Chin Up (Part 1)

It’s been a February of extremes. Snow and sub-zero temperatures one moment, balmy late spring weather the next. Unnervingly splendid for this time of year. Shocking that some would still deny the threat of Climate Change.

Meanwhile, the Belgian authorities are rolling back some lockdown restrictions but at glacial speed. Hair and beauty salons are once again operational but with strict guidelines. Making an appointment even a week ahead is a mission. I’m so distracted by my failed attempts to squeeze one in on a forthcoming afternoon's leave, I am not concentrating when I use an ATM at my bank in Porte de Namur. I just about remember to withdraw my money but forget my card. A sketchy fellow hanging around smoking, grabs it just as I realise my error. He becomes overly defensive, swearing he only took what belonged to him. I’m so distressed, my French falters. 

I insist on searching his bag. Of course, he’s hid it elsewhere. He and his friend are off like a shot. Fortunately for me, I spread my money across accounts for budgeting purposes. After making my withdrawal, there wouldn’t be much left in my current account to steal (which my bank confirms later). Thanks to a kindly stranger who passes on the bank’s contact details ASAP, I am able to block the card fairly promptly. It precedes a frustrating few days of not being able to access any cash but it could have been worse. I am annoyed at my own absent-mindedness. I am angry at the offender's flagrant dishonesty but not livid. I don't bother filing a police report. If this fellow spends his time sleeping rough and skulking around banks hoping customers will forget their card, his life is already difficult enough. In the unlikely case that he's caught, a stint in prison won't improve his lot.

As far as the rest goes, I’m still taking a day at a time. My manager, Ama lets slip that the TTUO teleworking policy will remain in place for several months. It’s later confirmed by regional news sites that WFH will remain the new normal for a while to come. 

 The easing of some restrictions has nevertheless allowed me to add a few more activities to my calendar; albeit physically-distanced. 

This quarter I’ve signed up for a number of events organised by my church, Fresh Wine Ministries (FWM).

Louisiana-native and Art-Deco enthusiast Doug, moved to Belgium with his family just before the pandemic hit. Not having had long enough to make deeper connections, he has started a church walking group. He plans intricate scavenger hunts, as a means of meeting new people as well as becoming more familiar with the city. The group walks in all kinds of weather. For the first hunt, I arrive too late to catch the main party. Doug, his 9-year old daughter and I gamely work through the clues (he created) in the pouring rain. The following session I attend falls on a cold and foggy Saturday morning, after a week of glorious weather. Nevertheless, the twin aims of socialising and discovery are readily attained.

In addition to these historically-themed rambles, I enrol on Monday evening piano lessons at the church site. The classes are led mainly by chalk and cheese brothers; Lionel (short, muscular-lean 'alpha male') and Lucien (tall, skinny and elaborately camp). I instantly develop a soft spot for Lucien. For the first lesson, we barely have enough time to go through our knowledge of music theory before we’re joined by the singing students. We spend the rest of the evening discussing one of my favourite things in life; harmonisation. It’s home time before we piano students even have a chance to play. I’m pretty zen about it all. I like the company. Plus, we do some impromptu harmonising before home time.

FWM have also set up voluntary sessions with the Red Cross at Molenbeek. COVID-restrictions dictate that our 15-strong volunteers have to break up into three groups of five and rotate our visits. 

 Not having a smartphone makes registering my interest a nightmare. It's only available through a special app. I speak to one of the team leaders at the Red Cross Centre, after she ignores my emails and texts. She denies any knowledge of my church’s involvement and becomes agitated at the (unsubstantiated) idea of us ‘proselytising’. Finally, I decide to chance it on the designated day. I communicate my intentions to our sympathetic group leader, Kwena (Belgian nationality, missionary parents, Ugandan name). Someone could always drop out at the last minute. Kwena agrees, encouraging me to come.

My gamble pays off. Our group of four is well-within the COVID limit.

The line of visitors snakes around the Red Cross building. We’re shown around the centre by handsome Syrian volunteers’ supervisor, Hamad. The mostly male beneficiaries eye up our all-female group with keen interest.

The centre is a sprawling complex. I am amazed to be in a building of that size with so many people, COVID-restrictions notwithstanding.

Red Cross, Brussels

Our group splits up according to tasks, to be reunited at the end of the afternoon. I elect to assist with shower duties; a complicated operation of swapping clothes for toiletries, bath slippers and the occasional sartorial donation. The men are very particular about what kind of underwear they’ll receive. Briefs are chucked back in favour of boxers. 

On a more serious note, the demographic of the visitors is a stark reminder of the issues around migration policy I address in my day job. The vast majority of the beneficiaries are brown and hail from the global South. The few Europeans at the centre are more often than not volunteers.

The shower team is supervised by laidback, charismatic music loving Eritrean, Micah. He brags, only half-joking, about being surrounded by a mostly female team. His eclectic taste in music encompasses Rod Stewart, 90s Hip-Hop, Blues Rock, Billy Ocean and Bobby Womack. The four-hour shift goes relatively quickly; all the more so considering I haven’t eaten lunch. It’s a thoroughly life-affirming experience. Simply being in a room full of people and activity is enough to boost my morale beyond measure.  I’ve missed this so much...

Summer Vibrance

After Lyon, it’s straight back to work. I normally take a 'buffer' day of leave but there’s no need on this occasion. The work load is less intense now that most colleagues are away. Plus the countdown to my next, longer summer getaway is already on. No time to waste.

I do indulge in an afternoon off on Friday (technically I’m only at work one and half days that week). It comes in handy. Pete, my good friend and writing-accountability partner, will be visiting that weekend. Fresh from celebrating his 50^th in the UK, he’ll be passing by Strasbourg via Basel, where he’s spending time with an old acquaintance, Gregory.

That Saturday I’ll be entertaining them both. The plan is to do one of the great free city tours and come back to mine for dinner.

I use Friday afternoon to stock up on supplies in Kehl. Pete’s diet is restricted to fish and veg. Greg is less of a challenge. I prepare my signature mixed-meat tagine for Greg and I, baked salmon for Pete and well-preserved remnants of my mum’s jolloff rice and akara bean cakes for all.

The morning of their arrival, I’m still running around like a loon in pursuit of groceries that I haven’t been able to get my hands on. It’s making me grumpy. Jesus’ admonition to Martha comes to mind; albeit a very different context.

Just before 1pm, Pete and Gregory rock up in their rental; a metallic burnt-orange coloured vehicle. Hard to miss. They’ve been taking it in turns on the road. Seasoned driver Pete is still adjusting to manoeuvring on the left. After parking the car, they pop to mine for tea. There’s not much time for anything else before we have to leave for the tour.

I suggest they get a feel for public transport. The car stays in my residential parking lot all afternoon.

En route to the tour’s starting point at the Cathedral, Pete catches me up on the latest news about his charity walk. He’s raising funds for the school he intends to set up in South London. He intends to cover 1000 km over the summer. To chart his progress, he takes pictures in various locations holding up flash cards with the date, the distance covered that day and a map of the relevant country. He and Greg have already done a fair bit in Switzerland and have plans to continue. Pete concludes that we’ll cover a good distance on the tour and strolling around town. I’m happy to offer moral and financial support but have never been keen on the idea of being sponsored. As a compromise, I agree to the photo opp.

The weather is kind to our itinerary.  The tour is guided by yet another charismatic young Alsatian, Leo. I’m impressed by his powers of concentration. He has to contend with more interruptions than usual. A Gilet Jaune protest over the police-related death of Steve Maia Caniço, a covers band performing in Place St. Etienne… Leo takes it all in his stride, literally. Although I’ve done the tour on a previous occasion with mum and sis, it’s a good refresher. Each guide has their own style and different points of emphasis. No two outings will be the same.

Tour over, plans for a cool drink at Oh My Goodness! café come to nought. They’re closed for summer.

In any case, we’re all a bit hot and tired. It’s back to mine for supper. To my relief, the two men are very satisfied with all the grub on offer. During dinner, Pete poses searching eschatological questions. Yours truly segues to uncomfortable passages in the Torah. Christian engagement in the fight for social justice is also a recurring theme of the day. We share accounts of having survived cult-like churches. It's not all heavy or theological though. We compare living standards in the UK and Europe, different approaches to tax and the Swiss' intolerance for jay-walking. After the main meal, Pete and I read each of our latest flash fiction pieces to Gregory and exchange feedback.

Pete is one of my favourite people; one of the few with whom I can truly be myself. I’m grateful we have been able to socialise in the Strasbourg context, no matter how brief.

Early evening. Basel awaits. It’s time for the two friends to be making tracks. Gregory finishes off his (store-bought) raspberry tart. Paul sticks to a mini choc ice whilst I wrap his lemon dessert for the road. I accompany them as far as L’Orangerie before bidding a fond farewell.

The next day after church, I meet up with Serafine at Gare Centrale. Her daughter is at a summer camp and she’s just dropped off some guests. 

Half-Austrian, Half-Gabonese and based in Kehl, she’s invited me to an African Music Festival in a charming small German town. Serafine is especially looking forward to the headline act; Gambian singer/songwriter and kora virtuoso, Sona Jobarteh. The three hour drive there and back will give us plenty of time for conversation. Serafine puts me through my linguistic paces. We always broach thought-provoking topics. Yet she is encouraging and patient and my confidence grows in her presence.

On arriving at the festival, it’s a rude awakening to find that entry is not free. Neither is it cheap. I’m used to community festivals and/or those that have a tier system. But there’s no turning back now. As I’m bringing out my wallet, Serafine offers to pay and won’t take no for an answer. Fortunately for us, one of her generous male acquaintances pays for both our tickets.

To my delight we’ll soon be joined later by my Strasbourg bestie, Gael and his childhood chum, Agnès. Unimpressed by the beer festival they have just attended in a Strasbourg suburb, they hit the motorway to the Afro-Fest. 

Despite their similar Afropean backgrounds and moving in the same circles, it's the first time Serafine and Gael are meeting. They get on like a house on fire. Gael has that effect on folk.

It’s the third and final day of the festival. It’s ‘African’ in the loosest sense of the word; at least as far as music policy is concerned. A female impersonator of advanced years (whom I suspect of skin-bleaching) does an hilarious, heavily-accented cover of Tina Turner’s Simply The Best; signature dance moves et al. Some adorable youngsters -ranging from tots to teens -perform a traditional dance before bizarrely switching to The Black Eyed Peas’ Where is the Love?. Not speaking any German, I haven’t a clue what instigates the change in tone. I don’t want to keep asking Serafine to translate. 

Sona’s headline set is preceded by a German ska-band. We eat mediocre crèpes and over-priced traditional West African dishes whilst we wait for the main act.

I observe the festival’s demographic as the audience slowly but surely drips in. Despite the German reputation for being cold and reserved, this is a far less inhibited crowd than what I'm used to in Strasbourg. It's also quite diverse. Your 'average' German rubs shoulders with hippies and the Afrocentric. 

Other clichés abound, however. You have your dread-locked, white bo-ho types. One woman walks around in what I assume is a very loose halterneck underneath the baby-carrier strapped to her chest. I soon realise she's topless. Only her infant comes between her breasts and the elements (this doesn’t wholly prevent some spillage, mind you). 

There are plenty of proud African men with their European wives/girlfriends in tow; sporting blonde braids and wearing matching wax or kente.

Sona Jobarteh @ The Emmendingen African Festival, August 2019
(c) Gilles Dolatabadi

There are comparatively few women of African descent in the vicinity. A few are selling their wares or mingling in the crowd. 

You could count them all though, jokes Serafine. 

Even at an African culture festival we’re all but invisible.

Some consolation can be found in the fact that the festival is being closed by a strong, talented and resourceful African woman. Sona graces the stage with a regal presence, resplendent in a native red and gold ensemble; her heavy-looking kora strapped to her front (occasionally swapped for the guitar). She has the sharp, figure-eight curves I see on few other women. A little bit of representation goes a long way.

Gael is smitten. He claims her as his wife. Agnès and I threaten to tell his boyfriend, Patric.

T'inquiètes. I’ll just tell him I found better!

I watch with a mix of admiration and unease as Sona pushes past the pain barrier to pluck intricate melodies on her chosen instrument. She does call-and-response stand-off instrumentals with her effervescent percussionist, who habitually challenges his fellow musicians and the audience to keep up. Sona welcomes her son on stage to play the balafon; an African xylophone. The bashful but focused young gent holds his own. He is a pupil at a school Jobarteh has established in Gambia, where local children are immersed in their culture and history alongside standard academic subjects. It’s a superb initiative which she hopes will spread across the continent.

During a rendition of the ode she wrote to celebrate the country's 50th anniversary of independence, Sona calls out to her compatriots. They have shown up in full force to support. There are probably more Gambians present that evening than I’ve come across cumulatively. So elated are they to be represented by their countrywoman, a number of them leap on stage before being ushered away by sluggish security.

Gael is not amused to see other suitors vying for his would-be spouse’s affections.

Is this how they carry on in the Gambia? He says, with mock-indignation. I’m going to write a strongly-worded letter to the embassy!

The feverish atmosphere is contagious. I dance to the very end despite my aching legs. Our group hangs around to chat, take pics (Gael) and stalk Sona (Gael again). 

Unlike me, Serafine has work in the morning.  She nonetheless kindly offers to drop me off home.

At last, we head to her car. A parking ticket has appeared on her windshield. She shrugs it off.

An hour-and-a-half later of deep discussion on the road, and it’s after midnight by the time I step through the door.

Soundtrack: Tabansi Records Sampler– Various Artists (BBE Records)

* LVS will be on a summer break until September. Bel été ! *