jungle noun
an area of land overgrown with dense forest and tangled vegetation, typically in the tropics
a wild tangled mass of vegetation or other things
a situation or place of bewildering complexity and/or brutal competitiveness
‘Line-line-line!’ Somewhere between a joke shared and an insistence on fairness, the chorus of voices from those waiting in the queue for the latest distribution is one of the echoes reverberating in my head this morning, after my weekend in Calais.
an area of land overgrown with dense forest and tangled vegetation, typically in the tropics
a wild tangled mass of vegetation or other things
a situation or place of bewildering complexity and/or brutal competitiveness
‘Line-line-line!’ Somewhere between a joke shared and an insistence on fairness, the chorus of voices from those waiting in the queue for the latest distribution is one of the echoes reverberating in my head this morning, after my weekend in Calais.
Saturday afternoon: our first visit to the refugee camp – ‘camp’ seems to be the favourite shorthand amongst volunteers and residents alike, although ‘jungle’ is also used, a reflection I suppose of the brutalities experienced by those who have found themselves living there. We are part of a team from L’Auberge des Migrants distributing food packs brought ready-sorted and wrapped by a group from Luton. We have been briefed: be friendly, positive but firm; establish and maintain a single queue at the back of the van before beginning to distribute; no pushing in or second-time-rounders. We take our place, holding hands to form a border either side of those queuing, though those on the receiving end are keener than we are to keep order. Sometimes on later visits I find myself holding hands with Salam or Muhamad who have stepped in to provide a bit of support.
We arrived in Calais a few hours previously, mile after mile of razor-wire-topped fencing the only clue to the reason for our journey. We’ve driven past the ‘booze cruise’ supermarkets to the massive warehouse where all the donations are stored and sorted. We’ve tracked down the volunteers’ coordinator Nico – not the strapping and bossy guy I for some reason imagined went with the name, but a young woman with a white furry hat and a huge grin – and, eventually, our Cambridge fixer Jessica. We’ve filled in our insurance forms and immediately been put to work sorting clothes. We’ve met volunteers from all over the UK and beyond, and have eaten a delicious hot lunch which arrives as if by magic from the Ashram Kitchen. By the following morning we’ve spent our first night at the youth hostel, waking to sunlight sparkling on the sea, a breakfast of coffee and crêpes and to wall-to-wall chatter about building projects, distributions, how to avoid scabies, police activity, all the latest from the camp, because of course just about everyone else in the place is a volunteer too. This is my first of three breakfasts after not much sleep: nothing to do with the hostel or my lovely roommate, only the overload of impressions, faces and characters and stories, and a welter of emotions. Yesterday I felt buoyed to be here; this morning I find myself perilously close to tears.
We are in Calais for another two days. We divide our time between the camp and the warehouse, where we have found ourselves sorting and packing food parcels. It’s tough – repetitive, back-breaking, seemingly never-ending – but it’s also outside, and eventually the towering stacks of cans and packets begin to diminish. By the time we leave, it’s a job done: hundreds of boxes of bagged food – tea, sugar, salt, rice, tinned fish and fruit and vegetables and soup – ready for the Tuesday distribution. The whole thing is a huge operation. Even so, it seems to work efficiently, with a minimum of fuss. It really is possible to pitch up and, with a bit of flexibility and common sense, make a contribution. Part of this of course is down to the experience of those who’ve been at it for a while, evolving a system which works. But it also seems to demonstrate that together ordinary people can change things. All those clothes and blankets and toys and toiletries you’ve generously donated really are going to make a difference, and you can be sure they are going to go where they are needed. If some of the photos of the warehouse appear chaotic, look instead at the bags and crates shrink-wrapped or tarpaulin-covered and ready to go.
My photos of the camp itself are disappointing. I suppose this is inevitable. I wanted to bring back a record of some of the stories and the faces that went with them – or simply the faces of friends I made in the brief time I was there. The only negative comment I had was from an American volunteer who swore at me as I took a picture of the church. But my meetings were essentially brief, the stories often heart-breaking. Building trust takes time… so I settled for general impressions, in particular some of the extraordinary achievements that residents and/or volunteers have made in such testing circumstances: the church, the library, the new houses for families; such courage, such resourcefulness. The places I really wanted to photograph – the barbers’ salons, the Afghan restaurant, the café where we drank tea, the dozens of corner shops – were always full of people. And how to capture hardship without being guilty of poverty tourism? So I’m afraid my ‘camp album’ looks both duller and less deprived than the reality. I have, since I returned, found one excellent web resource here which does a better job of showing things as they are. And just this morning, I come upon the story of another Cambridge volunteer who was there at the same time as me: 'Scars in their Eyes' makes essential reading.
So what can I tell you about the Jungle that Sean Smith’s August photo-diary mentioned above doesn’t show? I hear that there are currently between 4,000 and 6,000 residents, 90 per cent of them men. I meet people from Sudan and Syria, Egypt and Ghana, Eritrea, Kuwait and Palestine, Afghanistan and Pakistan, Iran, Iraq, Turkey, one man from Russia; probably there are other countries I have forgotten. I meet 16- and 17-year-olds, and men who may have been older than me; some children, ten or twelve perhaps. There are many, many ready smiles, courteous greetings, offers of food and hospitality, jokes; football games, men cooking up a feast. I get used to being greeted as ‘Momma’, actually the first time when being obviously elderly seems like it might be an advantage, reassuring to those whose culture makes independent younger women more challenging? It takes almost the entire conversation with Muhamad on our last visit for me to get that his repeated references to ‘my mother’ are actually an elaborate address to me. ‘My Number Two Mother’ he explains as we hug goodbye. A man from Kunduz in northern Afghanistan speaks about the fighting in his home town, the bombs, three hundred dead. A Syrian says ‘We live like dogs here – except a dog’s life is better than this.’ Another holds his hand to his heart: ‘my pain – do you understand? – my pain.’
What else? The oddly sweet smell of rotting rubbish overlaid with wood smoke; the drone of a generator; the thud of music from a large speaker; hammering; a cocktail of different languages… The dunes’ sand turns to grey mud. Two men sit at a table in the library after their English lesson. A man brushes his teeth by the side of the road. Van loads of police, armed with guns and tear gas, block the gates into the camp. The sound of feet running as the back of the van opens for a distribution. Hope rubbing shoulders with despair. I try to imagine the journeys that have brought them here, the hazards, the miles on foot, the displacement, and I remember that their journey is not over – they can’t stay here. Can they? Everyone’s dream is to get to England. When will you go? I ask one man. ‘Today,’ he says. ‘I go today.’ I can’t bear to tell them what I fear awaits them there.
Note: for reflections on journeys and the UK's treatment of refugees, this extract from Ali Smith's 'The Detainee's Tale' makes sobering reading. See also Natasha Walter's article 'Jane is incredible...'
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