Calais, Cigarettes, and Stars

13/02/19

Day 4: Last night we joined other volunteers on Calais beach not far from the WWII bunkers. It was someone’s birthday. We made a fire, drank beer, and sang songs on guitars. I was getting bored of the sad tunes and so I decided to run. The sea wind got to me and I ran as fast as I could in the night, only just seeing the white froth of the waves in front of me. I woke this morning with sand still in my socks.

I woke early despite the beers and the looniness from the night before. More movement creates more energy I thought. Everyone else in the campervan was still sleeping. It was our last day together as a group. I laid the table, cooked breakfast for everyone (made toast and chopped oranges), and boiled some water for a morning pot-shower. There was a flat screen T.V in the camper but still no hot water.

We headed to the warehouse. For the morning most of us were in the woodyard again. Wondering around with crowbars, sledge-hammers, and axes, for chopping wood and dismantling pallets. It was not really what you should be doing with a hangover but who else on this planet was going to travel to Calais and do it? But it was warm for a February morning and the warehouse was busy with people. Dreadlock people driving forklifts, older ladies chopping onions, and other young wearing plenty of silver earrings. People from random places, young or old, lost or found.

I had a good chat with Jay in the winter sun. He was a business man from Essex who has a small start-up in Kenya and Nigeria. Something to do with helping farmers get more money. I never thought I’d get on with a business man but the warehouse atmosphere and the monotonous duties create a special magic with acquainting you with strangers and the rest of the world.

Afterwards I had a good laugh with Jay and his friends. I got in that travelling mood. I think we all did. I felt sad to leave them and thought it strange how the feeling you hoped for arrives at the very end of an experience. At the very end of every trip I take, all I want to do is keep travelling with the strangers I meet.

I left the warehouse after lunch. I was heading to Lille but I wasn’t really sure why. The original plan was to meet Barak and Ismat, two old friends from Calais, but I knew it would be a burden for all of us and there would be little to talk about. Especially considering my poor Arabic. I went anyway.

It was a hour and a half train. I missed the first one. I stepped off and as expected, no sign of Ismat or Barak. Also my phone was dead. I didn’t really know what to do so I asked for a cigarette from a group of young men. They looked Eritrean and were speaking Tigrinya, I think. I probably looked like the daughter of a coloniser I thought. Big army camo rucksack and brown leather shoes. And who was I to ask a cigarette of them anyway? I kind of hated myself in that moment.   

An hour passed, walking around the station, before I gave up. I was too frugal to pay twenty euros for a phone charger so I decided to find a bar instead. A charged phone in exchange of a price of a beer makes more sense. I wondered around looking for a friendly bar.

‘Happy hour’. Perfect. That will do. I ordered then I sat outside and watched the shadows fall behind the city trees and make funny patterns on the yellow wall opposite. I felt lonely in the gentle experience and missed the Calais people. I wrote a short poem about the place to pacify the feeling. Then oo! I thought. Patio bar, sunset, poetry… I giggled at the thought of myself in a French romance film. English girl acting wanna-be Parisian, beer drinking traveller turning elegant.

I asked the fancy-looking lady sitting next to me for a cigarette. For the hell of it I really wanted to perfect my French image. “Excusez-moi”. She was sipping an espresso next to me. At first, she refused with a punctuated and heavily accented ‘no’. But saw her noticing the holes in my tights. After another sip of her coffee, she pulled out a skinny cigarette from her small, red hand bag. “merci” I replied almost bowing my head. Then not long after she passed something else. A packet of chocolate pencils. It didn’t really fit my attempt at elegance but I accepted and again thanked her. Did she think I was homeless? Possibly. But it occurred to me then that we’re all lacking in some sense. Myself lacking a French side and those in Calais lacking a side to anywhere. I put out the cigarette. We are always seen alien to the people who feel at home.

The lady stood up and left before I had time to look at her again. Maybe she had the same thought and felt awkward too. I took another sip of beer and wondered whether anyone ever feels at home.

 

 

the best thing about Calais is the stars

not the ones in the sky on earth

around the campfire of a glorious future

from little things do big things submerge

and that is what keeps me returning to this town

that in many ways reminds me of home

chip-shop chips replaced by french-frittes

and sand in the place of stone

who would of thought this harboured fear

would have made so much of us to death

with our friends in these bordered lands

stars float and our ghosts forever roam