volcano continued acting up, many wanted to flee farther away, but there was an election coming up. The politicians didn't want anyone to leave town before they'd voted, so people were forced to stay in St. Pierre. All told, about 28,000 people were in St. Pierre the morning of May 8, 1902 when a massive eruption sent pyroclastic flow down the mountain side. St. Pierre was totally destroyed. A few people on the fringes of the cloud survived, but were badly burned. The only survivor in St. Pierre proper was Louis-Auguste Cyparis, who survived because he was in an underground, windowless prison.

The museum contains artifacts and remnants of St. Pierre recovered after the eruption, as well as stories of the people and daily life of the town. The audio guide kept even Paul and Laszlo captivated. The most remarkable things to me were the "materiel organique" pictured above. Rice, bread, cheese, noodles, and lentils all turned to rock by the sudden heat.

This was the deadliest volcanic eruption since Krakatau and deadliest of the 20th century. The study of volcanology began here, because a few people wanted to ensure this tragedy was not repeated. Pyroclastic flow was an unknown at the time, and is even now sometimes referred to as Pelean after this eruption.

After the eruption, St. Pierre was never restored to her former glory. Fort de France had a better port, so it became the defacto economic center of the island. Another deadly eruption followed that same year in August, killing nearly 3,000 more. That was the last deadly eruption of Mont Pelee to date.

After the museum, Lee and I walked the boys over to the remains of the old theater. It was so much bigger than I thought it would be.

Right next to the theater is the prison complex and the the cell that saved Cyparis's life.

He was badly burned but survived inside this little cell and, as I understand it, became something of a celebrity. I hear he even ended up in the states with Barnum and Bailey's circus at one point.

After the little bit of walking around in the heat, the kids were pretty sure they were going to DIE. Lucky for them, we had some ice pops in the car. Lee took the van to pick up the grandparents in the van (the hills in town are a bit steep, so not great for poor Grandparent knees) and the boys and I cooled our feet in the ocean and ate popsicles.

It should be no surprise that St. Pierre has black sand from all that volcanic material.

After getting the sand off our feet, it was time to hit the road again.

We drove to the peninsula south of Fort de France called Trois Ilets. Martinique is not a big island, but it is very hilly and mountainous. This means twisty turny roads, lower speed limits, and quite a bit of traffic actually. It took over an hour to get to Trois Ilets where we had a late lunch, tried to check into our hotel (our rooms weren't quite ready) so we started the saga of doing laundry. 

There were two nearby-ish laundromats. We tried the first one and it was in a very happening area. Parking was a pain and then we ended up not being able to get the washing machine to work possibly it didn't accept cards, possibly they were also out of soap, or my French is terrible and I didn't get google translate on some important information. Either way, we tried somewhere else.

The second place was bigger, quieter, and had plenty of parking. It was also directly adjacent to a pizza place. By the time our clothes were drying, it was dinner time and the smell of pizza was so tantalizing. The children feasted on Sprite, Fanta, and pizza while we finished the laundry and we headed back to our hotel, confident that we were going to get settled in and relax.

By that is not what happened. We got back and I couldn't find my room key. It wasn't one of those cards, easily replaced at reception either. Reception was closed and it was an actual, real, metal key.

I was in a total panic, sent the kids and all our bags into Grandma and Grandpa's room, Lee and I drove off to retrace our steps. With phone flashlights we looked everywhere we'd been and found nothing.

Just when I was thinking this was so stressful that it would never in a million years be funny in hindsight, I realized where the key was. Like Dorothy, I had the key with me all the time. Not in my ruby red slippers, but tucked safely in my bra. You see, when we were heading out, my hands had been full and my bag not immediately accessible, plus no pockets in my dress, so I put it the only place I knew I wouldn't lose it with every intention of moving into my bag. Only I never got around to it. 

All I can tell you is that the second you say "this will never be funny," the heavens will open and an angelic voice will reply, "challenge accepted." 

 

We got comfortably settled into Courbaril Village in Anse L'Ane, and Paul complained that all the cartoons on TV were in French.