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The black sand beach (black because it exists underneath a volcano which once erupted, thus turning the sand black) has been the one beach which made me feel like the most tropical fish on this island. The water was so clear and blue, and the sand, finely running through my toes, was as black as the night sky, it was almost unbelievable. 

In this moment, I felt why my presence was summoned to this island. I was asked here for many reasons. 

The first, was to put myself into the shoes of a Martiniquan and exist how they exist. For 3 weeks, I had to simply figure it out. I had to learn the nooks and crannies of this place forgetting that I was American.

The second was to take on experiences that are not easily accessible for every person. I kayaked, I hiked the tropical rainforest, I woke up to a tropical, Caribbean beach right outside my window. I lived a life you see in movies, and I am so grateful for the opportunity. 

The third was to feel like a beautiful fish (and possibly see some). I endured ocean life for myself. I interacted with the life which survived strong tides daily dodged death constantly. I swam in the blue waters of these beautiful beaches multiple times a week. I was a fish. 

I asked myself daily, “Is America as a whole more privileged, or this appearance we see of Martinique their idea of privilege?” This has been a question I have had for my duration of residence on the island. Should I feel bad for what I see, or is there anything to even feel bad for? The first two weeks, I felt like I was brought here to feel humble about my situation, but as I drive more through the cities of this place, I see that everything looks the same. Is there not a Beverly Hills to Compton contrast here? Or is there and we just can’t tell because our cultures are so different?

I would be interested in seeing how different my life would be, or how different I would feel, if I grew up here from childbirth. I would then see be able to base my experiences on existence for a lifetime versus existence for a month. 

Are the fish here in Martinique different than the fish in the United States? Is one fish better than the other, or are the waters simply different and the fish are equally yolked? 

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Thursday evening, I called my mommy (aka my best friend) and told her that I had literally almost died that morning. When she asked me how, I told her in a  kayak!!! 

It was my first time ever riding in a kayak and while I am exaggerating, it was the best experience of my life, aside from all of the other ones I have been living on this trip. Anyway, I rode in a kayak that day. To my surprise, my skill of this tool I had never used before (called a paddle) was amazing! I ended up in the middle of the ocean! 

That is how I almost died.

It was windy that day; it was hard to paddle against the waves with the wind fighting me, but I managed to make it work and had so much fun doing it! There were often a few times I got left by the pro-kayaker (Emilee), and she had to come save me because there were a couple of times I really just almost died. Some of our friends actually ended up in the water, haha (Christian and Andrew).  

That day, I also visited La Baraqu’Obama for the second time this trip (yes, the food was that amazing that I needed it a second time). The owner literally loves Wildcats Abroad! We had an incredible dinner, again! Except this time, we got dessert and I am not talking about cake and ice cream. The man opened his closed bar for the 7 of us to blast music for about fifteen minutes and simply enjoy life. It was so much fun. He even sent us on our walk back with 2 liter Chanflor bottles and a plan for the next night (but we did not go). That was one night worth getting dressed up for, in addition to our Fort-de-France adventure, which was also interesting. Here, I’ll tell you...

For my Los Angeles people, the clubs are NOT the same; in fact, they are not even close to being the same. The first club we went to had about twenty people inside, no entry fee, and so much Caribbean-style music (which was not a problem at all since I am a pro at Caribbean dancing now). You could walk right in the club without paying a cent and enjoy the music and dancing all night. The second club we visited was even more interesting than the first. This one was more personal. Everyone was practically on top of everyone and the sweat shifted down my back like the waterfall I visited at that gorge. There was a pool table in the middle of the dance floor and the guys looked at us like dogs look at a piece of meat. It was interesting.

We left that club and went back to the first because I am sure none of us wanted to be treated like dog meat. 

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As we approach the end of the program, I can't help but recall my first few moments on the island. I hopped off of the plane and looked around thinking, “Where am I?” There was so much green around me. I rode the bus to my home for the next four weeks, shaky and rocky from side to side. I constantly wondered if there were driving rules in this town because there have been plenty of occasions where I knew I would die being on these buses. 

I walked from where the bus dropped me off dragging my luggage, clenching my purse and carry on as I was introduced to the beautiful island of St. Luce. My new home had the most perfect view of the beach. And then I was able to set foot in the sand. The way my toes felt against the natural grain of the island was outstanding. I breathed in Martinique’s fresh air and recalled why I was here.

I was given the opportunity to experience a life I have never known before. I was chosen to expand my knowledge of the world and learn about this country’s secrets, and I have learned a lot!

In the beginning, my heart was broken to have to leave my family; I actually shed a tear because my siblings are my world. You would think I would be used to leaving them by now being all the way in Arizona for college, but I actually had a very hard time. Imagine being in a house where you get no sleep because one baby is crying, the other one wants his cars at 10 AM, and the other completely idolizes you so she knocks on your door hoping you are already awake. It sounds like a mad house, don't get me wrong, but the life I live is so beautiful; I could not ask for a different one. Imagine having to leave that to go into a new situation when family is all you know. 

As I maneuvered through this trip, I accepted my gift of growth. Me taking part in this program satisfied growth in multiple ways:

1. I grew out of a state of fear. I often feared study abroad because of my fear to try new things and expand my horizons. I feared coming into a new situation where I knew NO ONE and wondering if they would like me or not. I feared adapting to a lifestyle which was not mine: washing my clothes in a sink, figuring out how to eat and get around, speaking the language of the country which I was in... 

2. I grew as a person. Coming into a large group means adapting to many personalities, some that do not agree with yours and some that do. As for the ones that did not, I was forced to accept that I am different and I was born to be different. Disagreements allowed me grow and accept that all actions do not need reactions simply because we do not agree. 

3. I’m also pretty sure I grew in size...

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I feel like I’ve tried a lot of oddly sounding things before in my 21 years of living:

Zucchini was one. It sounded so weird when I first heard it; I was not putting anything that I couldn't spell in my mouth! Plot twist: it turned out to be one of my favorite vegetables.

Horchata was something else where I vowed “no way José”. Say “horchata” three times fast... Not something that sounds consumable. But, of course, I love it. 

My mom once made me Mexican lasagna and I thought in my head, “What in the world is she thinking?!” It turned out to be enchiladas but instead of tortillas, they were cooked with lasagna noodles. How fun! That ended up being delicious; sometimes I even cook it myself now.

Okay. Now french fry pizza. No, I definitely did not order it this way. Or maybe I did. Anywho, this is how Martinique has been so far. “Pizza et frites” turned into “pizza aux frites” and then the frites ended up cooked into the pizza. I was as lost as the woman who took my order. She looked like she wanted to say, “You dumb American”, but she politely smiled and made my french fry pizza which I definitely did NOT eat. This is that one odd sounding thing that just was not pleasant. I already don't like my food touching, and then we have frites that ended up IN my pizza. 

Croissants and bananas might be the only non-oddly sounding thing I have eaten on this trip (in addition to the PB&Js everyday). La BaraquObama (best name ever, right?!) happened to cook me the BEST Caribbean chicken wings. Thank God they didn't put my fries in my chicken! I probably would have lost my mind. 

It is surprisingly very difficult to find good food on this island, unfortunately. I was so excited to eat “French-Caribbean” food, whatever that entails, but to no avail. I have eaten McDonald’s about five times since I have been here (which scares me because I do not even think about that as an option back home), and I sleep off sautéed potatoes nightly (which are actually very tasty when you think about it). I am anxious to find cultured food. WHERE ARE YOU?! I have about 7 days left on this wonderful adventure and no culture food! 

Wa gwan?

I had a crepe, though. Boy was that crepe delightful! A thick crepe filled and topped with Nutella and caramel. YUM! I wonder what frites in a crepe would taste like... I would be better off putting the frites in the pizza first before I put them in a crepe. Odd. 

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Reading about a tragedy is tragic; but try physically placing yourself in the spot where the tragedy occurred. Scary right? Try writing down the first 3 words that come to your head when you hear the word slave: lynching, plantation, chambers. Our history is so sugar-coated, it’s annoying, however, we are fully aware about what happened on this beautiful, yet dark piece of land. Secluded trees for lynchings, stepping foot on the plantation itself, climbing in what was this small, hard-to-stand-up-in box made specifically for “keeping slaves”. To know that my kind died in these boxes is what almost brought up my croissant and banana breakfast. I could not stomach the thought of touching the walls which once witnessed the wretched events that took place on this land.

To see so many “warehouses” and “factories”, whose name was given so nonchalantly, triggered emotions I never would have thought I would have by simply reading a book. I closed my eyes and I could smell death. I could smell fear and misery. My heart ached for these “workers” who were treated less than people. I could see brown humans scurrying to get their work done so they would not be yelled at. I could hear the gunshots and the cries of families when one of their own was taken from them. Do you get all of this from a book? I think not. I am not even sure if one would get it from my thoughts.

I looked at the trees which had aerial roots hanging from them. Sound familiar? Strange fruit once hung from those trees, and now aerial roots. Interesting. This also blew me. I looked at the roots and saw my brothers and sisters struggling as they took their last breath.

Frantz Fanon. You my friend have a goal which should be put into motion. We do not truly understand the depth of our history with details so watered-down and sugar-coated. Our history should be delivered to us the way our beatings were: straight to the point and with no mercy for our feelings.

Dear Mr. Trump,

CHANGE TEXTBOOKS!!!!!

Like, why does our history say so little about what happened to our kind? Why does yours and everyone else’s say so much? Why does it take for us to have to do our own research to find out why there are racial divides between people of all shades? Why must we debate on removing a month specifically dedicated to us because others feel “offended”? White history month is every month! Tell us about what your people did to us, and do not leave out the gory details for whatever reason seems logical to you.

June 1st tore me apart. STAY WOKE.

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Mone takes the Fort (and experiences May 22nd)! Surprisingly, slavery did exist on this island. But on the 22nd of May in the year 1848, slavery was seized and this day became a dedication to the abolition of the act. As a public holiday, everything closes and the day is dedicated to celebrating freedom. As we walked the beach that night, we celebrated and danced all evening with hundreds of locals on this very special day.

This is Martinican territory: not blacks, not whites, not the French, but Martinican. These locals are made up of many different ingredients and shall not be identified as anything other than Martinican, as Suzanne Dracius would say.

And of course, Christopher Columbus tried to say it was he who discovered these beautiful islands, but he did not. It was the peoples of the Arawak and the Carib (hence, Caribbean) who began to write the Caribbean’s history, not Columbus.

Anyway, I am guilty of initially having stereotypical first impressions. When I first heard “French Caribbean”, I did not picture what I have been experiencing since I stepped foot off of the plane. I did not picture what I now know as Martinican. The residents of this gorgeous island have beautiful, flawless, brown skin and when they open their mouths, the French language pours out so gracefully. It leaves me in awe. And after learning who they are and why they are who they are, I fall even more in love. These feelings make me wish I could understand them and respond to what they ask me. Of course they have been speaking this love language since they were young kids, so it would take me a lifetime, but overall, my fascination runs deep.

As a department of France, you would think that the only language must be French. False. Being residents of the “French” and the “Caribbean”, Creole tends to be an additional language which if taken to France, France and spoken, these beautiful Martinicans will be looked down on. In fact, Creole is so terrible in France that it is forbidden in schools and will not be taught in households, unless you are a Martinican, of course.

Back to the beautiful Martinicans for a sec: one Martinican whom I met, not as beautiful as the rest, was Mr. Chafer. In fact, we met my very first night on this magnificent island, and he [probably unintentionally] freaked me out! He broke into my bedroom and practically chased me out of there! He is one Martinican I would not mind never seeing again.

Side note: how do you cure a Starbucks-addiction headache with no Starbucks in sight?

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Martinique - France (by Karolina Lubryczynska)

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Yesterday, I had an amazing, tasty pasta made of lime, ginger, and seafood!

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Fort-de-France - Martinique (by Karolina Lubryczynska) 

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Troisiéme jour

I think its mainly interesting to know that there are so many people who look like me who speak no English! That was my first impression. My first moment off the plane, we walked the beach and saw a bunch of families who could be from where I am from, but are different from me. I get excited to hear them speak their language as I feel they are interested to hear us speak ours. It makes you want to learn how to adjust, specifically how to speak how they speak. 

The jump to get up and study abroad was definitely one I had to take without thinking about, but I think the experience is going to be beneficial in so many ways. I am excited to learn the basics of French, more of what they eat, more about their culture in general.