“One hundred fifty euro.”
“One hundred fifty?” the man scoffed. “You are crazy!”
The passport was gone. He had already turned and taken a few steps when Saleem called out once more.
“Mister, please, tell me how I go to London?” The man considered Saleem for a moment, then huffed and took a step in his direction.
“London?”
Saleem nodded.
“Go to Calais. All you people go to Calais. From Calais there is tunnel.” He chuckled, a hint that he was sending Saleem on a path with little hope for success. “Maybe you be lucky.”
CHAPTER 53. Saleem
WITH THE HELP OF A KIND-FACED ELDERLY WOMAN, SALEEM LOCATED Calais on a map. The city, perched on France’s northwest shore, sat directly across from England. A narrow channel of water ran between the two countries. He’d purchased a ticket immediately, having no desire to see any more of Paris and eager to continue on. By morning, uneventfully, he was in Calais.
Saleem wandered through Calais for hours, blending into its mixed crowds. He left the train station behind and explored the streets, eager to find his way to the port. On the way, he passed massive buildings with thick, tall pillars and balconied windows. Even the smaller buildings had ornate windows, chubby-faced figures draped beside the frames.
Familiar in Calais was the smell of seawater. Saleem followed the salted mist all the way to the port. The piers brought Saleem comfort, as he’d gotten to know the basic rhythm and culture that came from the slow moans of ship horns and the traffic of passengers and trucks.
This particular port was beautiful. Fingers of coastline jutted into the waters of the English Channel. Vertical sailboat masts intersected the horizontal expanse of water and sky. Farther along, giant ships were docked, preparing, like Saleem, for the next voyage.
Saleem left the street and walked through a gravel strip to get near the ships. He noticed two dark-haired men sauntering around in the distance — the thin, defeated refugee sulk.
I probably look the same. I just don’t want to admit it to myself.
His instincts were right. They were Afghans, happy to welcome him to the camp. Already, Saleem was beginning to feel at ease. He walked with them to find the refugee camp known in Calais as “the Jungle.”
The Jungle was Patras, transplanted. It was a wasteland within walking distance of the coast. From its limits, one could make out England, and its prehistoric-looking sheer, white cliffs.
The refugees of the Jungle languished, their eyes fixed on the horizon and the promise of a better life. The Jungle was not a place to take root.
Surrounded by tall trees and bordered by metal fences, the camp was an open-air enclosure. Saleem entered via a dirt path guarded by three men. Though he was apprehensive, he noted that the other men were not. One of them, Ajmal, saw his curiosity and explained, with the satisfaction of one with wisdom to share.
“They won’t disturb you. They’re here only to watch for crime. We come and go as we please. But things are different at the port or at the tunnel. There, the officers are looking for us, and they won’t hesitate to grab you by the neck if they catch you.”
“The tunnel?” Saleem had set his eyes on the port but Ajmal spoke of a tunnel, the same tunnel that the man in Paris had mentioned.
“Yes, the tunnel. Oh, you are so new here!” He laughed. “The tunnel goes from here to England. It’s about fifty kilometers. Many people have passed through it, sometimes on trucks or in the trunks of cars or just walking. But there are lots of police. I know one man, he walked through the tunnel twice, and both times he was caught just coming out of the other side! Can you imagine his bad luck? Twice!” The other man laughed with him.
Saleem could see the Jungle now. A colony of makeshift houses with sheets of metal as roofs and blue tarps for walls stood ahead, surrounded by a moat of refuse. The stench hit him as they drew close. Hundreds upon hundreds of Afghans lived here, along with some Iraqis and Iranians, Saleem was told. Aid workers came once a day to distribute a simple meal. Some of the men had constructed firepits though it was rare to be so fortunate to have anything to cook. It was worse than Patras.
The other man left, leaving Ajmal to introduce Saleem to the squalid conditions. Toilets, scattered here and there for the men to use, overflowed with human waste, and clouds of flies swarmed overhead. There were painted signs here and there in English.
WE WANT FREEDOM
NO LIFE IN THE JUNGLE
RESPECT FOR HUMANS
“The French government wants to close this camp, but most of the people here are seeking asylum. We are hoping they will not send us back. You have any family in England?”
“My aunt’s family. And my mother, sister, and brother are there now too. I mean, I hope they are.”
“You hope?”
“We were separated on our way from Greece to London.”
“Your mother went alone with two children?”
“Yes, but they had documents,” Saleem explained. “I’m hoping they didn’t get caught along the way.”
“So you came as the rest of us did.” Ajmal nodded in understanding. “Be thankful your family had papers. It’s an ugly road to get here and definitely no way for a mother to travel with her children. God save our mothers.”
Saleem let Ajmal’s last words linger before he spoke.
“Do you have anyone in England?”
“Yes, my sister lives there with her husband and their children. And a few cousins too. I’ve been here five months. I came through Iran and Turkey, but then I was caught in Greece and sent to a detention center. They told me they would send me back to Iran and that I had to leave in thirty days, but no way was I going back. After what I’d paid to get that far! But now I’m stuck here with all the others.”
“Have you tried to get across?” Saleem asked the obvious question.
“The port is surrounded by high metal fences. You saw today, didn’t you? The tunnel is the best way to go, but I’ve been caught twice. It’s not easy.”
Saleem understood. He had noticed the layers of fencing at the port. It was more heavily sectioned off than the other ports through which he had passed. He had to take the experience of Ajmal and the others into account. Only fifty kilometers of tunnel lay between him and England. Saleem smiled at the thought of being that close, finally.
“You can stay with me tonight. There are five of us living together, but we will make room for you. Tomorrow we can look to see who has more space. We all share here. That’s how we live. Welcome to the Jungle, my friend!” Ajmal’s outstretched arms facetiously presented the camp to Saleem in all its glory. Saleem laughed. He took his backpack and followed Ajmal to his hut.
Saleem was hungry, but there was nothing to eat, and he was too exhausted to look very far. Ajmal’s roommates were young and good-natured, ranging in age from thirteen to twenty-one. Ajmal fell somewhere in the middle, the link between adolescence and adulthood. They shifted and shuffled themselves to make space for Saleem, giving him a battered piece of cardboard to rest on. He was able to get a good night’s rest, lulled by the chorus of their snores.
THE NEXT MORNING, THE CAMP BUZZED WITH NEWS FROM THE outside.
“They’re going to raze the camp. That’s what they are saying. They’re going to take everyone.”
“What can we do?”
“We should move. We should leave this camp before they come in and send us all back to Afghanistan.”
“Are you crazy? Where will we go?”
“We can all go through the tunnel. If we all go at once, they won’t be able to catch everyone. Our chances will be better. We should do it tonight, the night of the holiday. There will probably be fewer guards there.”