We docked at Calvi sometime after three AM.
The travelling has been hellish on Connie who has gone into shock since her gunshot wound and is mumbling incoherently about fish and Grand Master Flash at regular intervals.
Francis, our depth defying harpoon toting half cock has decided to negotiate our flight across the island of Corsica and has planned a route which will take us through Calenzana, across the Niolo region to the port town of Aleria which sounds like an anal fungus but is apparently the jewel of this ancient isle.
After some scouting Francis returned with a guide, a small slightly balding man by the name of Jean-Baptiste. He smokes his sharoot and stares slightly off-centre with his contrasting coloured eyeballs. The man smells of refuse and shifts from foot to foot like he's in need of something. I don't trust the frog one iota.
As if his ad-hoc appearance weren't enough, it transpires that Jean-Baptiste has a lingering and almost Biblical stammer which runs (with no exaggeration) thus:
"Allo. My name ees Jean Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba-Ba" ad infinitum.
One half expects the man to break into BA BA BA BA- BABYBELL at any given moment. We soon learn his surname to be Baptiste which was cruelly displayed on a name badge on his cloth shirt, rendering his rap somewhat obsolete. An official guide it appears.
We managed to get a few coins for the boat and set off into the bustling town of Calvi in local dress. Connie limps along between Francis and myself. Captain Had-cock looks aslant at me when he thinks I'm not looking.
How the hell we're going to make it back into Europe with a bleeding woman, a mad Captain who reeks of halibut and stuttery Joe is anyones guess. I fear the worst.
31/08/06
Calvi.
