It is like entering a parallel universe, and a deeply discomforting one at that. In central Calais, the banal comforts of the average western town: cafés brimming with gossiping customers, families on days out, well-groomed French youngsters flirting with each other in the afternoon sun. A taxi picks me up from outside the Calais-Ville train station and takes me to the "Jungle", the refugee camp a few kilometres out from the centre. Through my deteriorating French, I learn that the talkative driver blames both the refugees and the British authorities for the crisis.
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