Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part II

 7 min read

Part I

Inside Faro Cathedral 
(image: Expedia)

By the next day, I’m familiar enough with my surroundings to avoid the unnecessarily circuitous routes to Faro city centre. I still take the occasional wrong turn but I’m quickly able to rectify my path. Besides, getting lost is part of the adventure.  I try but fail to resist the urge to scratch furiously at my mosquito bites. Despite diligent application of my roll-on repellent, the critters have chewed up the fleshiest parts of my legs.

On my jaunts, I’m in the habit of greeting locals in a way I wouldn’t in the UK, France or Belgium. At least not consistently. Faro has quite a friendly atmosphere, something I’ve picked up on previous trips to Portugal.

As also observed in other major Portuguese cities, the Black presence is well-established in Faro. There is scarcely the kind of othering that one might experience in certain contexts; even next door in Spain. I greet my fellow Afrodescendants with a nod and ‘Bom dia’ or ‘Boa tarde’. I spark conversation with folk of Mozambican or Cape Verdean heritage in shops and restaurants. One day, when my Portuguese skills are more assured, I’ll have more in-depth conversations about multiculturalism from their perspective. If there were one other country in mainland Europe with which I’d experiment taking up residence, it would be Portugal. At the same time, I don’t want to be naïve. It was also a major empire that held on viciously to its former colonies. It’s one thing to dip in and out as a tourist, and another to immigrate.

It’s yet again a glorious day; nothing like the Novembers to which I'm accustomed, even compared to when I was last in Portugal around this time of year. I have on my sight-seeing list mainly holy sites; Faro Cathedral, São Pedro church and the morbid Igreja do Carmo; the one with all the bones.  São Pedro is a hop and a skip away from my accommodation but is closed when I first stop by. Same for the Igreja do Carmo.

I therefore take a leisurely stroll to the Cathedral. I’ve noticed en route that Faro has a surfeit of beauty clinics; so many in such close proximity that I wonder how business remains viable. Perhaps the Faronenses still consider grooming a priority, despite these economically straitened times.

The animated fellow at the Cathedral’s ticket office  - fresh from ending what sounded like a heated phone conversation - goes on about the 'bargain' five euro entrance fee. I think. My Portuguese still isn’t as advanced as it should be. That I find the Brazilian variety much more pleasing to - and easier on - the ear than the European, only adds to the challenge. However, I still have enough of the language to feel at ease in the country and make my way around without difficulty. If I miss much of what the receptionist has said, the practice is still valuable. He offers me a guide in Portuguese which I gladly accept.

I usually don’t like to pay to enter churches but I make an exception. The interior of the Cathedral is inviting, if a bit gaudy - as these gilded Roman Catholic spaces often are. There are entire walls made up of azujelo; artisanal blue tiles, for which Portugal is famous. I’m surprised this area haven’t been cordoned off like other parts. I reach out to touch one wall and notice how brittle the tiles are. I’m suddenly overcome with emotion; as if their fragility reflects my own. 

Adjacent to the main chapel is a modest-sized museum, housing sculptures, slightly damaged portraits of various apostles and miscellaneous church regalia. Not for the first time, the latter unnerves me. I wonder how Jesus, a humble carpenter who epitomised simplicity during His earthly ministry, came to be associated with such pomp. A sincere desire to offer God the best became an end in itself.

I complete my visit with what I’m most interested in; the view from the bell tower. It doesn’t disappoint. I sit down on a piece of elevated stone, which appeases my mild vertigo but still affords me a decent view of the city from on high. The half-hourly gong of the bell is pretty formidable at this close distance, as is to be expected.

Feeling more and more confident about my navigation skills, I return to some of the areas covered on the tour the previous day.

I plan to finish up at the Skull Church, en route to my accommodation. Not before stopping off to replace my broken suitcase; an additional expense I do not need. 

I stop off at São Pedro’s - now open - for a few serene moments. An elaborate choral soundtrack, similar to that I heard playing in the Cathedral, streams through the church speakers at a low volume.

When I arrive at the Igreja do Carmo, I’m told it’s cash entry only. Having used up all my change, I’m not about to be ripped off by one of the many nearby commission-charging ATMs. I take it as a sign. I already had doubts about this macabre detour. 

After a pit stop back at the accommodation, I return to the bay to catch another splendid sunset.  I hope to spend a couple of hours at the waterfront before making my way to a free early evening Jazz jam, held in a bar-cum-arts centre in the vicinity. It’s the same kind of event I’d attend in any city I’ve lived in. I don’t know. These shows have a way of finding me. 

A solo guitarist has replaced the duo busking at the bay the day before. I intermittently swap between my own playlist and listening to his covers of Sting, Grover Washington Jr, The Cranberries and Prince. He’ll also be at the same location the next day, adding George Michael to his repertoire.

(image: Deposit Photos)

It soon becomes too cool to continue sitting by the bayside and the venue won’t let punters in before showtime. Hungry, I decide on an early dinner at a restaurant recommended by the tour guide. I can’t visit Portugal without sampling some of the local catch. For a while, I’m the only customer. The young mulatto waiter tells me it’s typical of the low season. I order some vegetable soup and a piping hot cod gratin with shrimp and a side of salad, on the waiter’s recommendation. Having cleared my plate, I have no regrets.

The Jam is in full swing by the time I arrive. A drums/keys/guitar/double-bass quartet combo is on stage, occasionally swapping musicians in and out.

There are no free tables, although a few spare chairs are scattered around. I pull one up. At an adjacent table a young lady, sitting with a sardonic-looking older man, sucks on an e-cigarette. (The establishment’s smoking policy is pretty lax). Her dress is so short that when she stands up, the gusset of her tights is on full view. A red-faced young woman behind me interrogates an androgynous-looking individual, in loud accented-English, about their relocation directly from Nigeria to Portugal. She speaks with an aggressive friendliness particular to inebriation. 

I’m eventually invited to join the table of a Colombian couple, Jose and Alicia, with whom I’ve struck up a conversation. It seems impolite to refuse, even if I dislike being the third wheel. Oddly, the conversation stops once I join them.

One of the guitarists is Alicia’s tutor. Whilst he has his moments, he doesn’t always blend well with the other musicians.

The couple disappear before the end. Showtime is over at a very respectable 9pm on what is, after all, a school night. I recall the advice I received on the evening of my arrival to avoid staying out beyond 10pm.

On the way back to my accommodation, I notice a young man from the audience walking in a slight zig-zag ahead of me. He stood out when I heard him speaking with a native English accent. He also bears a resemblance to French singer/songwriter, Julien Doré.  When I see him make a left turn towards the pier, I quicken my steps to follow suit. It’s poorly lit and I can’t see well without my glasses. When he walks a little too gingerly towards the edge, I shout to get his attention. 

Hey, hey!

I ask his name. He doesn’t want to divulge it. 

I’m just checking you're all right.

No, I’m okay, really. Just about to have a beer.

Oh well, fine. Jesus loves you...Umm...The universe would miss you if you weren’t around.

(I normally hate the vague, new-agey reference to 'The Universe'. In this case, I mean it in terms of the entirety of God’s creation)

Thanks for your concern. Really.

I continue on my way but then get it into my head that he could have been lying. I rush back. I can only make out treacherous shadows, before I see a young couple sitting calmly at the same spot. Tired and panicky, my Portuguese is especially garbled. They ask me to switch to English. If it weren’t urgent I’d insist otherwise. I ask if they’ve seen a man with long curly blond hair. They point unhurriedly to a dark mass lying on the pier. He overhears my concern and thanks me once again for checking up on him. Relieved, I return to my room with a clear conscience.

Faro Beach
(image: Travel in Portugal)

The last full day of my Faro trip, the weather begins to feel a bit brisk. Rain is forecast the following day, when I’m due to fly back to Brussels.

In the meantime, in light of the slight temperature drop, I’m second guessing my choice to spend a day at Faro beach. A very cheap and cheerful round trip by boat will have me there in 20 minutes. 

I’ve already made up my mind, so power through. I’ll be glad I did. It’s a wonderfully serene, not to mention temperate day by the coast. Being off-peak, the beach is far from crowded. It’s mainly smatterings of folk like myself, strolling along the coastline or a few going for a swim. A woman in a skimpy bikini dips her giddy toddler into the water.

The beach is so tranquil, that mine are the only footsteps I see in the sand for some distance. I park myself under a beating sun, tempered by the sea breeze. Apart from being beset by pesky flies, I spend a mellow afternoon reading, meditating or listening to podcasts at leisure, before returning on the last boat to catch the sunset in Faro city. I linger until it becomes too nippy to remain in one place.

I round off my sweet Portuguese parenthesis with some traditional barbeque chicken - or churrasqueira - in the neighbourhood.

Soundtrack: I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali and the Better Days EP by Tom Misch.

Um Parêntese Portugûes: Part I

5 min. read

(image courtesy of Viator)

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. 

Part II

Soundtrack: Thriller and Bad by Michael Jackson; I Won’t Say I’m Not Hurting by Boddhi Satva; Candle Flame (Opolopo Remix) by Jungle; Options by Bluelab Beats feat. Farah Audali

The Thrill is Gone

7 + 1/2 min. read

On an otherwise uneventful morning in late January, I receive a notification from the Belgian tax authority that I have some incoming correspondence. Unnerved, I log into the convoluted electronic system to see what awaits me. To my horror, I discover that according to the Kingdom of Belgium, I owe 1200 euros for the tax year 2022.

I search the document for any inconsistencies. (Even in English, it would be difficult wading through the jargon). Surely, there must be some mistake. I was unemployed for the whole of 2022, when I wasn’t on sick leave for suspected burnout. I’m thrown into a panic. I plan to call the tax office at the nearest convenience. In the meantime, I message the leader of my church home group to ask for some well needed corporate prayer and any practical advice. A few members contact me privately. Aussie Joe sends me information about a department that takes care of expat enquiries. Alana, originally from Germany, reassures me that this sort of thing has happened to her a number of times before. Don't worry, she says, it has always resolved in her favour.

Alas, I am not so fortunate. Apparently, even unemployment and incapacity benefits are taxable in Belgium beyond a certain threshold. The irony is, when I was employed, it was the state that consistently owed me. It’s perhaps an even bigger irony, or rather a flagrant contradiction, that only last year I was considered eligible for assistance with essentials like commuting costs, precisely because my income fell below a certain threshold. How can I be too poor for one but ‘comfortable’ enough to be taxed for the other? This bloody country. Its notoriously eye-watering tax rates would be tolerable if residents could see where the hell the funds were invested. Instead, basic infrastructure such as pavements are in a sorry condition (step out at your own peril), state departments are underfunded (as I have discovered, to my detriment) and Brussels has a chronic homelessness problem.  

I am so distraught, I burst into tears on the phone. I am told that even if I am able to pay in instalments, it’s still to be settled within a year. The timeframe could possibly be extended but not without filling out a lot of paperwork. In any case, it’s already been a struggle recently to stay on top of my most important bills.  How am I supposed to find the extra cash to settle this unjust debt? The customer service agents offer no consolation. At least they are professional and polite; not a given in Belgium.  

I am at a loss. For a variety of reasons, I don’t want to burden my family with this. (I do eventually open up to them. I'm not great at hiding things.)

I feel stifled by the pressure. I start to experience a violent resentment towards the country that has been my home for the last three and a half years. Before, when asked what I thought of life in Belgium, I would hesitate to answer. So much has been framed by relocating here during the early days of the pandemic and various other challenges. There were things that I felt were far more retrograde than the UK - for all its faults - as is the case for much of Continental Europe. And yet, nowhere is perfect, I would say. At least I don't have to live like a perennially broke student in Mainland Europe, with rent and commuter costs far more approachable than in the Big Smoke. There are also aspects of Brussels living that I have enjoyed and indeed, remind me of the best elements of London life.

After this tax debacle, my feelings move from ambiguity to ambivalence, if not outright animus. It feels like Belgium has taken from me more than I had to give. On almost every significant metric, be it personal, relational or professional, I have experienced more disappointment than I care to mention. Basta. At what point do I start to accept it’s been a failed experiment? That perhaps God's will has moved in a different direction and left me behind? Maybe the time has truly arrived to start planning an exit strategy, albeit with reluctance. At this juncture it would be a leap into the unknown and not in the optimistic sense.

To add to the growing list of ironies, an acquaintance who works for a local arts and entertainment channel finally uploads an interview he recorded of me a year ago. The timing of its release couldn't be more strange. Not only is much of the information now out-of-date, if not obsolete, it's edited to look like I'm having the time of my life in Brussels.

Unconsciously, I return to the melancholy œuvre of Chet Baker. As he croons The Thrill has Gone, I can’t help but think how apposite it is to my current life season. Likewise for Everything Happens to Me.

Not for the first time, I weep hot tears in my therapist’s office. It’s been so long since I’ve been able to book an appointment because of my straitened circumstances, that I have a stockpile of grievances to work through.  Earlier that week, I also share my discontent with my life coach, Pieter. In a rare show of unguardedness, he intimates his own strong reservations about Belgium. Being a Dutchman, I assumed it would be less of a culture shock for him. I couldn’t be more wrong. The differences between Holland and its neighbour are as stark as night and day, Pieter explains. As we try to work out together how I move on from this life impasse, his suggestions give me much food for thought.

I wish I could say I find solace at church. The continued silence over, if not implicit support for the murderous campaign of the Israeli government in Palestine has become untenable.  I am even more selective about what church activities in which I participate at this sensitive juncture. I avoid anything that might provoke a strong reaction.

Still, the risk remains of exposure to some inanity about geopolitics. At the end of a prayer meeting in early February, we’re asked to pray for Israel, the ‘peace of Jerusalem’ and the release of Israeli hostages. Nary a word about the potential annihilation of Gaza. I am disgusted not only by the blatant bias of the request but the equally misguided response. Of course, I attempt to bring a corrective with my own prayers but it’s telling that I should have to. I hotstep it out of the meeting ASAP. I choose not to hang around for phatic conversation with those for whom I’m rapidly losing respect.

Even a basic Sunday service is a struggle to sit through, nowadays. Last year, Pastor Mike seemed to be turning a worthy corner. Lately, with the church growing exponentially, he's resorting to soundbites, oversimplification - or worse - thoughtless generalisations.

Meanwhile, as I participate in secular political events, I witness people who, whether they have a faith or not, are to my mind, doing God's work. Nobody is perfect. Yet, in these contexts I am surrounded by people who care deeply for justice, the way that Christians are called to do throughout scripture. These spaces seem more real to an extent than the churchy enclave on a Sunday.

I open my heart in a candid email to one of my spiritual mentors, Vinoth Ramachandra. He is also exasperated by the mainstream Church’s reaction to the injustices in Palestine…

"...I'm really struggling on an existential level with all of this" I write "particularly the complicity of the mainstream Church... Of course, there are exceptions and I'm blessed and comforted when I come across Christians showing solidarity with Palestinians. I respect Pope Francis for calling a spade a spade. However, as you know, it's shamefully rare, even amongst some Christians who'd otherwise consider themselves on the margins. Apparently, even the leader of the biggest Christian denomination speaking up isn't enough. I think of the double-standards regarding the reaction to Ukraine. I'm sickened and disillusioned. I feel more isolated from and disenchanted with the capital-C Church than ever. It's not so much a crisis of faith, as a crisis of belonging and community.

…I'm struggling to engage at all... My pastors are of mixed heritage from South Africa. Both grew up under Apartheid, so it's not unfamiliar to them, although they would have been very young. They are certainly old enough to remember the before and after. The husband won't even use the word Apartheid to describe the regime under which he lived; he tiptoes around it with euphemisms.

...[Neither of them] - to my knowledge - has openly commended the honorable actions of their native country nor spoken out in solidarity with the Palestinians and denounced Zionist ideology… There is also at least one member of my church of Palestinian origin. What about his people? His humanity?  Church feels like a charade; a bubble disconnected from the real world and real life concerns. When I'm on [Palestinian] solidarity demos or in similar spaces, there's hardly a Christian presence, if at all. Attending church these days feels like I'm an accomplice to the madness...It's not as simple as switching to a different fellowship. It's not as if I don't visit other churches for a change of scene. The mainstream Church seems to be so co-opted by Babylon, moving elsewhere won't change that. It's not a decision I take lightly but if I had a genuine alternative, I would seriously consider it.

My pastors are decent people with good hearts. Unfortunately, I've long detected a lack of courage, such as the rather restrained response to other valiant protests - if not tacit hostility. I'm highly frustrated by this apparent cowardice and hope for a time to speak to them about it tactfully.

All it takes for evil to prevail...

Anyway, thanks for being one of those refusing to keep silent or justify the unjustifiable. It truly helps keep me sane and hopeful…"

What small spiritual comfort I find is experienced in more intimate settings; my own personal prayer time or one-to-one with friends in the faith. If I'm disenchanted with the Church, my conviction that Christ is a loving Saviour who values the life of all people equally is stronger still. I pay a couple of visits to Alana, who is recovering from a nasty skiing injury she suffered over the festive period. I nevertheless studiously avoid talk of the Middle East. The German state’s historically complicated relationship with the Jewish people and Israel, as well as its disregard for Palestinian life, has had a noxious effect on the mindset of much of its population. Germans with otherwise ‘progressive’ views, leave a lot to be desired when it comes to Justice for Palestine. I’ve learned the hard way.

Returning to the tax scare, there is some reprieve when I receive a one-off commission courtesy of a good acquaintance of Pieter's; by sheer coincidence, or rather God-incidence. This client is unaware of my tax woes. He merely has a lot of money to spend before the funding deadline closes on his latest social entrepreneurial project. After some negotiation, we agree on a fee that just about relieves the tax debt, even if there's not much left over for anything else. Thank God for small mercies, and all that.

Soundtrack: Galatea by IkeN, Chet Baker Sings

Une Touche-à-tout Incorrigible...and Proud of It

 6 min. read

One sure sign of the advent of Spring is that my diary fills up with no great effort on my part. Not that I’m ever at a loss of what to do. Je suis touche-à-tout incorrigible et j’en suis fière. Staying busy for me is not a form of avoidance. I am able to sit with uncomfortable feelings if need be. It does help me to avoid being consumed by them, however.

Towards the end of February, I have a couple of interviews within the same week. If I look at the cup as half-full, at least it shows I’m still an attractive prospect to recruiters. Alas, the most recent callbacks have been for unfulfilling roles that are not well paid, and/or I have it on good authority that the working environment is unpleasant. 

I still give it my best as I’m wont to do. The first interview for a Christian NGO, goes well; enjoyable even. Some of the questions take a philosophical slant. I manage to hide my wariness, based on what I’ve heard on the grapevine about high turnovers and a volatile GS. The other interview later that week is online and, well, a bit strange. It must go down as one of the shortest I’ve ever attended; 10 minutes of questions, if I’m being generous. The rest is spent discussing the practical aspects of the role. 

At some point the panel inform me that the role will begin on part-time (50%) hours and salary; roughly the same, if not less than unemployment benefit. This is a detail that has been studiously omitted from the vacancy on the organisation’s own website. I already had reservations about the job. The post itself is good but I’d struggle to be motivated by the organisation’s main campaign area. There’s a damned-if-I-do/damned-if-I-don’t aspect to both these employment prospects. In the end, the decision is made for me. Neither of them translate into a job offer. 

I’ve now reached a juncture where the adage (incorrectly) attributed to Einstein is becoming more pertinent. Something needs to change but I don’t know what and how. To complicate matters further, my attempts to obtain justice from the Belgian state against my former General Secretary for moral harassment leads nowhere after months of investigation and – to my mind – damning evidence. I can take small comfort in pursuing it as far as I could go, despite not having the means for legal support, my union’s refusal to support me and everybody from former so-called friends and my own mother wanting me to drop it. I feel overwhelmed, trapped and furious with God. I am not here because of any misdemeanour on my part. Even if there were, I could appeal to Divine Mercy.

So yep, staying busy prevents me going over the edge.

Solidarity demo for migrants
(image courtesy of Sudinfo)

I spend a few weekday evenings in February at coordination meetings for the launch of my Church, FWM’s compassion ministry; a pilot social action/justice project. 

I attend a fascinating debate on the ongoing crisis in Eastern Congo one evening at a VUB campus. I’ve been invited by one of the organisers, Elisabeth -or Lisa - an eloquent human rights lawyer. We meet at another highly informative event by the Belgian Workers’ Party (PTB) on ‘uberisation’ and the gig economy in Belgium.

The discussion about the present Congolese conflict and the interference of international actors becomes heated. One Belgian gentleman’s remarks have such a neo-colonial undertone, the panel – not to mention many of us in the audience – aren’t sure whether he’s earnest or a troll. His exquisite significant-other – resembling a cocoa-coloured Joan Collins – keeps trying to catch my eye. My shallow admiration for her incredible bone structure turns to suspicion as she appears to be supporting her husband’s questionable POV. I refuse to meet her conspiratorial gaze.

I show solidarity at demos in early March for Migrants Rights and to commemorate International Women’s Day. I confess to being frustrated with my current level of activism. The symbolism of street demonstrations is all well and good but I’m on the lookout for opportunities to make a long term tangible difference.

My spiritual mentor Vinoth pays a visit to the low countries around the same time. He’s staying with a friend in Antwerp but has some business in Brussels, including catching up with me. 

The day he arrives, it’s sunny with a strong chill. 

I book us a place on a walking tour. Vinoth wants me to show him the city. I’d prefer to leave it to the professionals. The tour guide doesn’t keep things moving along fast enough for Vinoth. He’s eager to pull away from the group to find somewhere warm to sit. After a few attempts to convince him to wait it out, I concede. 

Later that evening, Vinoth has another engagement at the Anglican church Holy Trinity Brussels, where I also occasionally attend services. As he’s not familiar with the city, I accompany him to HTB. It’s an excuse for more quality time. En route, we debate the benefits of observing Lent (he being a sceptic, me fully convinced). 

Vinoth has been invited to discuss his oeuvre, Subverting Global Myths which is the HTB book club’s reading choice for the next quarter. We’re ushered to an upper room by a kindly minister, Pieter and Ronal, the book club facilitator. Vinoth talks me up to them - even though we’ve only all just met – mentioning that I’m in transition professionally. Both Pieter and Ronal are well connected to the NGO sector, it turns out.

Cook & Book literary complex, Woluwe-St-Lambert
(c) by2photographers)

Elsewhere, I am approached by a freelance filmmaker acquaintance, Bonaparte.  He produces online content for a local news and entertainment channel. He wants to do a brief feature on my life as an expat in Belgium. I agree; more as a challenge to myself to do something new and potentially daunting. I’m initially reluctant for Bonaparte to film the main interview at my home but I eventually come round to the idea.

With the bulk of the conversation out of the way, we shift outdoors. Bonaparte takes numerous incidental shots in populated spaces, observed by a bemused public.

The shoot is spread over a couple of weeks. We agree that I’ll take Bonaparte to a couple of my haunts; a literary arts complex in my neighbourhood one week, and B-Mol’s dynamic Afro Jam the next. 

To my consternation, the latter appointment is more frustrating. B-mol is held up for unforeseen reasons and the event starts later than scheduled. 

Meanwhile, Bonaparte is in a hurry to film. He has a date lined up after the shoot. I’m annoyed. He shouldn’t have been so ambitious with his schedule. I worry he's putting undue pressure on the band to have me perform before everybody else. I don't require special treatment. For their part, B-mol and co are most obliging. I’m unhappy about this arrangement nevertheless and let Bonaparte know. 

The stress makes it harder for me to be as relaxed on stage as the previous occasion. I already have enough trouble remembering all the lyrics to my song of choice; Stevie Wonder’s Master Blaster. Quick glances at my crib sheet do little to fill in the gaps. I end up singing with lyrics in hand.

This mild ordeal over, to my surprise, B-Mol requests another. Before I can stop myself I suggest Could You Be Loved? It’s my favourite by Bob Marley but I’m even less sure of the lyrics than Master Blaster. Things turn more awkward still when we segue into Is this Love? and on B-Mol's request, Jammin’; another Marley favourite to which I can only mumble along at best. (I like the odd bit of reggae but I didn't exactly inherit my parents' fandom.) For a couple of the renditions, musically inclined guests provide impromptu harmonies for which I'm most grateful.

Bonaparte leaves for his rendez-vous shortly afterwards.

The rest of the night resumes its pleasantly febrile energy. By some coincidence, there are more Wailers’ covers to come, for which I’m not responsible this time. My mood starts to lift. It really is one of the best night’s out in Brussels; the only dubious aspects being white folk with blond dreads doing dodgy dance moves and me fluffing the lyrics on stage – again! - to Daft Punk & Pharrell’s Get Lucky.

On the way back home I stop off at a Jazz jam at Muntpunt Café. An unassuming young woman does a fine job working her way through some vocalised standards. As usual, the Jazz crowd’s reaction is too tepid for my liking. I come across a talented guitarist whom I routinely bump into at any number of open mic events. I recommend he pops down to the friendlier Afro Jam un de ces quatre.

Rushing to catch the last metro, somebody calls my name. It’s one of the regulars from the Red Cross. I give him a cheery wave before apologising for having to make a quick exit.

Soundtrack: É o que A Casa Oferece by Gabriel da Rosa, Medicine for My Pain and The Other Side by Lynden David Hall