You have to cross a dry ditch to get there. A yellowed mattress, old clothes, a bicycle frame without wheels and colourful patches of tent fabric torn to shreds form a pile marking the entrance to the tent camp. As you take your first step, your foot sinks into the mattress, a few centimetres down. A wisp of orange-brown dust rises, only to be carried away by the wind and settle a little further on. It hasn’t rained here for ages.
At first glance, this place could have been anywhere in the world. Further south, further west, further afield. But we’re talking about a tent camp on the outskirts of Calais. It used to be known as the ‘Calais Jungle’, but following the clearance of the large informal camp on the dunes, smaller encampments sprang up in hidden spots such as this one, in copses beside the motorway.
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