November rolls around with a biting cold and solidly overcast skies. Fortunately, the month also comes with a couple of public holidays, on top of the generous annual leave afforded by The University. Months in advance, I plan to take a break from the Belgian Autumn and head back to Portugal; one of my favourite European spots. It’s been almost three years since my last visit. I try to vary my location on each trip. I’m yet to know the Algarve region. At this time of year, it remains sunny and warm but at off-season prices. Still recovering from years of precarity, I keep it modest. I manage to find a very decent en suite accommodation deal, which ends up being even more economical than the flight.
I’ve decided to base myself in Faro; close to the airport for my morning return flight to Belgium. Apart from a walking tour, my itinerary will not be as ambitious as usual. As well as being friendlier on my budget, I want this to be more of a restful break. It’s been a hectic quarter so far. Too much running around and too many day trips tend to detract from the relaxation objective.
My direct flight touches down in Faro just before sunset; ahead of schedule, for a change. The weather is gorgeous. The only thing dragging on my mood is that the careless baggage handlers have damaged my hitherto near-pristine suitcase.
At the bus stop, a motley crew of us tourists attempt to work out the bus system. We're all heading to the terminus in Faro city. I briefly befriend an Austrian solo traveller, who’ll be taking an onward coach to Porto during the wee small hours. We part ways as I go in search of my accommodation. My printed Google Map instructions, as is so often the case, prove all but useless. On the bright side, I have the opportunity to practise my Portuguese when a very kindly local goes out of his way to help me locate my AirBnB. I ask if it’s a safe neighbourhood. Yes, he replies, before 10pm.
By now it's too dark to go exploring comfortably. After unpacking, I head out for what turns out to be especially dry pizza and retire to my temporary quarters. Based in a residential area, things can nonetheless get noisy. I’m awoken one night by a group having a loud conversation at stupid o’clock, followed not long afterwards by the sound of construction work.
The Arco da Vila (when not covered in building works) (image taken from Algarve Tips)
For the first full day of my break, I have purposefully chosen a walking tour that starts in the afternoon. I aim to enjoy a lazy morning, liberating myself from the guilt of not immediately exploring my surroundings. Having done a little research, I’ll leave the real exploration for later in the trip, to be done at a leisurely pace.
As a precaution, already noticing that the layout of Faro is confusing and the streets often not clearly marked, I give myself over an hour to locate the meeting place for the tour; the Arco da Vila. It’s supposedly meant to take roughly 10 minutes by foot. More like 40 minutes.
I won’t complain. The route is scenic. It's warm, with clear blue skies and there’s a romantic view of the marina. I notice that, like London and Brussels, Faro city is already kitted out for the festive season, albeit the Christmas lights are yet to be switched on.
I arrive at the Arco da Vila, in plenty of time for the tour. One of the city’s top landmarks, this 19th Century neoclassical arch is being renovated. Covered by scaffolding, it’s more of an eye sore at the moment than an attraction. A group of us gather, waiting for what we fear might be an errant tour guide. A young blond gentleman with dark glasses eventually manifests a few minutes late. He walks briskly, holding the signature red umbrella by which we’re supposed to recognise him.
We make our way through the sinewy streets of the old town. In between facts and figures, the guide tests our existing knowledge. He explains that the city layout was made deliberately confusing under Moorish rule, as a defence strategy. Monuments I’d read about now come to life, such as the Cathedral or the Igreja do Carmo; famous for its chapel composed of skeletons excavated from the grounds. I realise how strategic my accommodation is. The Chapel is a stone’s throw from where I’m staying.
There are also the amusing, if extraneous bits of trivia. Like in my old stomping ground of Strasbourg, storks abound in Faro. The birds build giant nests which can weigh up to 200-500 kg, potentially causing a lot of problems if they tumble. Yet, the city authorities do not permit their removal.
Igreja do Carmo (image: Visit Faro)
The group strolls through familiar streets in which I’ve already lost myself. It’s a charming couple of hours, even if I’m not best pleased with some of our guide’s politics. He makes less than favourable comments about the previous socialist government, apparently disgruntled they tried to prevent the proliferation of AirBnB and deter predatory property speculators. Having now been taken over by a right-wing administration more predisposed to this kind of investment, I don’t see how this improves the housing crisis. The conversation itself is sparked by a Scouser enquiring about the many abandoned buildings. I try to challenge the guide on some points, acutely aware that mainstream opinion is wont to discredit any economically-left leaning project. Notwithstanding the controversial circumstances in which former PM António Costa resigned, I should have made a stronger case for the things the administration did get right, such as acknowledging Portugal’s colonial crimes.
I am crowned the champion of the tour quiz. I ‘win’ the opportunity to hold the red umbrella in a photo I’d rather not take. We finish just before dusk. When I ask about the closest beach, the guide is kind enough to accompany me to a spot parallel to the railway line, overlooking the sea. It’s not a beach but it is a great vantage point for the sunset. The scene is enhanced tremendously by the intoxicating tones of Farah Audhali, on BlueLab Beat’s superb new single, Options pouring through my earphones.
I plan another evening of eating in. An online Quincy Jones tribute awaits me.
I pass by the local Auchan; a French supermarket chain that has apparently made notable in-roads in this part of Portugal.
En route to purchase supplies, I stumble across a duo - vocalist and guitarist - doing an acoustic cover of Jorja Smith’s Be Honest. It’s a curious arrangement; pleasing enough to grab my attention but harder to make out with the singer’s peculiar diction.
Each day of the conference, lunch is provided by the
institution. A group of us gather daily to dine in the canteen. It's during one of these food-related gatherings that I discover, by chance, Brigitta is amongst the cohort's many smokers. Moreover, I have the distinct impression she'd rather I didn't know or catch her in the act.
The afternoon meal is far heavier
than I’m used to eating at that time of day during the week. The ensuing
drowsiness catches up with me on the first day of the conference. (To avoid a similar soporific effect the day of my presentation, I avoid a hot lunch altogether).
Meal times
are an opportune moment to become acquainted with other guests. After seeing her name pop up in different contexts over the years, it'll be the first time I meet Maria-Teresa, the conference organiser, in person. Maria is a petite, feisty but good-humoured quinquagenarian, with a voice like gravel from years of chain-smoking. She gravitates towards African animism, pouring libations at the start and end of the conference. When she half-jokingly suggests we pray to the gods, I good-naturedly explain that I'm more of a Jesus girl. This elicits a smile.
Frederick
– or Freddie – is a convivial Irishman with a waggish sense of humour and a
longstanding affinity with the Spanish language. German Celia’s Spanish sounds so
proficient, I initially mistake her for a native.
I get on well with
Agneta, an academic whose interest in African studies evolved from her social work
with East-African refugees re-settled in her native Nordic country. She is also the adoptive mother of black children. She’s the second European participant I’ve met who’s raising
African children in a predominantly white environment.
I’m conflicted. I’ve
always been against the idea of white couples adopting non-white children, no
matter how well-intentioned. There is a huge gap of lived experience and
cultural transference, no matter how many books are read or online fora one
joins. It manifests even in something as (not-so) simple as hair; of great cultural significance to most Afrodescendants. I've seen black children growing up in a white family, with hair that's turned to locks through lack of care; most likely down to ignorance on their adopted parents' part. It's unintentional but infuriating.
In the case of my academic
colleagues, I acknowledge this is not some Hollywood star’s fetishisation of brown
babies (at least, I hope not). I don’t question these individuals’ genuine
efforts to divest from white supremacy. I believe their solidarity with
Afrodescendants is sincere. However, this particular kind of cross-cultural
adoption seems to me one of the most flagrant examples of white saviourism; a
massive blind spot. I dare not raise it lest I cause offence or I’m perceived
as truculent. If the conversation must happen at all, it’ll take longer to
build that kind of rapport than an auspicious few days at a conference in the
Med.
(c) Patrick Tomasso
It’s one of the few times I’ll feel slightly at odds with the
group. It’s somewhat indicative of my time in Continental Europe for the past
seven years. Don't get me wrong, the conference is a largely positive experience and
I’m thrilled to attend. Nevertheless occasionally, for reasons time doesn’t
permit me to expound, I feel my perspective as an Afro-Brit sets me
(involuntarily)apart from an otherwise
sympathetic cohort. Or maybe it’s just me and how I (over)think.
Ahead of my own presentation, I fit in several run-throughs. It's scheduled on the penultimate day of the event, giving me lots of time to mentally-prepare. Brigitta isn’t keen on me being over-rehearsed. We squeeze in one practice
before our combined intervention.
The Hispanophone presentations tend to be
better-attended than those in English. The Spanish students clear
the room when it’s mine and Brigitta’s turn, leaving behind mostly our academic peers. It’s a success all the same. I’m more relaxed during my intervention than I'd anticipated and the reception is enthusiastic. Colleagues
take a bona fide interest in my project, surprised by how much has already been
done in a few months. I’m both exuberant and relieved once it’s over. I can
better enjoy the rest of the conference.
That same night, a
delegation will arrive from the UK. The mostly non-Afrodescendant contingent is
led by Charmaine; the daughter of South Asian parents with connections to East
Africa andthe British West Indies. She
is blessed with a mellifluous, near-hypnotic speaking voice. Charmaine is the
significant other of a renowned Black-British auteur. She doesn’t fail to
divulge how many careers she’s helped to get off the ground, including some within my own social circles.
Charmaine and her entourage are a fascinating bunch. On the
last night over dinner, for example, I have a lively conversation with a
conservatoire-trained musician of African, Asian and French
extraction. We swap war stories of our respective experiences living in France.
(c) Denise Jans
Charmaine and co have taken time out of hectic schedules to
make the latter part of the conference. It’s therefore a shame that their
session –a documentary and post-show Q&A - must be truncated owing to poor
time-keeping. Charmaine keeps her sang-froid but she’s understandably miffed.
All in attendance are regretful that we are denied the full experience.
On the day of departure, Reggie kindly offers to drop
Brigitta and I off close to the airport. My supervisor will stick
around a little longer to enjoy some cultural events, before taking a late-ish
flight back to Belgium. I, on the other hand, will return on an earlier plane (notwithstanding a one hour delay).
On the drive towards the airport, all three of us converse in French about any and everything. That is, when I'm not passed out from fatigue, sleeping in a rather undignified pose.
Not long after dropping off Brigitta, Reggie complains of the lack of black contributors
during the final sessions. He proceeds to speak candidly about his frustration
over the general lack of representation. I counter that the conference has been more diverse than I expected. However, I eventually open up more about my own misgivings over academic spaces, in which
Afrodescendants are the topic of discussion but usually not being the ones to
lead it.
I’m taken aback by Reggie’s frankness. With his half-Spanish children
and going by some dubious comments he makes about a photo of Agneta’s blonde (naturally!)
future daughter-in-law, I assumed he was assimilated enough into the mainland
European cultural landscape not to notice and/or care.
He speaks of
opportunists, exploiting a niche because they know there are too few black
academics to provide much competition. His candour comes as a relief, echoing
several conversations I’ve had with sympathisers of diverse ethnicities since beginning my doctorate.
Reggie deposits me in front of my airport terminal, to which
I’m indebted. As with most of the other participants, I intend to remain in touch.
It’s a warm day;a
far cry from the chilly Belgian climes for which I’m already sartorially
prepared. As I go through the check-in motions, at security I’m asked to remove
my boots. One of the agents then inspects my head wrap for what I presume are
traces of drugs. My hair was also covered on the inward journey, and yet nobody at
Brussels thought to touch up my head-gear.
It’s not the best lasting impression of Spain. Fortunately, at least for this trip, it will not be my only one.
Way back at the start of my PhD journey, my supervisor, Brigitta, suggests we make a joint intervention at a conference in Spain, in early Autumn. She doesn’t have to ask twice.
The start of October marks four months since my doctoral studies began. In that time,
I’ve gathered a wealth of information; enough to feel comfortable sharing
the first fruits of my research, even if the overall project is still taking shape.This will be my maiden voyage; the first
academic paper I'm presenting for an external audience. (It feels very
grown-up just to utter those words.) Plus, Spain in Autumn beats
temperamental Belgian weather any day. It’ll only be my second trip to the Iberian
giant, almost two full decades after my first.
The run-up to the conference has its fair share of twists
and turns. There are several iterations of the programme, issues with funding, and sporadic - not to mention confusing - communication. Brigitta is concerned it
might not go ahead. Fortunately, conference coordinator, Maria-Teresa confirms
in time for us to be reassured.
Brigitta and I will be making the same outbound voyage. I
worry that it might be over-exposure. Yet, thank goodness, these concerns are largely unfounded.
It’s a pleasant, albeit exhausting trip by plane, train and -in the end – by foot to the hotel.
Brigitta invites me to take the window seat
on the train ride from the airport, to enjoy the pleasant landscape. She is an
individual of select words but we’re not short on conversation. Knowing my own
loquacious tendencies, I try to be conscious of not over-sharing. Nevertheless, during the course of the week, at times I question whether I’ve held true to
this resolve.
The conference will take place in a small city with a large
university population. The weather is even more propitious than has been forecast when
we arrive. Sunset also occurs later than in Belgium, allowing us to enjoy the vestiges of summer that bit longer. Sunrise, on the other hand, is surprisingly
late.
The majority of conference participants are staying in the
same hotel, a stone’s throw from the Faculty, as recommended by Maria.
Each room
is a capacious studio-style en suite, with kitchenette (although one has to pay five euros a day for access to utensils). From my window,
on a clear day, there’s a decent view of the distant Pyrenees.
The programme
begins late in the afternoon and continues well into the evening. I assume
these are stereotypical Spanish siesta hours. Rather, it appears that it's been adapted so that
the university’s own students can also attend. The beauty of these
unconventional hours is it leaves the whole day to catch up on other tasks, as well as explore our surroundings. On
the days where the programme is predominantly or exclusively in Spanish (no
funds available for simultaneous interpretation), I skip these sessions for
more downtime, often joining towards the end of the evening’s activities which
almost always overrun.
Apart from an especially soggy day, the weather is
favourable for whiling away time in the old mediaeval town, browsing some of
the discount Spanish chains, or taking advantage of my student status for a free
trip to one of the museums. I’d prefer to do a guided
walking tour but alas, there are none available in English or French during my
stay. A gulf has grown between me and the Spanish language since my school days, when I was a more zealous student. It’s been surpassed by my
interest in Portuguese which, unfortunately, doesn’t get me anywhere this side of
the frontier.
(c) Rut Miit
The colloquium itself is truly a bilingual and
inter-disciplinary affair; literature, history, linguistics, gender and sexuality studies, and ethnography to name a few areas of expertise. The thematic common denominator is the
African Diaspora in Europe. The conference also commemorates the anniversary of
the founding network, one in which Brigitta is embedded.I’ll discover that I’ve crossed paths with a
number of participants back at the 2022 Afro-European conference in Brussels,
long before my doctoral studies were on the horizon.
By now, I’m used to these spaces being dominated by
Europeans speaking about African-Diaspora related themes. (Maria-Teresa herself jokes that when Caucasians study their own societies and cultures, it falls under Sociology. If they embark on African-related socio-cultural studies, it becomes Anthropology.) I’m thus pleasantly
surprised to discover a decent number of fellow Afrodescendants presenting
papers. This is relative, considering the power imbalances ensconced
within academia. For all its liberal ideals – or maybe because of
them- universities' teaching staff largely replicate the structural
inequalities that pervade wider society.
Amongst the black contingent is Clémentine; originally from
Cote d’Ivoire. She decided to do several interdisciplinary masters and a PhD
in Spanish because she ‘liked the challenge’. She’s on her second doctorate.
There’s Reginald, or Reggie. Originally from the DRC, he’s spent most of his
adult life in the Catalonia region. Ngame is a handsome yet down-to-earth, Rwandan whose family fled to Spain in the early 1990s.
African-American Dr Louisa-Grace Brown
specialises in African migrant communities based in the Mediterranean and has a
solid command of the European-variety of Spanish. Yet, as she points out, even with a proficient knowledge of the language, Spaniards tend to question the Black presence in the country more so than other former empires (e.g. Portugal).
Louisa-Grace will give the inaugural
address at the conference; a dynamic intervention that sets the standard. Dr Brown throws in smatterings of Spanish, and even Gaelic (she’s also studied Scottish & Welsh independence
movements).
A few other black
participants connect remotely, making it more or less 50/50 African/European
representation.
The first night, I join Brigitta and her friend and fellow
academic, Clarissa for tapas. (By then, I’ve already done some panic
grocery-shopping, unaware that evening meals are covered by external funding).
Clarissa is a polyglot from Sardinia who has lived all over Europe. Our conversation encompasses the Continent's staunch denial about its colonial past, racially
insensitive books, Mainland Europe vs. the UK and misogynoir; the latter
subjects introduced by yours truly. Despite my efforts to exercise restraint, these being such sensitive topics, I find myself getting carried away.
The Equinox is behind us and Northern Hemisphere Autumn is well underway. Whilst I’ll miss the abundant light, longer days and
(snatches) of good weather, my memories of summer 2024 might not be as tinged with the usual nostalgia. The season has been
challenging for my morale; particularly at its height in August.
I return from my second excursion to Croatia exhausted.I-need-another-break-to-recover-from-my-holiday-cliché exhausted. The
excess scrutiny from certain yokels contributes to my mental fatigue. Compared
to my first, now almost mythic trip to Croatia, this one is less charmed.
The exhaustion continues well after my
return to Belgium. Post-birthday angst, about all the things I
haven’t achieved at my age, hits with a vengeance. I’ve also not recovered financially as quickly as I’d hoped after years of precarity. Perhaps I was naïve
to think it would be that easy. It isn't straightforward moving on without the cushion of savings. Several things I couldn’t afford to do
before, important but not urgent, now require my attention. Furthermore, due to a shift in contractual
T&Cs and energy companies’ overall greed, I suddenly have a hefty annual
electricity bill.
My anxiety is sky high, leading to a malaise that itself sets
off a vicious cycle. I’m too agitated for decent sleep, flooded by invasive thoughts. The lack of rest in
turn contributes to the malaise and so on. I’m bouncing
off the walls. I continue to go on campus so that I don’t feel too isolated at
home. I sense that generally fewer Bruxellois-e-s take lengthy breaks in
August. Nevertheless, at one point, there are only two of us in the sizeable open plan
workspace.
Despite my efforts to socialise and take advantage of several
attractive summer activities happening across Brussels, I still feel
intensely alienated. The malaise starts to affect my motivation. The plan is to
spend August on focused reading. I make the error of starting with some of the driest
and most technical aspects of my studies. In addition, the
University requires new PhD candidates to complete compulsory online courses. These are broadly soul-sapping administrative affairs.Although I power through, all this consumes
mental energy that I hardly have to spare.
(image courtesy of Buzzfeed)
It's an odd experience. The whole concept of summertime
sadness has largely been alien to me. I didn’t even know some folk dealt with vernal-related depression until fairly recently. Unlike the gloomy, dark and
wet hibernal seasons, how could anybody begrudge light and sunny summer? True, I’ve had the occasional emotionally difficult summer but that had more to do with insufficient social stimulation. This
feels like a different animal, more akin to what I've frequently experienced before spring
begins in earnest.
In any case, this isn’t related to the weather so much as my
current life season, notwithstanding the reprisal of my studies. I’m full of gratitude for my PhD adventure; a thick silver
lining in my otherwise ambiguously grey Belgian experience.
That’s another thing I’ve been coming to
terms with. My ambivalence towards Belgium isn’t just a passing phase. Nor is
it limited to one particular crisis such as a pandemic or job insecurity.
Whether it’s the bureaucracy, the unimpressive infrastructure (in
spite of very high taxes), how hard it is to create a community, or the
generalised discourteousness, it’s
just not my cup of tea. That's the verdict after four years of more or less giving it the benefit of the doubt. The
benchmark used to be whether I felt better in Belgium than when I left France.
For the first time, I must admit a similar disenchantment has set in. And yet the
Almighty clearly has plans for me in the Land of Waffles, Beer and Chocolate; at least, for the next few years. I therefore make my peace with it, like being
in a (privileged) state of exile. Similarly, the timely reading of A War of Loves by David Bennett helps me be better reconciled with my longer-than-anticipated single status.
Elsewhere, from late summer until well into autumn my diary will be replete with
meaningful activity. At the end of August, I attend a well-needed one-day silent retreat. These events are unsettling and emotionally demanding in the most beautiful and constructive ways. The following day, I attend a Pan-African cultural festival to support dance session en masse led by my most talented Afro-Zumba instructor. A number of other regulars from the class also show up. I feel like I'm in a musical. Without a doubt, it's one of the highlights of the summer.
Early September also marks my third trip to the socio-political and
cultural festival, Manifiesta. For the first time, I’m more directly involved in organising
events which demands a weekend long stay, as opposed to my usual day visit. I book a delightful en suite that alas, I’m too busy to properly enjoy beyond showers and bedtime. En route
to the festival on the first day, happenstance would have it that I stumble across Auntie J from the UK,
flanked by a couple of mates. Ever since I told her about the festival, she’s
been itching to attend. Her initial plan was to bring a sizeable posse but in
the end, it whittles down to a trio.
I’m co-moderating a Francophone event organised by peace and anti-colonial campaigners, Intal. The panel discussion covers resource sovereignty in Africa, ever-draconian European migration
policies concerning inflows from the Global South, and the success of popular uprisings in Senegal. It’s one of the first
events of the festival, so we’re not expecting a big turnout.
Yet the room is jam-packed and there’s not enough time to
take all the questions during the Q&A session.The team is left feeling exuberant.
Apart from the illustrious international roster of guest speakers – from UK economist Grace Blakeley to the dynamic Franco-African
domestic worker turned trade unionist and politician, Rachel Kéké – it’s like a Who’s Who from the world of
CSO’s and activism on the ground. I bump into many a comrade. Amongst them is Suki, whom I met when I
was working on the Equality Pact in Marseille, where she's normally based. She’s since quit
the project, disillusioned with management.
Whilst volunteering at one of
the pop-up bars, I serve an American pundit, with whom I’m
familiar from his occasional stints on Novara Media. He’s a lot
more obnoxious in real life. I meet a Dutch woman who studied Portuguese and happened to have taken lessons with one of my former bandmates from my Bossa Nova/MPB days. I bump into an amiable young Afro-Caribbean fellow whom I
recognise from a predominantly black church that I sometimes visit. I’m
ecstatic to meet another Christian in this context. I bound over to him,
effusive with encouraging words about how important it is for us to be there.
Social justice is Kingdom Business too.
Once again, I hang out with some of Jeremy Corbyn’s crew. JC
is back this year, promoting a book he’s co-written with one time anti-Apartheid campaigner, ex-ANC politician and vocal
anti-Zionist, Andrew Feinstein. Music is also an indispensable part of the Manifiesta programme, with both local and international guests performing. Tiken Jah Fakoly and the UK rapper-activist, Lowkey are amongst this year's high profile line-up. Intal have invited a musician acquaintance of mine, Diese Mbangue, to perform after he lit up one of our smaller events earlier in the year with a solo acoustic set. For Manifiesta, Diese returns with his full band for what turns out to be an electrifying performance.
A couple of weeks after the festival, I’m off to Strasbourg for the first
time since 2021.
En route by coach, I’m witness to a theft in plain sight. At
Brussels Midi station, a dubious looking fellow boards the bus shortly after I
get on. The inspector doesn't stop him, and yet he has too sketchy an air to go unnoticed. I can't tell if he's about to hold up the coach or have a funny turn. I eventually presume he's legit however, since none of the other passengers intervene when he takes a bag from
the luggage rack. Nevertheless, sensing something suspect, a few of them spring to action to check on their
own belongings.
By the time the girlfriend/wife
of the unfortunate proprietor realises what’s happened, the culprit is too far and too
quick for the couple to chase him down. Her significant other alternates between expletive
rage and tearful distress. He exclaims that all his possessions - except his
passport - are in that rucksack. After screaming (understandably) at the driver
and inspector for their incompetence over security, the couple alight to make what will most likely be a futile police report. I offer to provide a
witness statement but the fellow is too distracted. I feel distraught for him,
as well as guilty. I was immediately suspicious but didn’t react
when none of the passengers seemed fazed.
Several hours later, an old friend,
Françoise, collects me from Strasbourg coach station in the wee small hours of the morning. Françoise has kindly invited me to stay with her and her bibliophile sister, Magritte. That not only takes care of accommodation but provides plenty of
opportunity for Françoise and I to
catch-up. (Ironically, although we do have a number of lengthy conversations
about the dire state of French politics, the siblings’ favourite 70s and 80s pop/rock bands and
Magritte’s enviably vast personal library, I
barely update Françoise on what’s been happening on my end.)
The aim is to squeeze in as many visits over a long weekend, as well as to hop across the French/German border for some (still) mouth-watering bargains in Kehl. It’s an overly-ambitious itinerary, which circumstances will curb in an ultimately helpful way. A number of friends happen to be out of town that weekend. Another acquaintance definitively quits Strasbourg
for the countryside mere weeks before my visit. The upshot is thatI spend quality time with those I do manage
to see. In the three years since my last trip there have been weddings, pregnancies, sicknesses,
recoveries, trials, tribulations and triumphs.
The weather is marvellous for this time of year; ideal for several wistful strolls through the city. I pass by Temple Neuf for its
ongoing weekly meditation session. I've missed it. In the absence of the main pastor, members of
the congregation step in to hold a special commemorative service marking the World Week for Peace in Palestine & Israel. I’m somewhat
impressed by how much Palestinian suffering is centred; something that is
shamefully absent from many mainstream church spaces.
That same evening,
Françoise generously offers to accompany me to the weekly rehearsal of HRGS; the choir to which we once belonged and where we first met. I plan to make an unannounced cameo. A few members are aware
I’m in town but I’ve made no official arrangements to drop by.
We are warmly
received. Whilst much of the choir is now unfamiliar, there’s enough of the old guard to bridge the gap between past and
present. I’m asked to reprise one of my old solos, which in itself shouldn’t
come as a surprise. I’m still more unprepared than I should be. Blame it on nerves, says Françoise. I'd rather not.
Meanwhile, after several
of the veterans demand where she’s been, she decides to rejoin the choir. (Privately, she will later divulge that she took an indefinite hiatus by being
reluctantly dragged into internal choral politics.)
My visit to my old Strasbourg church becomes fraught for
reasons too long to elaborate here. Once again, internal politics to which I’m
not otherwise privy are at play. The day is fortunately redeemed by plans to spend the
afternoon with erstwhile Strasbourg acquaintance, Sérafine, at her capacious flat in Kehl. She prepares a delicious pasta lunch and we while away hours
covering a gamut of weighty themes. Both of us have lived through substantial
changes in the intervening years.
I round off my Strasbourg trip by meeting up with former HRGS choir director, Kiasi. Dividing his time now between Paris and Alsace, he's obtained a set of wheels for the commute. We catch-up in his car, whilst Michael Jackson’s Dangerous album provides the nostalgic soundtrack to our overdue exchange.
Soundtrack: Timeless by Kaytranada, Milton + Esperanza by Milton Nascimento & Esperanza Spalding and Open Hearts by Joya Mooi.
Monday morning ushers in another year of life. I don’t allow myself time to mope about ageing. I've done enough of that in advance.
I have an early-ish bus to catch to Trogir and onwards to Split for another attempt at a tour. I put on an encouraging sermon as I get prepared in one of my go-to birthday outfits. (It pays off. Later, whilst on the Split Old City tour, a young woman will make a detour to compliment me.) Public transport being what it is between my remote accommodation and Split, the safest option is to arrive almost an hour and a half in advance. Even taking all those precautions, it’s still not easy finding the tour guide. After some trial and error, I end up joining the right group purely by fluke.
It’s an intimate wander around parts of Diocletian’s Palace that are now more familiar to me from my earlier visit, except with more context on this occasion. As it’s such a small group, there’s more time for questions and digressions. Our tour guide, Yulia explains how Diocletian rose through the ranks of the Roman army despite not himself being an ethnic Roman. He was credited with bringing stability to an ailing empire by dividing it and delegating substantial power to a co-emperor, Maximian. Yulia broaches Diocletian’s murderous rampage against Christians, misrepresenting the latter somewhat. They nevertheless have their revenge. When the Christians eventually take over Split, they invest a lot of energy into destroying the vestiges of paganism. Yulia also explains the influence of the French on the architecture of the Riva promenade, which might explain why Split in part resembles Nice and the surrounding region.
The discussion inevitably turns to the legacy of war, as well as the precarious economic situation. Yulia speaks of young professionals like herself, obtaining degrees that they are highly unlikely to use in a country heavily dependent on tourism and the service industry. She’s frustrated with the Croatian government for not diversifying the economy and investing more in its youth. Salaries are low and the tax relatively high. For SME’s this can be an insurmountable challenge. Staff salaries are therefore often paid partially in cash. This wreaks havoc come retirement. Yulia informs us that some older folk rummage for plastic bottles to recycle, for which they receive a modest top up to their meagre state pension. Taxes are at least channelled into universal healthcare (albeit inadequate, says Yulia), free education up to tertiary level and decent maternity leave.
The proliferation of short term rentals, and landlords taking advantage of the influx of Ukrainian refugees, have led to as much as a tripling of monthly rent, according to Yulia. However, unlike some other Western European states (the UK being one of the worst examples), there isn’t an accommodation crisis. Many Croatians own their homes outright. This could partly explain why I almost never see any rough sleepers or begging. It’s simultaneously refreshing and depressing that this should be an exception to my experience living in and travelling around Europe.
(c) Croatia Travel
The group hangs around a bit more after the tour to chat. For lunch, I head in the direction of the less touristy part of the promenade, suggested by Yulia. By happenstance, I stumble across a locally-recommended restaurant that I have had trouble locating thus far. I order a tangy local dish of minced meat wrapped in cabbage with mashed potatoes, and a Lavender-tinged blanc-mange style dessert. It’s a baking hot day. I am sweating like a mare and my thirst is insatiable. Yet I’d take a heatwave any day -especially on my birthday - over the non-committal summer I’ve temporarily left behind in Brussels.
Not far from the restaurant is the Marjan Forest Park (pictured above left), where one can enjoy impressive views of Split city and the riviera from above. Passing by the forest is a closer, not to mention free, alternative to climbing the Bell Tower in the Old City.
Still. It’s an uphill walk in 35 degree celsius heat. To make things more difficult I’m weighed down by my laptop, bottles of water, snacks and toiletries I’ve picked up from Müller drugstore. I reach as far as one of the deserted monasteries in the vicinity. I’m too hot and tight on time to continue. On the way back down, I meet a family, also from South-East London and originally from the same part of Ghana as my maternal grandfather. I chat most with the daughter; in her late teens, young enough to be my child and undecided about her future. I tell her that if I could advise my 17-year old self, I would say be intentional but keep an open mind. And don't be motivated by fear. Then again, I don’t know if a 17-year old me would have absorbed what an older version of myself had to say. A funny thought experiment.
It’s back to Trogir for (an underwhelming) dinner and luxurious ice cream, before hopping the mid-evening bus in hopes of an early night. I must be up and out even earlier if I’m to catch my pre-booked boat tour to Krka Waterfalls.
Despite setting myself a bed time, my sleep remains light and insufficient. I’m too worried about oversleeping and the guests on my floor are needlessly noisy. The following morning, I just about make it to the bus stop on time. It means I’ll arrive at the travel agent 40 minutes early. (That’s the way it is round here, I’ve come to understand. The bus service is so limited that the choice is between being pointlessly early or missing the event altogether. )
I assumed I’d booked myself on a boat tour to the Krka waterfalls. I’m mistaken. Most of the trip is by coach; packed out and not an especially friendly bunch. I’m sat next to the same sullen blonde on the outbound and return. Apparently a solo traveller herself, her body language is so closed off I’d have to go out of my way to engage her. It might be the Christian thing to do but perhaps I’m not that righteous. I feel so often invisibilised as a Black woman, often by other non-Black women, that it seems incumbent on them to make the effort.
As is usually the case with these all-day road trips, the tour guide, although polite enough, is in a constant hurry. I help a French couple with some interpretation duties, mildly annoyed with myself over some less-than-ideal vocab choices. After all these years, my spoken French can still be temperamental. The couple seems to follow, nevertheless.
(c) me
We have a couple of hours to wander around the picturesque Krka National Park (pictured right) known for its fauna, flora and various wildlife. This includes the odd venomous snake, apparently. The park’s main claim to fame are its many waterfalls. I bump into another Black family on holiday; this time from the US. The children catch my attention; stunning twin daughters in their mid-late teens and a little one (on the sulky side) perhaps 10 years younger, and of a deeper chocolate complexion than the rest of her relatives. Knowing how little annual leave is afforded the average worker in the US, I commend them not only for travelling outside of North America, but for not choosing the most obvious destination.
At some point, I have a post-birthday conversation with my mother. I make the mistake of referring to some of the bizarre reactions I’ve experienced. ‘See? What did I tell you about travelling around the old Eastern Bloc on your own as a black woman?’ Pre-1989, mum would have had far fewer qualms. She had an uncle who spent time in Hungary. Since the fall of the Iron Curtain, she believes, whatever prejudices kept at bay under communism have been unleashed. I try to reassure her that nothing serious has befallen me. A part of me still regrets opening up. Mum will only worry.
My group reconvenes again for a brief and leisurely boat ride to nearby beach town, Skradin. On returning to Trogir, I’ll find out from the tour guide that two of our party have been left behind at Krka National Park.
Crossing the bridge back to Trogir Old Town, a young-ish man walking in the opposite direction looks at me with what could only be described as alarm. As if I’m a trick of his imagination. In spite of the sheer awkwardness, rather than look away I nod a greeting - as I am wont to do on this trip. There’s a delayed reaction before he comes to. From the corner of my eye, I see him hastily return the nod.
There’s more opportunity to practise my French whilst killing time at Trogir bus stop. I strike up a conversation with a Parisian of French-Caribbean heritage, for no other reason than the relief of seeing another brown face round these parts. I’m also sat next to a family of French-Canadians. By now, I’m sufficiently warmed-up to have more fluid, grammatically-correct conversations.
Later that evening, after dinner, I take a twilight stroll around the marina. Once again, I internally rejoice to be in such splendid surroundings. Before catching the last taxi boat, I head towards the bridge near where I first bumped into Joe and Zara, as if to conjure them up just by being in that locale. To my delight, they happen to be crossing the bridge at the time I take a pause to soak in the scenery. I’m so excited to see them again, asking questions that I forgot the previous time. Like how they both came to live in Ireland and when Joe had last visited the Caribbean to see his mum (not since he left as a pre-teen well over a decade ago). They fill me in on a day of shopping in Split. They strongly recommend that I pass by the beautiful beach town of Baška Voda on a future visit to Croatia.
I gabble to Joe about all the unequivocally peculiar reactions I’ve received since our first encounter, as well as my mother’s I-told-you-so trepidation. It’s a lot worse in Bosnia-Herzegovina, says Zara. They use the N-word. My heart sinks. Sarajevo was on my wishlist. I tell them that I’ve seen more diversity in Trogir that evening, towards the end of my holiday, than at any time before. I have had a brief interaction with a Surinamese man at the cash machine, have seen a solitary black girl with a group of older white folk, and various other brown faces dotted around the Old Town.
Blue Lagoon (courtesy of Seget Nautica)
As is always the case, the last full day of my trip rolls around with a quickness. I try again - unsuccessfully - to enjoy a lie-in. The end-of-holiday melancholy and worries about over-spending are weighing on me. Remaining present is a constant struggle. My mind instinctively races to the next thing, whether good or bad. I’m aware it’s robbing me of what’s left of the trip. It’s exhausting trying to resist this reflex.
I’m meant to have an easy day spent in and around Seget Vranjica village. I’ve been seriously entertaining the idea of a half day boat tour to the Blue Lagoon, led by Luka, the man who kindly dropped me off at my accommodation when I first arrived. If nothing else, as a thank you for the favour.
On the boat, I do some grounding exercises to help me stay in the moment. They appear to do the trick. The sight of clear, teal-coloured water never grows old. Our return journey will be a lot more eventful. A distant forest blaze will darken the skies and there'll be the constant buzz of firefighter planes overhead. For now, the boat ride couldn't be more tranquil.
On reaching the Blue Lagoon, buyer’s remorse sets in. I should have done my research. I recall Martina the tour guide sounding underwhelmed about the island. It’s really aimed at those interested in swimming and/or water sports or a picnic stop off point for those on island tours. Apart from a couple of over-priced, cash only bars/restaurants staffed by rude personnel, there’s not much to do. As much as I wanted to patronise Luka, I fear I’ve just wasted 30 euros. Now that I’m here, with almost five hours to kill, I try to make the most of it. I switch on a podcast and go for a walk. I find a semi-secluded spot uphill where there are lovely views of surrounding islands.
Reflecting on the last few days, I’m glad it’s not my first experience of Croatia. Whilst I’ll take away some positive memories and I still find the coastline beguiling, the reception has also been a lot more mixed. I hope I'm not deterred from returning soon. There’s much of the country I’d still like to see.
That evening, I'll have one of my most pleasant culinary experiences of the trip at a restaurant on the other side of Seget Vranjica village. My waitress is warm and attentive, despite the busyness.
In the distant hills, I see the amber glow of the still-blazing forest fire. It's after dark that I better understand the measure of it. I'm told these conflagrations are common in that region at this time of year. There have been several that week alone. The fumes will reach my bedroom during the night and I'll be awoken by the constant sound of the fire-extinguisher jets, resuming the work they've had to stop at nightfall.
On check-out day, I'm overly-precautious about arriving at the airport early. I make time to sit idly by the Seget bay but cut it prematurely short. I decide to make up for it at Trogir bus garage, which overlooks the marina. I'm sufficiently ahead of schedule and the airport is so close, that there's no hurry. At the station, I cross paths with the friendly bus driver whom I met on arrival. For the first and last time, we exchange names. I feel it's providential, just before I leave, to have bumped into one of the most consistently kind individuals I've encountered on this trip.
Soundtrack: John Gómez and Nick the Record present the TANGENTcompilation feat. Various Artists + The Burning Bush: A Journey through the Music of Earth, Wind & Fire by DJ Harrison & Nigel Hall.
.jpeg)
.jpg)
.webp)
