About an hour later, the soup kitchen opened for breakfast. Shafique and I staggered over to join the queue of dozens of men, all shivering and moving about to try to warm themselves. Shafique was still shivering, his teeth chattering. I don’t know how he’d managed to sleep.
At the soup kitchen shed, a sandy-haired Frenchman with a neat beard served me hot tea and a baguette with cheese. Gratefully, I cupped my hands around the mug of black tea. It was bitter and hot. I could feel it working its way down to my stomach, warming me from within. I loaded my cup with sugar until the lady behind the counter cleared her throat. Shafique savaged his piece of long bread.
‘This is good,’ he said, cheeks bulging.
‘How can you be so happy? We nearly froze to death.’
‘Yes, but we didn’t, did we?’
I took a bite of my bread. ‘Let’s find out what to do. I don’t think I can cope with another night here.’
We went over to where a group of migrants was huddled on boxes. The cardboard sheets were laid out in the same way that kilims and cushions would have been back home. This was the sunniest part of the park, and everyone was trying to get a little warmer from the few rays of wintry morning sun.
As we sat there, people who had been sleeping in different parts of the park, or the lucky ones from the shelter, came to join us. It took on a slightly jovial atmosphere despite the misery, reminding me of home, where people would congregate in the bazaar after breakfast, sitting with their backs against the walls of the shops as they caught up on the local gossip and politics of the day.
Shafique was talking to a fellow Afghan in a black woollen coat and jeans. I shuffled over to join them.
‘Gulwali, this is my friend, Jan. We travelled together from Greece to Italy. I lost him in Rome, and here he is.’
‘Pleased to meet you, Gulwali.’ I shook his warm hand. ‘Shafique told me about your night.’
‘Yeah. It was something else,’ I said, easing myself to the ground.
‘Have some blanket,’ Jan said, pulling a grubby white polyester cloth from beneath himself.
‘Thank you.’
Jan looked at me. ‘I feel like I know you from somewhere, Gulwali. Like I’ve seen your face at a wedding, or something. Where are you from? Who was your grandfather?’
I wasn’t thrown by this. Afghan men asking about lineage was a perfectly normal thing – in Afghanistan, we did it all the time. It was how we identified people.
We traded relatives back and forth until we worked it out: my grandfather and his father were cousins.
I laughed: that meant we were cousins. I was picking up a few of those on this journey. I thought briefly of Jawad, and wondered if he’d managed to leave Istanbul yet.
‘Nice to meet you. So what brings you here to Europe, cousin? Business or pleasure?’ I joked.
‘Ha ha.’ His laughter was genuine. ‘But I should be asking what you are doing here. You’re so young.’
At that my humour evaporated. I stared at my toes as I tried to find the words. ‘My mother sent me and my brother, Hazrat. It was too dangerous at home. My father and so many relatives are dead – killed by the Americans.’
‘I heard. I’m sorry – I got the news when I was in Peshawar. May Allah rest their souls in peace.’
‘Thank you.’
‘So where is your brother? Is he with you?’
‘I don’t know. I think he is in the UK now. I want to get there to be with him.’ It hurt me to say those words.
The events of the past drifted through my head like a strange dream. I think the others felt the same way, because we just sat in silence for the next few minutes.
‘Are you boys hungry?’ Jan clapped his hands together. ‘I know a nice place which is not too expensive.’
The three of us walked to a Turkish café, where Jan bought us dinner. It felt so normal that for once we weren’t looking over our shoulders, worrying if the police might appear. The locals went about their business without noticing us, and the man who ran the café served us kindly.
‘So, what is your plan now?’
Shafique’s cheeks bulged with chicken, so I answered for him: ‘Shafique hasn’t decided what he’s going to do. Maybe he can stay in France—?’
‘What about you, Gulwali?’
I knew what I was doing. While my family had only paid for me to get as far as Greece, I had learned enough from Hodja to realize that if I could make it to Calais on my own, I could figure it out from there.
‘I will take a train to Calais.’
Jan raised his eyebrows. ‘By yourself? You’ve heard how dangerous Calais is, right?’
I knew how it was – Hodja hadn’t held back. And even that morning, when chatting to people in the park, some of them had recently returned from there because conditions were so bad. But I didn’t see that I had a choice. And I didn’t want Jan to think I was a little kid.
‘Yes. So what?’
He raised an eyebrow at me. This made me annoyed.
‘I’ve heard the stories. But so what? I’ll go by myself if I have to. I can find help when I get there.’
The night before had made me more determined than ever to push on quickly. England felt close now. I was lucky that I wasn’t in a Parisian jail, that the police from last night had simply moved me on.
‘Why don’t we go together, cousin?’ Jan suggested. ‘It was my plan to leave in the next few days anyway, but as you are here, I can come with you. I’m not happy about you going alone.’
His protective nature was getting on my nerves, but in a way I was touched. He saw me as family, and it was his duty to be there for me.
We tried to persuade Shafique to come with us too, but he insisted he wanted to wait in Paris a while longer. He had heard of a good agent that could arrange everything from there. He had had bad experiences of doing things without agents further back in his journey, and didn’t want to risk it again.
‘But don’t you trust me, Shafique? I can sort it out for you. I got you to Paris, didn’t I?’
‘So why don’t you stay here in Paris with me, and maybe in a few days we will have found an agent and we can move? Tonight we can find this shelter and have a warm bed,’ he countered.
I did consider it, but I didn’t want to. As much as I liked Shafique, I thought he was a bit naïve. He had only been on the road for six months, half as long as me. He’d got to Paris far faster than I had, but it meant he hadn’t learned as much. That morning, as we had chatted to the others, he had been trying to find agents. I was worried he was going to get ripped off or tricked.
I had about 350 euros left: I’d had to buy tickets and food for Shafique and me. Hodja had given me 150, and the agent had given me 300 in Greece – the supposed change from what my family had paid up front. I also had about US$100 left. But Hodja had warned me Calais could be very expensive and I would need every penny. I didn’t want to risk losing it to some dodgy agent here. Far better, I thought, to get there first and find out the lie of the land.
Shafique and I argued for a while longer. He kept trying to get me to stay, and Jan and I kept trying to persuade him to come with us to Calais.
It was no good.
Jan and I went to the train station to get two tickets. The next train was early afternoon. The train to Calais went from a different station, but I had no idea how to find it. We walked through Paris trying to find our way.
Surprisingly, it wasn’t that hard – there were Afghans all over the city who helped us on our way.
Chapter Twenty-Six
By the time we found the station, we were close to missing the train. Jan and I sprinted along a polished platform. I realized now that I was relieved that he was coming too – despite my bluster, deep-down I hadn’t wanted to go alone.
We boarded and snoozed comfortably during the ninety-minute
journey.
We arrived just after lunch, and made our way out of the station. We weren’t the only foreign faces getting off: dozens of us forced our way through the mêlée and outside. There were migrants everywhere. Filthy bodies were sitting wherever they could; others were standing around in little groups.
Jan approached a huddle of men. They were so dirty we couldn’t really tell what nationality they were.
‘Excuse me, friend…’ he started.
‘You newcomers need to go to the Jungle,’ said a skinny, grey-haired man. He spoke to us in Pashtu, but his accent sounded a little odd.
‘You from Afghanistan, brother?’ asked Jan.
‘Pakistan. Waziristan,’ he said. I could hear it in his accent now.
‘Is the Jungle so bad?’ I asked hopefully.
I had heard stories in Rome of how awful the Jungle was – the name given to the port in Calais, the place where migrants gathered and lived in order to try and get lorries to England. But I also suspected it might not be as bad as people made out; I thought maybe the details were exaggerated to discourage people from going here.
‘Whatever you’ve heard about the Jungle, it’s worse than they say.’ He looked at us. ‘The only thing you need to know is this – they don’t want us there. The West loves dogs, almost as much as it loves war. Bush and Blair consummated their invasion, and we are the unwanted puppies of their bombing. They don’t want to let us in to the warmth of their fire – but they don’t have the stomach to kill us. So, here we are, locked out in the rain and cold, fighting over whatever scraps fall from their table.’ It was obviously a favourite speech of his – and it wasn’t what I wanted to hear. But I still wasn’t completely convinced. We were so close to England – how bad could it be?
‘What do you mean?’
‘The people there are scum,’ the man said. ‘They are thieves and liars. And the French police treat us like animals. To be hunted and chased around and around, like it’s just a big game.’ He let out a bitter little laugh. ‘This is why they call it the Jungle, boy.’
‘So, why should we go, then?’ I wanted answers.
‘Because, my boy, you have nowhere else to go. It’s the same reason all these miserable creatures are here. They’ve come this far and now they cannot stop.’
‘How long have you been here?’ Jan asked.
‘Six weeks.’
‘So why did you not get on to a truck?’
‘Oh, I’ve got on lots of trucks. Every day I am catching a truck. But then the driver, or the police, or the security people, find me and remove me.’
‘They don’t arrest you?’
‘Like I said, to them it’s just a game. If they arrest me, then they have to put me in a nice warm cell, give me food. No, they prefer to dump me on the side of the road and make me walk back to this miserable place. I think they want to teach me a lesson.’
Nothing this man was saying made sense to me.
‘A lesson about what?’
‘I don’t know. Maybe they want to teach me that I was a fool to flee my home. That I would have been smarter to stay among the fighting. That it is better to watch your family and neighbours die than walk mile after mile along freezing roads with an empty stomach.’
‘I never did like school,’ said Jan, trying to lighten the mood.
‘Then you will hate it here,’ the man said.
Jan and I stared at each other, and then back at the man.
‘So,’ said Jan. ‘Where is the Jungle? I can’t work out which way it is.’
‘Over there.’ The man pointed down the street. ‘Follow that road for an hour. You will smell it before you can see it.’ He sighed. ‘Do you have an agent here?’
We both shook our heads.
‘No one does when they arrive. I wouldn’t worry. Money talks. Take my advice and ask for the Kurd they call “Le Grande Fromage”.’
‘The what?’
Jan burst out laughing. ‘It means “Big Cheese”, Gulwali.’
Laughter erupted from my throat too. Big Cheese – it was the most ridiculous name I’d ever heard.
‘Kurds,’ said Jan. ‘Forget Bush. I am beginning to think it’s the Kurds who rule the world.’
I spotted a couple of women serving some immigrants tea from a large urn. We went and got a cup. A woman in a wool beanie handed me a steaming cup with a smile. It was nice to see a friendly face, even for a moment.
I saw familiar faces from the various countries and places I had stayed along the way – no one that I knew, but faces I recognized. It never ceased to amaze me that we could have crossed half the world, yet Afghans always seem to bump into each other. I supposed it was not too surprising given that we were all ultimately heading for the United Kingdom.
I knew that for the majority of the people there, the UK was their destination. It’s the idea, the notion that, because it’s the hardest to get to, it’s the best place, the last stop, the end of the road.
The end of the game.
That’s not the only reason, of course. Afghans have historical and cultural connections to Britain, either through the former empire or through war. Or language. Many have family already there. Also, the UK is seen as tolerant and fair to immigrants.
‘Let’s find some food,’ I said. No matter what lay ahead, a full stomach would help.
Other migrants told us there was an evening food charity place twenty minutes’ walk away. They were going that way. Apparently, the French police didn’t make arrests near the various food distribution points, which were run by French charities, so these were safe places. Migrants tended to hang about at food places for that reason. They told us they also walked around in large groups. If the police spotted you alone or in a pair, they were more inclined to detain you; in a larger group, you tended to get left alone.
Being new here made me feel felt very vulnerable, so I was quickly learning how it all worked.
The line for dinner stretched for hundreds of metres. Jan and I stood in silence as we queued for about half an hour, and I watched the tide of people around me. What few women there were stayed close to their male companions. I saw the way some of the other men looked at them, and it made me angry to see this. These poor women looked scared enough, without strange men staring at them in a bad way. A few of the women had children with them – filthy, snot-nosed little wretches with rattling coughs. Sometimes a migrant’s life is about seizing what little dignity there is to be had – judging by the way these women kept their gazes low, they knew that too.
At the front of the queue now, I could see four older French women stirring the huge pots needed to feed so many hungry mouths. This wasn’t a United Nations operation – I think perhaps it was a local church. The women dished out ladle after ladle of thick, white paste. I think it was supposed to be rice, but it looked nothing like it, while the lentils that went on top tasted of nothing. I ate it gratefully all the same. Around me, about 200 others were doing the same.
There were a lot of Afghans there. Some were clearly working – I suppose for different agents and smugglers. They would make their way through the crowds offering to guide people on to trucks and away to England – for a fee, of course.
‘You are new.’
‘I can help, I know a good agent.’
‘I know a good Afghan agent, more trustworthy than the Kurds.’
Basically they were commission salesmen, and they were very good at spotting new arrivals.
We were suspicious of all of them, and determined to find an agent called Karwan. Hodja had told me about him and said he was the best of the bunch because he had a high success rate. He had also advised me to bargain hard.
Many of the people we spoke to were actually helpful; there was a genuine sense of camaraderie. We asked around and found some migrants who were ‘his’ people. They told us they would tak
e us to him.
Nothing could have prepared me for what we saw as we walked. It looked as though the world’s toilet had been flushed and the mess washed up here. We walked for an hour or so with these people, slowly making our way towards the port area. The Jungle was said to be a little further still. All along the way, migrants cluttered the roads. Some were in small groups, walking with purpose to an unknown destination; others merely sat or lay where they could find a comfortable space. Face upon face was deeply etched with hardship.
‘There’s no escape, boy,’ a voice said to me in Pashtu from beneath a sleeping bag. It had been red once, but was now a sickly shade of green-brown. I didn’t have a reply, but it did leave me feeling that as close as I was to Britain, I might be more distant than I had ever realized. All I could smell was human decay, and the diesel fumes from the stream of double-trailer lorries that crawled past us.
On the other side of the road were rows of warehouses made of corrugated iron, barren swathes of concrete between, all surrounded by huge fences. Impenetrable spinneys of coarse seaside scrub and willow trees made the place disorientating and bewildering. Black plastic shopping bags whispered from every sharp twig and thorn.
The place was so vast and so confusing, it really was no wonder they called it the Jungle.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
As we neared the Jungle, I began to notice sapphire-blue tarpaulins everywhere. Each one marked a makeshift house or communal shelter, which were interlinked by a maze of tracks in the sandy soil. It was a temporary city of desperate human flotsam. There were huge piles of litter and human waste everywhere, full black plastic bags stacked as high as a man. White plastic water drums, fertilizer sacks, plastic cups, food wrappers, bottles, discarded clothing and worn-out shoes…the accumulated mess was abandoned, but ready for reuse, should the need arise.
We passed a small home built from a patchwork of three damaged tents – black, green and orange. A chimney made from discarded air-conditioning ducting peeped from the roof. Three Sudanese men in long black jackets with their hoods pulled up sat around a small fire, trying to boil eggs in a broken saucepan. A mouldy beige leather armchair, a broken office chair and an upturned supermarket trolley functioned as furniture.
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