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| Calais Port |
Even now, I will still be required to test on entry to the UK, and test twice on my return to Brussels- despite my fully-vaccinated status. This is nevertheless the lesser of evils. Besides, I didn’t want my next UK visit to pass the two year mark.
A return Eurostar ticket proving to be on the dear side, I opt for a Flixbus on the way out and train back. I’ve done the overnight bus to the UK before. In theory, you travel all night and arrive in the UK early in the morning, giving you the whole day either side to go about your business. I’m optimistic enough to schedule my compulsory Lateral Flow Test an hour after arrival.
It’s all running pretty smoothly until we arrive at Calais in the wee small hours of the morning. Passport control apparatchiks are imperious bureaucrats with shockingly little French. They are high off the petty power conferred on them by a state that, like its Continental counterparts, is preoccupied with hardening its borders. As if everyone entering the country who isn’t wealthy and/or white is a potential threat to security.
A simple passport check thus becomes a thoroughly demoralising experience. Even those of us with ‘safe’ travel documents (e.g. European, American or Australian nationalities) are treated like cattle to be herded. Whilst lining up for the second repetitive procedure, I witness a French official barking at an African family, whilst the room looks on. I’m appalled at his naked contempt. There is some issue with expired documentation. The official orders the travellers back to his office.
Outside, it begins to drizzle in earnest whilst we wait for our coach to drive round and collect us. It's taking especially long. That should arouse my suspicion.
Once back on the bus, I nod off. I think nothing of the fact we haven’t moved for over an hour. My light sleep is interrupted by a Frenchwoman trying to explain, in broken English, that there is an issue with the bus and we won’t be leaving anytime soon. She isn’t impressed with the lack of communication from Flixbus. She attempts to rally us for an impromptu protest. Very French but not appropriate for the occasion, methinks. More details start to trickle in. The drivers are being detained by the authorities for questioning. Up to four undocumented migrants have been found on board, including the family being ordered around by the boorish official and someone allegedly hiding in the toilets. One of the drivers apparently notified the authorities about the latter, perhaps to save his own skin.
Another unsympathetic official with an emperor complex informs us that the drivers’ interrogation could last up to twelve hours. We’re advised to make our way by foot to Calais port HQ and try and board the next ferry as foot passengers. All 70 of us, approx. It’s around 4am CEST. It’s cold and damp. A mere inconvenience compared to whatever the migrant family is trying to flee. But still, it’s troubling.
No-one wants to take responsibility. A kindlier member of personnel shares that he’s never seen anything like it in nearly 20 years of service. Of course, they’ve had stowaways and halted bus services before. The difference is that the coach company would usually arrange an alternative.
Disgruntled, we trundle to the port waiting room. Some of the group's self-appointed spokespersons try to negotiate a crossing. News travels fast that the ferry company is blocking any more bookings. Eurostar is prohibitively expensive at this stage. For several hours we’re given a range of holding responses and a whole lot of cock-and-bull by the ferry company.
Some of the port personnel try to make us wait outside in the cold, dark and wet. This nearly kicks off a riot. Some of the French passengers yell. One woman bangs her luggage in furious protest. The officials look shaken and eventually back off.
I befriend a couple of Brits; Felicity, studying in Paris and Safi, a young professional based in Germany. She'd planned to surprise her family over the weekend.
I also strike up a conversation with a French woman travelling to London for a long weekend, mainly for professional reasons. She has an exhibition in Brixton that, by the time the whole drama is over, she will have missed.
Some weary passengers appear to have made alternative plans. There is no joy from the ferry company. They have prevented us buying tickets en masse and are offering no alternative. We’re still wandering around like vagabonds, waiting for someone to take responsibility for our plight.
I’m never normally one for hitch-hiking but I figure there is safety in numbers.
Safi is desperate enough to ask the authorities if we can re-enter the checkpoint to flag down cars. Those of us with French and English take it in turns to translate. For safety reasons staff won’t let us back in. Obvs. We are nonetheless finally addressed by someone cheerful, polite and seemingly able to expedite a solution. They have no choice. By this point we’ve been joined by most of what’s left of the group. The ferry company have advised we apply more pressure on the immigration authorities, who should have the resources to come to a viable resolution.
It’s daybreak. After five or so sleepless hours, we hear that only one of the drivers has now been kept behind by the border police. He has allegedly been apprehended for people smuggling before. The other younger driver (ironically, the shiftier-looking of the two) is supposed to continue the journey.
The vocal Frenchwomen amongst our motley crew start singing a mangled version of Oh Happy Day. I’m tempted to join in. There are cheers as the bus pulls away.
Alas, the driver claims that he is too tired (even though he hasn’t been driving for hours) and that Flixbus rules dictate there are two on duty. That means at least another four-hour wait. Yes, four hours. By then some passengers have been travelling for close to 24 hours, if not longer.
I’m hoping some of the fighting spirit remains to spook Flixbus into a speedier reaction, but none is forthcoming. Everyone is tired and resigned. A group of younger passengers calmly play cards. I dip in and out of sleep, if I’m not conversing with other passengers. One is another young Brit whom I initially found to be bullish but simmers down as the day progresses. He has been based in Paris for a few years and has a good enough command of French for me to presume he grew up there. I practise my faltering Portuguese with my neighbour; an older woman, living in Lisbon but originally from Guinea-Bissau, whom I previously ignored whilst grumpily trying to get some sleep.
Finally, the replacement driver arrives. He is an acerbic sort. He goes over toilet etiquette several times:
Make sure it only rains and doesn’t thunder.
He jokes about selling any left behind belongings or children on Ebay and spouts some sexist crap about wives not being left alone with their husband’s credit cards in expensive in London.
We still have to jump through administrative hoops, including yet another passport control process. There are far fewer travellers and staff than before. To my great consternation, I observe another red-faced border official- English this time-reprimanding a placid looking South Asian man.
We must still await an on-board inspector to check our vaccine certificates and Passenger Locator Forms.
All this time waiting, we’ve missed several boats. I have had to reschedule my compulsory COVID test twice. I postpone my hair appointment and call my Airbnb hostess, Kiki to inform her of my as yet nebulous ETA. In her North American drawl, she offers expletive-ridden commiserations and remains reassuringly flexible.
By the time we board the boat, I’m exhausted but power on to jot my thoughts down and check for important emails. The crossing itself goes by in a flash, comparatively. Back on the coach, I nod off in between more drafts. The auntie from Guinea-Bissau taps me, telling me to put my laptop away and get some much-needed sleep. I obey.
When I stir again, the sky is dusky and we’re surrounded by streets well-known to me. The bus drives through the South-East London borough where I grew up. We're not too far from my accommodation but there’s no stopping before Victoria coach station.
Four years exactly since relocating to Europe, I feel an incongruent familiarity and disconnect to London. In one sense, I can always resume where I left off. Other moments, the changes-more luxury flats, shops and restaurants, the disappearance of others I expected to see- leave me disorientated. Sometimes, I wonder if I am only connected to a city as long as I'm living there.
When we finally arrive, almost 10 hours late, there are whoops of joy -once again- from the rowdy Francophones. There is some parting irony from the driver before we descend to collect our baggage. Everyone is eager to make their onward journey, some only having very little time remaining in the Capital. I say farewell to the Guinea-Bissau auntie and others, looking around for Felicity and Safi. They must have already disappeared into the autumn night.
Soundtrack: Gold: The Remixes by MF Robots
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