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| Terreiro do Paço, Lisbon (ionline.sapo.pt) |
I wake up on Sunday, half-way through my trip, in the state of disillusion that has characterised the last few weeks. My sleep is still not as regulated as it should be. During breakfast, I tune into the livestream of my Belgian church, FWM’s morning service. Pastor Mike speaks on the importance of testimonies. He asks us to recall something good that stands out this week. I remind myself of where I am. Even if I’m feeling somewhat miserable, I have the luxury of doing so on holiday in a beautiful country. Unlike the mainly overcast weather during my visit to La Côte Azur, I don’t lack for sunshine. My Coimbra trip so far has been consistently pleasurable. Or at least, there’s been no drama which is a mercy in itself. Despite my hotel apparently being near a sketchy part of town, I’ve been safe. Whatever ails me is either in my unreachable past or can wait for when I return to Brussels. I shouldn’t let it rob me of present enjoyment. I don’t want to look back on this moment and only remember it being eaten up by worry. Let tomorrow take care of itself. À chaque jour suffit sa peine.
I have booked myself on a day tour in Lisbon. This was before I found out how irregular the train service is between Coimbra and Lisbon on a Sunday. I do second guess my decision and consider staying within the confines of Coimbra. However, noting that I tend to become more mired in dark thoughts if I spend too much time on my own, I persist with the original plan. I manage to find a train route that will get me to the Portuguese capital around the same time the tour starts. I notify the tour guide, Hugo, that I’ll be running a few minutes late.
With the local transport service all but useless and not fancying the idea of another taxi for a relatively short journey, I take a spritely walk towards Coimbra-B station. I arrive in good time to buy my ticket and catch the train.
It’s been over 13 years since I last spent time in Lisbon. It was my very first experience of Portugal; a girls’ holiday with mum and sis. The beauty of its topography, its people, its cosmopolitanism and good food, all made a strong impression. I'd like a refresher of the City without doing exactly the same things I would have all those years ago. Hugo’s donations-based tour promises to be an alternative view of the Portuguese Capital, from a local’s perspective.
I arrive at the designated meeting place in time to see the group moving off. They’re easy to spot. It’s a sizeable collective; the opposite of the huddle on the previous day’s Coimbra tour. I rush up to whom I assume is Hugo, breathless.
It's fine. You’ve just missed the first part, he reassures.
The group is made up of all sorts. There’s a Spanish couple who lived in London and are now based in Lisbon. Then there’s the posse of garrulous Ukrainians, whom at one point I have to hush when they’re voices carry over the Guide’s.
Hugo himself is camp and jovial. However, early on in the tour, I detect an historical blindspot where Portuguese colonial history is concerned. My romantic memories of Lisbon have been challenged of late after (finally!) reading my Afropean co-editor-in-chief, Johny Pitts’ travel memoir Adventures in Black Europe. (Incidentally, I think his views on Marseille are too rose-tinted, but I digress). He approaches Lisbon with a healthy scepticism in relation to its historical amnesia.
I perceive such forgetfulness in Hugo’s accounts of the so-called Golden Age of conquest and ‘discovery’, with no caveats about slavery or colonialism. That’s not to dismiss the validity of the entire tour. He details the extent of the 1755 Earthquake’s destruction very well. He ends with a summary of Salazar’s dictatorship and the eventual overthrow of his successor, Marcelo Caetano, in the Carnation Revolution of 1974. Hugo rightly includes a reference to the massacre of Lisbon’s Jewish population in the early 16th Century under the ridiculous pretext of heresy. To his credit (and possibly because of my prompting) he mentions how stubbornly the Portuguese held on to their colonies; something notably missing from the Coimbra tour (which had similar weaknesses). Nonetheless, more generally, he’s a bit quiet when it comes to Portugal’s role in the exploitation and brutalisation of brown people. I bring this to his attention directly during one of the lulls between his expositions. Hugo claims to have mentioned the country’s role in the transatlantic slave trade at the start, which I missed.
At least we weren’t as bad as the Dutch (he previously lived in the Netherlands).
I don’t allow him the comfort of that old chestnut, where former colonial powers play the what-aboutery game. All colonialism was bad, I remind him and he concedes. He acknowledges that the Age wasn’t so Golden for the enslaved and colonised but, he contends, should we judge the past by today’s standards? This is a common refrain; often – although not exclusively-from racially illiterate Caucasians. I respond, as casually as I can muster, that the effects of the past still play out today. Moreover, there were always those who morally objected to slavery and colonialism. Namely the subjugated and those who took up their cause. This is conveniently forgotten. Hugo agrees, but adds I try not to be too political. Everything is political, I counter, including what he chooses not to say.
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| Alfama, Lisbon (image: Civitatis) |
Hugo widens the discussion to include the rest of the group, now focusing on Portugal’s current political situation and the upcoming election. He claims Portugal is a tolerant country and not given to extremes. I recall the concern expressed by Diana, the Italian guide on my Coimbra tour. By contrast, Hugo believes the support for the Far-Right is fringe compared to France, for instance. He might be a Portuguese native but I’m inclined to trust the outsider, more politically-engaged instincts of Diana. Hugo is knowledgeable and genial but I sense a complacency that is the preserve of the privileged. He takes shelter under the belief that racism is only evident in the Extreme-Right, something about which I am also keen to disabuse him.
I feel nevertheless obligated to keep this sensitive conversation as breezy as possible. Firstly, I am not the only one on the tour. Neither do I want any germane points I do make to be lost if I’m perceived as too ‘disruptive’.
Meanwhile, I overhear a conversation between a convivial elderly South-Asian man with a transatlantic accent, and a tall blonde of indeterminate origin. She has her camera perched on her right shoulder with some contraption that reminds me of a harmonica stand.
As the tour comes to a close, I catch the voluble older man’s attention. He asks about my background and shares about his own. Mo, as he’s called, is an Italian-raised Pakistani living in the US. He’s worked for various international institutions including IFI’s and the UN. He’s passing through Lisbon en route to Francophone West Africa, where he's to discuss his new book on France’s neo-colonial relationship with its former Empire.
Mo picks my brain about a host of subjects, including what was discussed with Hugo. He’s of the generation that believes colonialism wasn’t all terrible. It’s a debate I have quite frequently with one of my mentors from a similar part of the world. I maintain that even if some good emerged from the period as an incidental by-product, it doesn’t negate the evil that was done. Mo argues that we need to strike a balance. I proffer that since colonial propaganda determined the narrative for so long, for the discussion to be truly even-handed, we don’t need any more talk of the purported benefits of Imperial exploits.
The tour concludes in the main Terreiro do Paço square, overlooking the sea on one side and the pastel-coloured houses of the Mediaeval Alfama district in the distance. It’s a stunning day. Apart from the temperature being a little fresh, we couldn’t have asked for better weather for such an excursion.
As we overlook the bay, Mo is happy to resume the conversation where we left off. We move on to racism in terms of class struggle, the elites and establishment media, the role of political education in bridging divides and the state of British politics. When Mo mentions that he and his wife will soon be relocating to Addis-Ababa for work purposes, we each give our (admittedly limited) take on the ever-more complex Ethiopian conflict.
Mo says he likes the way I think. He is surprisingly sympathetic to my political views considering his professional history. He won’t let me leave until I’ve given my email details.
It is a stimulating chat but I have a coach to catch.
I just miss the 5pm bus to Coimbra. I regret that I won’t have the chance to do the trip again at dusk. With an hour to wait until the next coach, I head to the nearby Lidl to stock up on essentials such as fruit and water. I’ve barely seen a supermarket in Coimbra.
At the risk of repeating myself, outside of the UK, I find Portugal’s Lidl franchise to be the best. Not only in terms of product range but value for money. I pounce on some bargains I’m unlikely to find in Brussels. I’d stock up on more if I didn’t have such a restrictive luggage allowance. (Too bad that the Agave syrup that I purchase for a steal, is confiscated by Lisbon airport security for being over the 100ml limit. I'm miffed. Irony of ironies, my small suitcase eventually has to go into the hold anyway).
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| (image: Algarve Primeiro) |
I decide to dine at an Italian establishment I’ve passed several times. I’m seated close to a multi-cultural group of young British females. For some reason, it’s never really a comfort to overhear anglophone accents whilst on holiday.
The inexplicably all-male waiting staff are also a cosmopolitan bunch. One is particularly attentive. He asks where I’m from before informing me of his own Colombian and Italian roots. He stares deep into my eyes with his pretty baby blues and lavishes me with multi-lingual compliments. I don’t know whether he’s sincere, angling for a tip or thinks I’m easy prey because I’m eating alone. On the other hand, I could just accept the compliment. I have been feeling rough lately (which is partly why I question his motives).
I’m bemused by things I experience in mainland Europe that would almost never happen in the UK. Back in Blighty, even if I had the impression one of the waiters found me attractive, it would rarely, if ever, be as overt. Just some mild flirting within the confines of professionalism. There’s something almost shameless (or is that fearless?) about a certain kind of European male.
In between minestrone soup, a tasty seafood pizza and lemon tart with vanilla ice cream, my admirer finds any excuse to chat. I discover that in addition to Spanish, Italian, Portuguese and English he speaks a total of seven languages, including Thai and a bit of Russian. Or so he says. It’s entertaining enough and I could do with the pick-me-up. It might all be theatre but I don’t intend to follow it through. I can't remember if we even exchange names.
He asks what I’m doing later on. Rest, I answer.
Back in my hotel box, I watch some humorous clips online, shower and try to pray before lights out. Instead I pass out. It’s another night of fitful sleep and I’m exhausted the morning of the last full day of my Coimbra break. I feel and look awful. I open up about the disrupted sleep with my morning prayer group. It’s a vicious circle. Anxiety hums in the background like white noise. That adversely affects my sleep. I can’t even switch off my mind’s chatter for a catnap. Insufficient rest contributes to low morale which disrupts my sleep more and so on…
It’ll be a waste of time getting fully dressed and made-up before breakfast. I’m involuntary crying into my food. My make-up drips onto my T-Shirt. Thankfully, the restaurant is virtually empty. The few staff around are busying themselves elsewhere. If they see me upset, they’re discreet about it.
I’ve been avoiding logging into Skype until my return to Brussels but I don’t want sis to worry. Sure enough, she’s wondering where I am.
I take my time over breakfast. I need to calm down. I’m trying to arrange a refund for another tour I have booked that morning. The Guide is unresponsive and there's a major mistake in the itinerary.
Não importa. It means I can attempt another siesta before heading to the beach earlier than I’d have been able to.
The nap isn’t entirely successful. I join my weekly Christian meditation session before boarding the train to Figueira da Foz.
I already feel much better stepping outside of my box room into the daylight. Despite my general exhaustion, the loveliness of the day is not lost on me. The weather is Spring-like. It’s the warmest it's been so far during my stay. The surrounding landscape demands my attention once more, inviting me to benefit from it whilst I can. It’ll be after dark by the time I return from Figueira da Foz. I have an early-ish train to catch to the airport the following morning, so will be hurrying along.
I’ve selected the right day to go to the coast, although on arriving at my destination, it’s not immediately obvious. There’s water, yes but at first glance Figueira da Foz looks like a dock more than a beach.
After stopping to check my coordinates a few times, I’m assured that there is something resembling the seaside nearby. My perseverance pays off. Best of all, there’s just the right amount of activity. Neither too busy nor totally deserted.
I stop off at a kiosk for a snack. A man interrupts my order to charge his phone. He then proceeds to ask my origins. He feels the need to share that he lived and worked in Senegal for a time. He endeavours to educate me on the country’s ethnic diversity. He lists off the number of local languages he acquired, as well as French.
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| Figueira da Foz (image: Accor) |
He asks if I like Portugal. I reply in the affirmative and explain it’s my third visit to the country. I humour the conversation solely for the practice. Otherwise, I find him a little obtrusive.
I can’t understand everything he says. I pick up that he continues with his own life story-namely where else he’s lived in Europe – and says something about the low salaries in Portugal; in the region of 800-900 euros a month. This is a theme that’s recurred throughout my visit. If the wages are low, at least aspects of the cost of living are also economical, such as food. Rents are cheap compared to other European states but not in proportion to the average Portuguese salary.
The conversation turns to varieties of Portuguese, as it has often done. I am frank about my Brazilian bias, reiterated by my current interaction. My interlocutor swallows his words. I’m only able to follow thanks to a few days of consistent exposure, which is a small encouragement in itself.
Once my toasted sandwich is ready, I bid farewell to the sales assistant and my fleeting acquaintance.
I eat lunch on the beach. Apart from a few families seated on nearby rocks, I have the modest sandy section to myself (there's much more to the beach that, alas, I don't have time to discover). A surly canine barks at me for no reason. Its owners hardly try to assuage it.
What’s your problem? Racist dog.
A creepy elderly fellow I first saw near the kiosk, keeps circling me from a distance. He doesn’t look away when I make eye-contact, or even try to hide his fascination. At what point this becomes fetishisation, I don’t know but his attention must cross that line. I forget about him, believing he’s become bored and moved on. Feeling sufficiently free of anyone’s gaze, I inconspicuously remove my tights.
A few minutes later, I look around and catch the old geezer watching me again from afar.
I won’t let this Peeping Tom steal this placid moment from me. I ignore him and enjoy the view. I don’t have long before I have to rush back to the station for the return to Coimbra.
My last night in the City is rather anti-climactic. Unbeknownst to me, many businesses don’t open on Mondays; similar to when I lived in Strasbourg. A restaurant next to the hotel that I’d had my eye on since my first night is closed. With no Plan B and not wanting to dine at the same eateries as before, I stumble across a promising-looking establishment in the vicinity.
It seems busy. A little too busy.
A group of 40-50 obnoxiously raucous youngsters have commandeered the joint. It’s the performative, self-conscious ‘fun’ of the insecure.
They want attention. I’m determined to deny them that currency.
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| (image: Travelling Buzz) |
There are frequents burst of a rowdy football-like chant. It’s all I can do not to scream "STFU!". I try to read instead and (unsuccessfully) drown out the noise by switching on my MP3. The mellowness of Alison Thorsteinsen's gorgeously doleful compositions can't cut through the racket. I waste no time paying the bill after my Octopus and Shrimp meal. After a little small talk with the manager and his wife, I wish them good night and a cheeky Boa Sorte before stepping into the brisk night for a brisk walk. I hope to purchase an iced dessert from Burger King and pass by the hotel bar before bed. Both closed…
I don’t expect to sleep well the night before my departure. To my great surprise, I wake up better rested than the morning before. Not perfect but an answer to prayer nonetheless. I’ve reserved an earlier breakfast, expecting to see the luminous restaurant busier for a change. Still practically empty. The only unfamiliar face is that of a vibrant young waiter. From his more comprehensible Portuguese and ethnically-ambiguous features, I guess correctly that he’s from Brazil. São Paulo, to be precise. The hotel staff have all been friendly but he’s especially warm; as sunny as the climate I'll be leaving behind.
It’s a shame our paths didn’t cross sooner. I nevertheless take this brief encounter as an auspicious farewell, as I depart that crisp January morning for Lisbon airport.
Soundtrack: Sometimes I'm There by Alison Thorsteinsen
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