Croatia Calls…Again: Part III

 

Diocletian's Palace (c) Day Trips from Split

Part I

Part II

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 TANGENT compilation feat. Various Artists + The Burning Bush: A Journey through the Music of Earth, Wind & Fire by DJ Harrison & Nigel Hall.

La Vie Continentale will return in the autumn.

Croatia Calls…Again: Part II

  6 + 1/2 min. read

Part I

 Riva Promenade, Split (Booking.com)

My itinerary is such that I have tours in various parts of Dalmatia scheduled most days. Saturday afternoon will be spent in Split main city. My plans for a nice lie-in are scuppered for a variety of reasons. Some unwanted life admin has landed in my inbox like a turd, weighing on me. There’s also a lot of ambient noise in the thin-walled hostel. Not entirely a bad thing. It can be comforting in its own way, except certain guests are oblivious (or inconsiderate) about their noise levels.

 

Stepping out into the sunshine, overlooking the beach a mere stone’s throw away, my spirits are immediately lifted. Somewhat spoiling the view are the tight bare cheeks of a male neighbour, standing naked without compunction on his balcony next to his fully-clothed significant other.

Whilst I’m yet to be as awestruck by my surroundings as when I stayed in Slano near Dubrovnik, it’s still a pleasing landscape. The water remains a crystalline aquamarine. The familiar pale terracotta-coloured rooftops come into view en route to Trogir.

On the bus, a mother and daughter throw several wary looks in my direction. Eventually, I try the charm offensive. I smile. This goes nowhere with the older woman. The adolescent girl only hesitantly returns my smile on the third attempt. My mind casts back to my conversation with Joe the night before. My previous experience on the Croatian coast lured me into a false sense of security.

Even having researched the journey, the distance from Trogir to Split is far longer than I envisaged. I was deceived by Seget Vranjica's proximity to the airport.

Despite setting out over half an hour earlier than necessary, to give myself that wriggle room, I still arrive in Split with roughly only 10 minutes to find the meeting location for the tour. To complicate matters further, the park is known by a different name to the locals. It’s not far but the nomenclature issue only adds to the confusion.  These are the rare occasions I miss not using a smartphone. 

When I eventually arrive at the venue, I meet other tour guides but none are the right one. I'll discover later that my guide and I did indeed miss each other.

I’ve come this far. I should make the most of the city, yet the disappointment saps me of the incentive. Another guide recommends I visit the Cathedral. The office is closed for lunch. Besides, I’m not a fan of paying for what should be sacred spaces, freely available to the public.

Nearby a quartet of elderly men dressed in traditional clothes sing in close harmony, acapella. I want to thank them monetarily for this unexpected morale boost but I’ve used up my change. I’m better off holding onto what cash I do have. Whilst cheaper than Dubrovnik, high local taxes mean that many establishments and small business owners prefer hard currency. Moreover, cash machines charge extortionate rates for withdrawing money. There are very few commission free options.

Trogir Marina (Tourisme Croatie)

I hang out for a bit in the Town Hall, asking the receptionist for local tips. In spite of my mood, I allow myself to get lost in the side streets of Split’s Old City. I discover a quiet church that is free to enter and the subterranean passage below the Diocletian Palace. I hear a lot more French and see a lot more Afrodescendants than in Trogir. 

The widespread proficiency in English is remarkable. More so than you’d find in France and outside of major Belgian cities (or even within some major cities). I hear the usual, less than convincing reasons: ‘We learned it from TV’ or ‘Nobody else speaks our language so we have to learn English’. Whatever. ‘It’s down to a good communist education’, I suggest to one very fluent shopkeeper.

Whilst I’m charmed by the limestone streets of this UNESCO-heritage site city, Split’s riviera is too Monte Carlo for my taste. One too many huge ocean liners, speedboats and other emblems of conspicuous consumption that I find grotesque. I have no regrets about not staying in Split-proper. Trogir has more appeal, the lack of diversity notwithstanding.

It’s a less stressful return ride from Split, not having anywhere in particular to be. Back at Trogir, I wander through the extensive farmers’ market next to the station and pick up a few useful items from the all-purpose German drugstore, DM. I decide to follow Martina the tour guide’s advice and get lost a little in the side streets, treating myself to some local sweetmeats along the way.

I realise it’s too late to enjoy a sit down meal and catch the last bus.  I grab some local food from a friendly take away en route to the bus stop. I hope for enough time to sit wistfully by the bay and admire the distant hills overlooking the turquoise water. Except the last bus is already waiting at the garage. I’m welcomed by the same friendly driver who dropped me off on the way from the airport. I’m only a couple of days into the trip but I can already observe a spectrum of reactions. On one end, the fetishised looks from old-timers and an unhealthy curiosity that verges on the rude; on the other, an effusive warmth.

Sunday has been set aside for a day of proper rest. No big excursions, just relaxing in my accommodation and enjoying the marina at the foot of the hostel. Yet, a few days into the holiday and I’m paying the price for self-sabotaging habits that I’ve allowed to leak into the holiday. Poor sleep hygiene means I’ve been passing out instead of going to bed. I'm up too late watching stimulating content and at the same time trying to maintain a version of my spiritual routine.

I don’t wake up as refreshed as I should be. It’s a wasted opportunity. If I can’t take it easy even on holiday, then that’s cause for concern.

I eventually unwind, filling up on some spiritual nourishment or pure entertainment online either in my room or on the beach front. The Seget bay is a lot busier than that of Slano, where I was able to find discreet little corners of paradise.  Heading to one of the beach bars, I again pick up on some peculiar reactions. One man keeps turning around furtively, giving me agitated looks as if we have unfinished business. Another lady stares and smiles, eventually making a heart sign. At this stage, I’m ambivalent about what should otherwise be an amicable gesture. There is zero diversity amongst this crowd. There wasn’t much, if any, at Slano either but it never felt like an issue.  

Seget Vranjica beach (courtesy of Croatia Gems)

After wasting 4 euros on a bland smoothie, I purchase pastries from a politely-staffed bakery and camp out at one beach bar with my laptop. The view from the shaded terrace is idyllic. The staff glance in my direction with mild irritation that I’ve ordered so few (non-alcoholic) drinks in the several hours that I’m there. It doesn’t help that they don’t accept card payments. 

Later that evening I venture to the other side of the bay to read, paddle and enjoy more of the view. It's still busy but the ambience is less tense. The clear waters reveal sharp rocks underneath. I'm nervous as hell to see kids horsing around, apparently unsupervised, even after dark. There appears to be no lifeguard, until a young man with 90s poster-boy looks manifests in the deckchair beside me.

Dinner that night is at one of the few nearby restaurants. The menu is varied and enticing but they're severely short-staffed. One customer takes out his loud frustration on one of only two waiters.  Opting to sit upstairs, I hope for a discreet table overlooking the marina but there are none available.

The staff are professional and helpful. Just seriously overworked. I jettison any ideas I’ve been entertaining for dessert. It’s hard enough getting somebody’s attention to settle the bill.

Soundtrack: John Gómez and Nick the Record present the TANGENT compilation feat. Various Artists

Part III

Croatia Calls…Again: Part I

 6 + 1/2 min. read

Seget Vranjica village near Trogir, Croatia (image: Croatia Gems)

It’s that time of year again. For my summer/birthday break, as usual, I’m looking for a change of scenery. The last few have been spent becoming acquainted with Eastern Europe. My first foray into this part of the Continent was visiting the Dubrovnik region in Croatia, for my 40th back in (still) COVID-afflicted 2021. I became instantly enchanted with the Croatian coastline. I knew I would return but wanted to be intentional about it. Otherwise, the lapse would be too long.

In the interim years, my summers have been spent inland. I’ve missed birthdays by the sea. Whilst I’m not a swimmer, there’s something about being near a vast body of water that helps put my soul at ease.  Last year, when visiting the Hungarian capital, I bumped into a fellow solo traveller who would go on to tour the former Yugoslavian coast. She mentioned Split. I made up my mind that that would be my next summer destination. Thank God, my financial situation has improved enough for this to be a reality. I find a very good deal on accommodation in the city's peripheries, close to the seafront.

I catch a flight at dawn to Split airport via Munich. On arriving, the warm climes, clear blue skies and eye-catching vistas instantly have me upbeat. I randomly spark a conversation with one of the few black faces I see around; a lad from the Caribbean, now based in Germany. His parents are in the military. He seems ambivalent about his adopted home. Keep your head up, I say. 

At the bus stop, I meet a portly young man in town for the Defective dance festival. Although I’ve never attended, I admire the musical taste of hunky Melvo Baptiste, one of the organising DJs. The coincidences don’t end there. It turns out this bus stop gent is a Bruxellois who happens to share the same postcode. He highly recommends Trogir, where I intend to spend a lot of time. I don’t take these fortuitous encounters for granted. I see it as akin to a Divine welcome. 

The first part of my journey to my accommodation, in the seaside village of Seget Vranjica, is straightforward. It’s a scenic route. We pass a number of marinas, heads bobbing up and down in the water. I wink at a little blonde girl on the bus, who returns my bonhomie with a dead-eyed, 50-yard stare.

From Trogir station to Seget Vranjica is less simple. Public transport is cost effective but infrequent. I find a bus driver who promises he’s heading in my direction. I’ve printed several possible bus routes but I have the ‘wrong’ one to hand. It’s through the kindness of surprisingly hospitable locals that I eventually find my way. A woman and her elderly mother welcome me onto the patio of their summer home, surrounded by vines and olive groves. One of their neighbours generously drops me off at the accommodation, refusing any monetary appreciation. 

I’m welcomed by one of the building managers, Sally. I'm ahead of check-in but later than I'd hoped to arrive. Sally's surprised I don’t use Uber and even more shocked that I don’t possess a smartphone. 

The hostel is a small complex of student-halls style accommodation; self-contained units with a communal kitchen. The best of both worlds. I can enjoy privacy without being cut off from civilisation. I have an intimate little room to myself with ensuite shower. It smells amazing when I arrive; just as I read in the reviews. It takes some getting used to the limited space but it’s fine as somewhere to sleep and shower. What I’ll soon come to discover, to my frustration, is how far Seget Vranjica is from Split; much closer to the airport than the city itself.

After a wash and a nap, I’m back out for a tour of nearby Trogir’s old town.  

Trogir Old City (courtesy of Pelago)

I rush to the bus stop, afraid I’ve missed my ride. Except it’s not me that’s late. I’m about to give up when I see a plush coach-like vehicle on the horizon. 15 minutes late, the bus gets me to Trogir just in time for the start of the tour. The guide, Martina, is a bright and genial local with spidery eyelashes, and several years experience in the tourist industry. The tour group is made up of a medical doctor from the US on holiday with her son; a painfully shy French-Canadian with an apparently very good command of the Serbo-Croat language, and a family now based in Argentina by way of the US and Brazil. 

Trogir is alive with touristic buzz. The town is pretty; a more compact version of rival Dubrovnik. Martina takes us through the history of Croatia’s occupation by numerous foreign powers and their diverse impact on custom and language (Ottoman Empire, the Venetians, briefly France and the Austro-Hungarian Empire). Like most of these tours, a little goes a long way. We take the scenic route around what’s barely a square mile, encompassing the Town Hall, St Lawrence’ Cathedral and the bayside promenade. 

Despite the tourism, the town hasn’t succumbed to the familiar gentrification. Hundreds of locals still live in the old town, laundry (in)famously drying outside their windows. Martina assures us the best way to appreciate Trogir is to get lost in its side streets. As if she read my mind. 

Towards the end of the tour, Martina opens up about the lasting traumatic legacy of the civil war. She grew up hating Serbs. One day her grandmother chastised her harshly, admonishing her not to judge a people by their bad leaders. Martina then shares an affecting, Good Samaritan-style family anecdote of when Serbs readily came to their aid in life-or-death circumstances.

Dinner is at one of only a couple of places that Martina would endorse (indeed, the cuisine will be one of the most underwhelming elements of this trip). As I settle the bill, another local starts speaking to me in fluid English extolling the virtues of the menu. ‘This is the best pizza in Dalmatia’, she boasts. She also happens to be a tour guide, coincidentally called Martina. She claims to be the former neighbour of her namesake, who is allegedly named after her. Whilst the younger Martina insists that Trogir has only recently become touristy, her elder strongly disputes it. ‘She grew up during the war’, she observes ‘we didn’t have much tourism then’.

Filip's Marina Taxi Boat, Croatia

There’s enough time between dinner and the last taxi boat to my accommodation for a leisurely stroll around the bay. A marching band passes the restaurant. On one end of the promenade, at the old fortress, there’s a Techno music festival. A few hundred metres away is a stage for free local events. Performers dressed in folk costumes play traditional music whilst young children, also in costume, stand mannequin-still in front of the stage. They look mortified, as if held hostage.

On the other side of the marina, I see a good-looking young black man coming in the opposite direction with whom I assume is his Caucasian girlfriend. Just as we pass each other, a voice carries over the wind.’How are you auntie?’.  

‘Did you just call me auntie, you cheeky monkey?’, I shoot back. And so we start to converse amiably. Contrary to assumptions, they’re step-siblings. Joe, the young man, was born in the Caribbean but moved to Ireland as a child. His step-sister, Zara is originally Croatian. Her mother married his dad and they were both raised on the Emerald Isle.  Neither is new to Croatia.

We chat about our affection for the region, lodging in remote places and me not possessing a smartphone. Joe asks if I’ve encountered any strange behaviour. It’s then I have to admit my reservations. On the bus from Split Airport, I couldn’t tell if the passengers were trying not to notice me or if I were being over-sensitive. Elsewhere, there have been a few stares. Then there was the stony-faced little girl. It’s the opposite of my experience in Dubrovnik and the surrounding areas. Where I expected some odd reactions, it was surprisingly welcoming. I also saw a lot more Afrodescendant tourists on that part of the coast.  I assumed the rest of the region would be the same. Joe is ambiguous himself, not sure whether these are stares of curiosity or hostility. Zara confesses that, after growing up in monocultural rural Croatia, she was scared on first meeting her step-family as a child.  We part ways, without sharing numbers. We’re in the region for roughly the same time. I suspect we’ll cross paths again.

The last taxi boat leaves at 10pm. I receive mildly askance looks from some other passengers. Nothing that will spoil the serene half-hour crossing, however. The sun sets noticeably earlier here than in North-West Europe. Now well after dark, the waves take on a black velvety effect. White and amber lights signal distant city life. The night sky is clear enough for the constellations to command my attention.

Part II

Part III

Soundtrack: John Gómez and Nick the Record present the TANGENT compilation feat. Various Artists

And It Came to Pass…

 8 min read.

(image of courtesy of Freepik)

June rolls around with little promise of sunnier climes. Still, I have reason for (nervous) excitement. At the start of the month, I begin my latest comeback to higher education. Days before I’m due to start, the administrative gremlins run amok within The University’s system. My supervisor, Brigitta, sends me a slightly panicked email that there’s an error with the start date of my contract. It’s been postponed by two weeks. Both Brigitta and I are keen that I begin ASAP. Apparently, one too many favours has been asked of the HR officer in charge of my file and she’s no longer inclined to oblige. Somehow, Brigitta manages to convince her otherwise.

I go on campus a day earlier than my agreed start date to sort out some more admin; collecting my staff badge and access gadgets. It’s a clever move, eliminating a needless layer of stress for my first official day. En route to the security lodge, I stumble across the student-led Palestine Solidarity encampments. Like many academic institutions across the Western world, students are embarking on a long occupation to convince The University to cut academic and commercial ties with Israel until it ends its policies of slaughter and oppression.

I make a mental note to pass by the encampment at a later stage for further enquiries. I don’t want to tarry in becoming active. At the same time, I’m circumspect as a new member of staff (PhD Fellows occupy a netherworld between student and personnel). I'm wary of discretion on account of my newness becoming an excuse for cowardice. Nonetheless, it’s important to understand the lay of the land first. Over the next few days, I note Palestine solidarity graffiti all over campus; scrawled on walls and across the tables in the large canteen, or large memorial murals visible from the main road. The University appears to be taking quite a relaxed attitude to the students exercising their freedom of expression. This is a stark contrast to the brute force unleashed by Belgian police during another peaceful, student-led protest in central Brussels earlier that month.

After collecting my staff badge and other essentials, I pass by Brigitta’s office to say a quick hello. We already have a more formal one-to-one arranged for the end of the week. I hear my name called. It’s one of my new colleagues, Geraldine. She has her own rendez-vous with Brigitta that afternoon. It’s the first time we’re meeting offline. Originally from Ghana, she’s relocated to Belgium after doing some further studies in Singapore. I ask how the flat hunting is coming along. Geraldine – or G, as she’s already affectionately known by the team – has joined forces with Elif, another member of our cohort, to look for somewhere to live in or close to Brussels. I’ve given them the best advice I can, which they receive with appreciation. In the end, for the sake of expediency, they settle for somewhere in Flanders; a bit of a commute from Brussels.

Brigitta finds us chatting away and gives us a brief tour of the Literature and Linguistics department  which we’re joining. Based on the sixth floor, our open plan office and kitchen spaces boast lovely views of The University’s verdant grounds.

Later that week, all four of our team of PhD fellows – Geraldine, Elif, myself and Janneke – originally from the Netherlands – will meet IRL for the first time at a department conference that Friday. The other three have already forged a good rapport. For various reasons, I initially feel a bit of an outsider; not least because of the unorthodox path that led to my acceptance on the programme. I’m pretty sure I’m also the oldest of the bunch. Nevertheless, everyone in the team is open and cordial. Over the course of the coming weeks, there will be various opportunities to share more about our diverse backgrounds. Elif, for example, already has familial connections to Belgium. Her mother, of Cypriot and Bulgarian heritage, is a Liegeoise born-and-bred. Geraldine is from the same part of Ghana as my maternal grandfather.

I meet colleagues from the wider department on an ad hoc basis. Things are already winding down ahead of summer, even if PhD fellows don’t strictly follow the usual academic year cycle.

Colleagues are kindly and ready to help, as I become accustomed to new ways of working and various other particularities. Whilst most of us are studying in English, Dutch is the administrative language of the institution. I have neither the time nor inclination to take Dutch lessons. What I cannot translate with Deep L, I ask my Flemish colleagues. I’m especially reliant on the help of the department’s (unofficial) Comms liaison, Karolijn. One of my roles as project coordinator is to help make our team’s research projects more visible online. We're part of - although still somewhat independent from - the wider research group, LILAC (Liminality in Literature Academic Centre). Karolijn patiently shows me the ropes during our shared office days. I try as much to be self-sufficient but am prudent enough to ask questions – of her, Brigitta or anybody else – if in doubt or fully at sea. 

 The month is busy with activities; interventions by world-renowned scholars, seminars, the first of many thoroughly stimulating book club-style theory and methodology workshops and an extravagant University-wide barbeque. There are also more spontaneous occasions to fraternise, like a lively discussion about contemporary Black women writers over lunch with Karolijn and others.

By the grace of God, I’m off to an upbeat start. If there is one thing that nags at me is the lack of diversity in the department. It shouldn’t come as a surprise, even in a context when so many are specialising in studies related to the African continent and its diaspora. Still, it’s one thing to grasp a fact only intellectually and another to be confronted by it. The department is 90% Caucasian, with a significant minority of Chinese students. Simply by recruiting Geraldine and me, Brigitta has pretty much doubled the presence of black fellows in the department.

Brussels is supposedly the second most multicultural city in the world (although I'd contend its cosmopolitanism seems more shallow than somewhere like London). Whilst this might be better represented in other parts of The University, it's not the case on our floor.  It only takes a cursory glance at the members’ section of the LILAC website to gauge that. The few times I cross paths in the corridor with other black women, it’s all I can do not pounce on them with gratitude. Thankfully, the response has been warm.

Palestine Solidarity encampments

I’m trying to be careful that my curiosity over other colleagues’ motivations for studying iterations of Black literature doesn’t turn into scepticism, if not cynicism. It's one thing if most of the fellows grew up in multicultural contexts, regularly exposed to literature from across the world. Instead, many have come from monocultural villages or small towns in Flanders or the Netherlands.

I don’t want to assume bad faith. It's possible that most take a genuine interest in these themes. Why shouldn’t indigenous Europeans care about cultures beyond their own? It's not just for Afrodescendants to study subjects related to our cultures. Neither should we be limited to that. And yet, academia is still a highly elite and colonial space that reflects – if not reinforces – many of the existing inequalities outside of its walls. How much is this literary fetishism, if not (unconscious) orientalism, I wonder? How much is it a case of some more affluent non-European students wanting to study in the West and exactly what they study is of less important?

I’m left questioning the general commitment to solidarity with the historically marginalised all the more following a discussion with another colleague, Trudi. She spots the Palestine badge on my raincoat and asks if I’m interested in joining the activities of staff sympathetic to the cause. I respond with enthusiasm. Trudi explains how staff hold their own weekly assemblies - in addition to the nightly ones organised by students. Trudi also disabuses me of any notion that The University is especially supportive of the cause. Rumour has it that they're engaging in a tactic of exhaustion, ignoring the students until they wear themselves out.

I also meet Benedict; an associate professor of Anthropology, who is public about his support for the encampments (he also happens to co-organise LILAC events with Brigitta). I am informed by both Trudi and Benedict that an open letter has been circulated just before my arrival. It was signed by hundreds of staff, including PhD fellows. However, to my disappointment -one that I readily share with Trudi - it is signed by very few within our faculty. I’m heartened to see Karolijn’s name amongst them, as well as that of Vision (originally from Zimbabwe, she’s one of the few black faces I’ve come across so far).

Outside of work, I share my reservations with loved ones. My friend Sylvia both challenges some of my assumptions and concurs with my questioning of motives. We can't rule out career advancement, she ventures. It’s possible some subjects are perceived as ‘sexy’ and du jour, especially post-2020 BLM uprisings.

Diversifying the department is not your particular fight, Sylvia admonishes, You have other avenues of activism. 

Give it time, she reassures, you have four years to see how the faculty evolves.

Towards the end of the month, I also have the opportunity to converse with one of the visiting professors; a respected UK-based academic of Afro-Caribbean heritage. Without me having to probe, she's candid about how isolating it can be as a black female academic working in Literary Studies. More often than not, she's the only brown face in the room. Whilst this in itself isn't reassuring, it's a great comfort to be able to speak to her candidly. Neither is she despondent. Notwithstanding structural barriers, she gently urges me to use my position in future to encourage young black students to consider a career in Literature. A commissioning of sorts.

Soundtrack: Happy by Yinkah, Matthew 4:19 by Lynn Nsongo, Surrender the Day by Jimetta Rose & the Voices of Creation, Tawk Tamahawk, Choose Your Weapon and Mood Valiant by Hiatus Kaiyote.