Urbex Stories: Abandoned Military Hospital, Antwerp - Part 1
I was getting desperate. I’d walked around the immense walled and building-rimmed grounds of the old hospital complex at least a dozen times looking for a way in, devoted a couple of days to it. I’d talked to locals, students, bought beers in the brown cafe, brought up satellite views of the grounds on the internet, even got some information from a creepy Israeli guy staying in the same room as me at the Boomerang hostel. Now my time was running out and before long I would have to move on from Antwerp if I wanted to keep to my schedule. If I was going to get into this place, it would have to be within the next couple of days.
I’d learned that the facility was a military hospital, built primarily during the mid-to-late 1800s, with extensive grounds now divided into three sections - one wing still active as a veterans’ hospital (largely WWII vets, and that wing will close when the vets eventually pass away), one section devoted to a post-graduate art college named HISK, and by far the largest section left to neglect and ruin. Unless one wanted to go in over a wall or via a private building, the only gate that accessed the abandoned section could itself only be accessed from the parking lot of the still active wing. At the far eastern end of that parking lot there were two gates, quite close to each other. The first led from the street to the active wing’s parking lot, and on the far side of that quite narrow lot the second gate, aligned roughly with the first, guarded the way into that area I most wanted to visit. There was another gate at the wing’s western end allowing entry to the same parking lot, and as far as I could tell that was it in terms of access points. I’d already visited HISK and gone so far as to introduce myself at their head office, getting permission to wander around. I’d even gone into one of the deepest buildings in their section, right next to the abandoned part of the hospital, and spent an hour or so in an amazing converted industrial studio space talking with Barthold, a student in casting bronze. He showed me how to cast bronze (a complicated procedure, by the way) but didn’t know any way into next door. I asked a couple more students with no luck and pretty much gave up on getting in through HISK. The rest of the perimeter was composed of ten or twelve foot high walls punctuated by rows of private residences and businesses.
Pondering this, circling the grounds once more at the end of another fruitless day, I made my way finally along Lange Leem Straat back towards the hostel and my favourite brown cafe, the Breughel. About two-thirds along that leg I passed a three-storey brick building flanked by a large black steel gate topped with spikes, at the moment standing open. I could hear the voices of children inside the building, and see through the gate across a rather depressing concrete playground to a low chainlink fence with a large hole in it. On the other side of that fence, the abandoned hospital. My watch made it about quarter after three. The sky suggested a storm was not far away - a certain flat grey-yellow quality to the light under a leaden blanket of uniformly dark grey low clouds. The impending storm coupled with my underdressing for one (just shorts and a t-shirt under a light jacket) lent motivation to my journey back to clean clothes, food, and beer. I was tempted to simply keep on going, but I didn’t. Instead I came to a decision, darted in through the gate, and hurried across to the hole in the fence. Fifteen minutes, I told myself, twenty tops. Let’s have at least a quick reconnaissance and consider it for tomorrow.
The hole opened onto a cracked and weed-infested concrete road that followed the inside of the perimeter wall. To my left, as I followed it, rose overgrown brick hospital wings, sprouting ferns and skirted by flowering lilacs. Broken windows and doors gaped and mawed with the darkness inside seeming absolute and more than a little menacing. Morning glory and wild grasses competed with the lilacs and shaggy, ungroomed trees for supremacy. The first few drops of rain spattered down and rattled on broad tree leaves as I continued down the road and then judged myself completely screened from my entry point, slowing to a stop for a smoke and to listen and absorb the atmosphere. Very quiet, just muted city sounds and the developing rain. Ahead was an overgrown greenhouse, beyond that a small clearing next to a dilapidated outbuilding with an open door. I carried on, getting out my camera and taking pics as I went, taking care to keep the rain off the camera lens.
Within very short order as the rain increased and the light diminished, I called it a day. Conditions were rapidly deteriorating, and it was getting late. I made my way back to the hole in the fence, ducked through into the playground, and immediately saw that the gate back to the street was shut, the playground was deserted, and I could no longer hear the sounds of children in the school building. Crossing to the gate and trying it confirmed my fears - it was locked and absolutely unclimbable. To my left was the school, its ground-level door standing open. I approached and looked inside, listening intently. On the far wall inside I could see part of a large, colourful poster made by children, foot-high black hebrew lettering surrounded by waves of painted red and yellow. No sounds.
I called out, “Hello?” Nothing. “Hello, is there anyone here?” Silence. I stepped inside, still calling out. To my right, a narrow staircase. I climbed it, making my presence known as I reached the second floor, and now I could hear something - low female voices filtering down from the top floor. To my left, a sizable room lined with rows of very diminuitive desks, hooks on the wall, cupboards and blackboards - definitely a school building. When I called up the final flight of stairs, the voices stopped suddenly and were replaced by the sound of soft footsteps. Two middle-aged women appeared at the top of the stairs, peering down. They wore headscarves and smocks, clearly cleaning women. I waved and smiled, “Hi. I bet you’re wondering what I’m doing in here. I hope you can help me. I’d like to get to the street. Is there a door?”
They exchanged glances, then shook their heads in unison.
“No door to the street? Only the gate, the locked gate?”
Nods.
“Really? No street door?” It seemed unlikely to me. What if there was a fire? But they kept nodding.
One of them spoke, a thick slavic accent framing broken english, “Yes, no door, only gate. We are, ah…” She made twisting motions with her right hand.
“Locked in?”
“Ah, yes. Locked.”
“When is the gate unlocked?” I asked.
“Ah, morning. Eight. O’clock. We are cleaning all night.”
“Is there someone we can call? Is there a phone?”
Another exchanged glance. “Ah, no.”
“No??”
“No.”
Hm. I looked at my watch again - almost four. That meant twelve hours. I didn’t have a cell phone, and even if I did who would I call? The police? To report that I had been locked into a Jewish primary school after trespassing? No, I just had to suck it up, convince these women that I was no threat, and settle in for a long and uncomfortable night. I could have been in much worse shape. I had no food or water of my own but there were sinks so I wouldn’t go thirsty. I had over a pack of smokes, gum, a book, my mp3 player, my journal, and my camera bag. I viewed it as a chance to do a lot of writing without distractions, trying to put a positive spin on it. The building itself was somewhat rundown, too, with plenty of textures to document with my camera. Time to make lemonade.
I explained my situation to the ladies, trying to emphasize that I would trouble them as little as possible. They visibly relaxed a bit as I talked, seeming to accept my story and willing to put up with me for the night. Could I smoke in here? Yes, they did. Okay.
I selected a desk suitable for a ten-year-old, poured half an inch of water in the bottom of a styrofoam cup to use as an ashtray, and opened my bag, pulling out my journal and my camera. Then I wandered around for a bit, taking a few photos, until one of the ladies noticed me doing it and asked me to stop. Okay, no photos. I could still write in my journal to start with, so I squeezed into the desk and began writing about my current situation.
I had only been writing for a few minutes when a young, orthodox Jewish man entered the room. Somber black clothes, black brimmed hat, forelocks, the works. He wore a friendly but curious expression on his face as he approached. I got up quickly, shook his hand, introduced myself and explained what I was doing there - my book project, my desire to take photographs of the abandoned hospital. He seemed interested but not especially concerned, more than willing to let me out for which I was intensely grateful. A couple of minutes later I was back out on the street, having promised that I would not publish the few photos I had taken of the inside of their school. Counting my blessings, I headed back towards the hostel through the rain.
