Treasure Hunt: Immigrant's Diary - 1. Hope

Author’s Note

The language used in this story is simple.

You’re probably thinking, he hasn’t even started and he’s already placed a disclaimer, on the first line at that. Nothing of the kind. I just want to let you know why it’s simple.

I could write in my mother tongue and hire a professional translator, but decided against that. The Polish version would not be of interest because only a few people in my country are interested in the topic of immigration.

Nowadays, in cities like Warsaw or Cracow, the population of foreigners is increasing but most of them are students from European countries. Black men or women in hijab are still controversial and you can hear people, especially older people, whispering that they are going to ruin Poland.

I think that the State should sponsor trips to London to prove that British culture still exists (does it?). And then again I didn’t have enough money to pay for my book’s translation. I want you to feel that this is a genuine immigrant’s diary, like the one you can find left by mistake on a park bench.

If you think I’m being humble because my English is quite good and this is only a coquettish game, trust me, I was more self-confident before coming to London. Many people claimed that I spoke basic English. Like one homeless woman I met in McDonalds while enjoying an ice cream. She took a seat in front of me and asked if I had any change. I said no and that was actually true but she seemed to not understand, shouting, “What are you fucking doing in my country? You can’t even speak English properly”. Below she can find the answer. Oh, and my sincere apologies that I will never reach the level of an ordinary British writer.

I

Hope

I came to London with two female friends in the middle of July.

Sometimes I describe them as girlfriends but we weren’t having an affair. We couldn’t, but let’s leave it at that for the moment. Our decision to come to England was spontaneous. A few weeks before leaving Poland, I did not imagine ever landing up in London.

It came about like this: I overheard my friend Natalie talking with someone about her holiday plans. Among these plans, visiting London was first on the list and she also wanted to find a temporary job to earn and save money.

I didn’t have any idea what to do so I asked if it was possible to join her and she gladly agreed. Moreover, Natalie’s Hungarian friend lived in London and offered her free accommodation. I didn’t care whether I slept on a mattress on the floor or a comfortable bed. I used to travel a lot, sleeping sometimes in very bad conditions like on the floor at the airport or in a tent full of holes during a downpour. I was feeling excited and packed luggage immediately, but my enthusiasm turned out to be too early.

Her Hungarian girlfriend was renting a flat and the agency demanded payment upfront for our accommodation. Seventy pounds per week seemed to be a lot but for sure we couldn’t afford an extra deposit. The problem was that we had already bought bus tickets and our planned departure was supposed to be very soon. We had only a few days to find another place to stay. In the meantime, Natalie’s sister joined us so searching became even harder. I responded to many adverts posted on Gumtree but hardly anyone replied.

The day before our journey started we had two offers of accommodation and many doubts as to which one to choose. Houses were located in the opposite directions, Camden Town and Seven Sisters. With no idea what it meant, we decided to trust in opinions found on the internet. According to these, in Seven Sisters women fights were common and it was easy to get involved. Some people claimed that gangsters milled about, killing innocent bystanders without a specific reason. On the other hand, Camden seemed to be a peaceful area. Valuing our lives we had no more doubts where to go.

We were so full of dreams and hopes when we boarded the bus.

I eavesdropped on another couple and found out we were not the only ones in such a situation. Many passengers idealized the American Dream. They were escaping from grey, Polish reality, playing Russian roulette with their lives by losing their life savings and ending up on the street, if this happened, they wouldn’t be happy at all.

In that moment we didn’t realize there would be a risk.

Chatting, joking and sleeping, I didn’t notice that we had arrived in Britain.

I tried to translate adverts on billboards into Polish and couldn’t wait to take the first step on British soil. When it finally happened, London’s diversity overwhelmed me.

As I’ve already mentioned, I’ve travelled a lot but that city looked like a paradise with gay couples holding hands and rubbing shoulders with different races and people with different beliefs. Bystanders gladly assisted us when we asked for directions to Camden.

I thought it was an amazing place.

We wasted a lot of money on bus tickets before someone enlightened us that the Oyster Card would be a better solution. Anyway, it didn’t bother me, expecting to get my first salary after one week in a new job. That’s why I was thinking two hundred pounds at the beginning was too much, but come on; everybody needs a bit of luxury. My girlfriends, not so extravagant, took even less money.

If you have ever grumbled that it was not possible to make ends meet, earning one thousand pounds monthly, I want to let you know: after more than a month of having five times less, I’m still alive.

It was getting dark when we finally found our new house. The neighborhood seemed to be quiet so we’ve already announced victory, happy to avoid Seven Sisters’ hell. We climbed the steep stairway to the second floor, and found an open door. We peered in and found this woman seated on a couch, staring at us. Unlike the picture she had sent us where she looked like a porn star, here was a stereotypical, chubby, American woman.

Let’s call her T. because of legal reasons, shall we?

Her roommate had a more interesting background: born of a Tanzanian father and German mother in the Czech Republic, he was in his twenties when he moved to England. He was heir to five star hotels and a private airport in other countries. He couldn’t explain why he, although so wealthy, was renting a room. But who takes the stories of someone smoking marijuana seriously?

T. showed us around, revealing some very interesting recesses in the flat including her quarters. The flat consisted of a dirty bathroom, a fridge that she couldn’t open (so her advice was to buy only dry food), and a bedroom with only one huge mattress for the three of us. We were disappointed.

During the course of the tour we spoke about many things, including the reason why we were here: job searching. Our new companions reacted immediately offering to help us, so we forgot about the flat’s poor condition.

Ten minutes later we were headed toward Camden’s market, handing out CVs almost everywhere. Some people were openly unfriendly, claiming that they wouldn’t hire someone from Poland while another only wanted us to leave our CV’s with them. Anyway, the first day’s total effect was positive with some promises and the girls were invited to do a trial shift next day.

Full of energy we got back, ate something and asked T. about the NIN number and keys for the flat. It was a big surprise when she said we wouldn’t get a key because most of the time she was at home. Moreover we couldn’t use her address when applying for a job or a bank account, and if someone, especially police, should ask where we lived she demanded that we lie and not mention Camden at all.

Under the pretext of walking around we went off to debate this situation and to find a logical explanation for her strange conditions.

The first thing that came to mind was that T. was running a brothel and we were potential victims. She wanted to enslave us. Those were our last days of freedom. The girls were in the biggest danger or maybe me, useless but inconvenient as a witness, would be the first to be eliminated!

Or maybe T. was an organ seller and the next day we could wake up without a kidney or, worse, not wake up at all!

Natalie and her sister Patricia preferred the second scenario. I was the youngest, healthier and worth more, and maybe T. would spare them in return for their silence. Anyway it was getting late and we were all in danger. Our decision was immediate.

Get out of Camden’s hell!

We armed ourselves with stones collected from the street and hid them deep in our pockets. The plan was to say that we wanted to move away and, in case she wouldn’t let us go, hit her and escape via the front door or, if closed, jump out of the window. It was the second floor. Not that high. Hopefully the noise would wake up the neighbors. With a new wave of self-confidence we returned to announce our decision.

We played rock-paper-scissors and I lost so confronting her became my duty.

I took a breath and explained everything. My body was shaking but when I finally finished, nothing scary happened. T. was sad, adding that she couldn’t force us to stay, could she? In retrospect I became the laughing stock, but in that moment I was terrified. Maybe my reaction was exaggerated or funny but after so many creepy stories I had heard about London, I really believed we would be involved in one of them. Although I suspected her to be a bad person, I didn’t expect what happened next.

Her sadness infected Natalia and Patricia. They grumbled, regretting that I was too firm, claiming that T. was a sensitive and genuine person. We were not in danger but we had already made a decision and I didn’t want to struggle without a key and being officially homeless. But what could I do against two votes? I explained our confusion, paid for one night and promised T. a final decision next morning. Although Tanzanian was pressing not to hear us and demand seventy pounds for one week, she agreed and we had all night to think about our future in London.

We considered two possibilities. Remain in Camden or move to Seven Sisters. Shame on us; we had promised both proprietors to come. The Italian landlady, F., located in an area famous for women fights called us all evening on the day of our arrival. We didn’t answer. Now she was our plan B alternative. We fell asleep before making any decision, exhausted after a long trip, job seeking and an unexpected situation.

We woke up early the following morning. After discussing all the pros and cons, Natalia decided to call F. That was not me to convince her but my ally rat that appeared in the bathroom. Fortunately she picked up the phone. According to my girlfriend’s story we arrived in London very late the previous night and couldn’t get in touch because the batteries in all three phones were dead. We stayed at a hostel and the next day, after miraculously finding a socket, we charged our batteries and got back to her.

It was a wonder that someone would believe in such a story, but the Italian landlady did. Moreover, she was happy to hear from us. Her boyfriend, I didn’t know why, was accusing us of being liars but F., God bless her, until the end believed we were honest and would keep our promise. I set my morals aside. Everything seemed to be better than T’s house and we were enjoying the possibility of plan B. We were about to meet F. in a few hours so it was time to tell T.

Her roommate was chilling in the kitchen, drinking coffee. It looked like he didn’t bother that we wanted to leave, claiming only that we would never find a better place with such an angel as T.

I thought that at least we would get a key.

She turned out to be quite malicious angel, locking herself in a room together with a map and a guide of mine. Tanzanian didn’t want to get in there, claiming that T. was nude and she first had to make a new hairstyle after last night’s party. We were assuring that we didn’t mind and understood, but she ignored our groans and requests, despite that we didn’t have time.

Finally, after two hours of waiting, the door opened and she appeared in her “awesome” new look to say goodbye. It was irritating, but the thought of a better future released my negative emotions.

Elated, we went off not expecting to miss her soon…

I don’t understand Londoners who complain about the underground.

It’s a very punctual transport system and even if sometimes there are delays, these are only a few minutes really. What’s the problem? I know it’s crowded, but no system is perfect. Maybe it’s a trait of modern times that people want more all the time.

Development is important, but we should cherish what we have. The underground didn’t disappoint me and soon we were at Seven Sisters station.

F. was waiting.

She shook hands with us, snatched our luggage, and headed quickly towards the bus stop. I ran to reach her and only after boarding a bus I did sigh with relief. I managed to ask her some questions. She was a very energetic and businesslike person, responding with brief answers, without needless words. She could have been anybody. I only cared about the flat.

A flat that turned out to be quite disappointing from the outside.

It was a huge building with several floors. Laundry hung everywhere, even on the fence and over bins. Our large room was on the left of the main entrance with three narrow beds, wardrobe and furniture I couldn’t identify. Close to ours was another room and behind the door on the right, stairs going down to the living room, kitchen and courtyard where two dogs were playing. Actually playing not only there but everywhere, including our room I discovered, after finding my sausages had disappeared mysteriously (should I accuse my girlfriends?)

On the first floor there was a bathroom and other rooms. The landlady and her boyfriend lived on the second floor. A third floor included one toilet and the last room. House conditions seemed to be good and everything was clean. All that was left to do was get to know our flat mates.

F. required us to pay rent for two weeks in advance; £140 per person. Anyone who remembers how much we took can easily work out that we were left without pocket after paying for the transport and food expenses. Seeking a job from sunset until sunshine was exhausting and adverts tempted us, showing only what we couldn’t afford.

Our daily food consisted of porridge for breakfast, rice (sometimes with tuna) for dinner and we missed supper. I was astonished that the price of food was even lower than in Poland but I could only imagine buying all of it in the future. Beans, eggs or mayonnaise became luxurious ingredients, and festive fair for us even though there was nothing festive to celebrate.

In the beginning we had no interviews at all.

It looked like young people from all over the world had come to London to work during that holiday period. They held a suitcase full of CVs. It was very likely that employers got hundreds or thousands of applications so we decided to search the backstreets.

Our mobile phones were silent. No one called. I had no idea it would be so difficult. I expected to find a job immediately, but that was an illusion.

They say that London was a wonderland before; everyone could find a job easily. But to me now, that Wonderland no longer exists.

People were mostly polite towards job seekers, and I came to expect idle promises. I was hoping to relax at home but that first night proved that we would have a hard time.

Little Italy, as I called our new abode because only Italian was ever spoken, disappointed me. Only a few people had a job and normally it wouldn’t bother me, but they organized parties everyday. Our room was located far from the living room where most of these get together took place and the neighbors seemed to share a similar lifestyle. Actually, I did prefer listening to Italian rather than Arabic music.

Silence after a certain hour at night was not in force in the area and only earplugs released me from the noise. Then, no matter how hard I tried, I couldn’t get rid of the smell of marijuana that filled the entire house. One girl explained that everyone in London took drugs and pot was just a soft version.

Once, passing the living room to fetch a bottle of water from the fridge, I noticed dozen of Italians in a trance, speaking to themselves.

I don’t think my flat mates were spoiled. Sober, they proved to be intelligent. The drug dealers who promised them happiness, but in fact ruined their lives, should have been jailed for many years. Instead of a sunny place, Little Italy became a drug prison for Italians who only wanted their dreams to come true.

Eventually I started attending interviews.

I remember the first one where my girlfriends were also invited. It was a Mexican restaurant selling mainly burritos. We filled in the application forms and the recruiter spoke to us immediately. The girls did not get the job; and I was interviewed last, hoping they would hire at least one of us.

I could expect being asked why I wanted to work especially for that company, or even about my future plans, but the questions left me bewildered. While enumerating my hobbies I wondered what they had in common with wrapping tortilla. But the worst was when the manager proposed a game.

The winner would be the first person to reach twenty, starting from zero and adding, alternatively, one or two to the previous number. Of course I lost three times wondering if Mensa provided similar tasks for its employees and for such a competitive rate of pay as £6.19.

It taught me that hypocrisy was the way, an important way to respond to questions during an interview, and then you could only rely on your luck or X factor because unqualified recruiters were not interested in real skills.

It looked like the recruitment process was similar in other branches of burrito restaurants so we decided to try everywhere.

The second company did not produce positive results, but at the third one it turned out that the team leader was Polish. He gave us a warm welcome and then, probably brainwashed, related how magnificent his company was, and finally added that after one year his monthly wage was almost at the same level but he wore a t-shirt of another color. We used brilliant and lovely words during that conversation, and immediately he organized trial shifts for us.

I was chosen to remain the same day and the girls were told to come in the following day. I believed I would be serving customers or working on the till, but the kitchen had become my new workplace. I couldn’t complain. I was happy to get a chance at a job, even if it meant chopping and cutting hundreds of onions and peppers.

In the meantime, our Polish team leader humiliated the Spanish crew member, insisting that he wash the dishes faster although, in my opinion, it was not possible. Moreover, the “boss’s” allusions that the Spanish guy should share his girlfriend with him and give him a blowjob disgusted me.

I explained to him that he should not tolerate such treatment, especially in an equal opportunity company, but he said this was the reality of London, and I should experience it on my own. I also found out he had graduated in design. Shame on all leaders, leaders who ruined their countries, and forced educated people to escape abroad to experience abuse in the lowest paid jobs!

What I saw discouraged me from working there.

After a few hours I expected that depraved team leader wouldn’t hire me because I didn’t laugh at his pathetic jokes. He couldn’t tolerate the fact that I didn’t understand his behavior. But the reason he gave me proved his foolishness, saying I didn’t have that kind of energy they needed. He wanted me to smile all the time, but I couldn’t do that. I was slicing and dicing vegetables all the time, including onions, and onions made me cry, how could he expect me to smile all the time? Maybe he should have complained to the onions, not me. Well, at least I scored a free burrito and didn’t suffer from hunger that day, but thinking of that poor Spanish guy made me feel like vomiting.

Natalia and Patricia didn’t pass their trial shifts because of similar reasons, so finally we decided to look for a job elsewhere.

The lack of money, food and poor living conditions (a mouse appeared in the kitchen), became the causes of our arguments that started after one week. We stopped sharing food and preparing meals together and, because we took turns in cleaning, and not one of us was doing it, the room got dirty. Even the landlady admonished us to throw the rubbish away and, though she was right, we attacked her, stating that her dogs made a mess everywhere and no one cared.

The atmosphere was tense until our phones began to ring.

Patricia was first to get a job. It was in the middle of the day when her phone rang. She couldn’t understand properly what the employer was talking about so, literally, she told him she didn’t understand and passed me the receiver. He told me to invite her for an interview and trial shift the next day.

I spent the rest of the day teaching her English.

It was worth it because she was hired at the Mexican restaurant in the city center. The manager turned out to be an understanding man. He started her on cleaning the tables but promised her a waitress job after her English improved. Tips were shared between all staff members and I remember the joy when she bought us chips with her first wage. Those were the most delicious French fries I’ve ever eaten.

Soon, Natalia got lucky and found a job working in a food venue selling mainly salads. The job, even if part-time, was better than nothing.

Only I was still unemployed.

I was happy for my girlfriends but at the same time lost my self-confidence. I realized that my strength was in the support they had given me; and we motivated each other. I moped about, not brave enough to enter and ask about vacancies. In fact I ended up handing out one or two CVs daily. I also felt depressed because of the difficult requirements most employers had.

I wasn’t bubbly and sparkling, but I was polite, honest and friendly. Old fashioned virtues seemed not to be that important. Being cool became the biggest advantage. I even posted an advert on Gumtree, hoping that someone would get back to me.

Not long after, an Englishman, Kevin, offered me forty pounds for helping him in the garden. He arranged to meet me somewhere and told me to get into his car. I was nervous, but all he wanted was to give me a lift. He was genuine and paid me for sorting out some branches but I realized that could have finished worse.

Many people in the UK go missing every year and no wonder. They trust strangers without informing anyone as I did.

It seemed as though my girlfriends had been working for weeks when I found a job but in fact, it was only a few days. Living in London was so intense that I felt it had been a year since my arrival.

It was Natalia’s Hungarian friend who helped me to succeed. She advised that I should reply to job adverts and fill in application forms directly on companies’ websites. I did, and very soon got a job at a fast food venue. It was a basic interview and the next day I started working. They required someone to help with deliveries and I gladly agreed, not expecting how hard it might be. Every day a big van arrived and left cages, full of heavy boxes, on the road behind the main door. I pushed these cages weighing hundreds of kilos to the entrance, via the dining room, kitchen, and finally to the fridge or freezer. I had to put all the boxes in the right place, no matter that some of them were heavier than forty kilos, and I had to carry them higher than my head. The temperature, being obviously very low, made me sick after a few days and my employer didn’t provide warm clothes. My colleague advised me to leave that job as soon as possible because, although much stronger than me, after one year he started to have serious spine problems.

It was a difficult job and the atmosphere wasn’t much better. Team members were divided between Bangladeshi being the biggest group and people from other countries. Without judging, I will only reveal that according to some staff member’s opinions, the Bangladeshi ridiculed their lifestyles, even making racist comments against the black girl. Once I saw her crying and she confirmed their behavior but I don’t know who was right. People had been poorly integrated and older crew members behaved more bossy than managers. The only good thing was food, tasty but very unhealthy, prepared mainly from deep frozen products. One colleague said to me that after drinking a half a glass of oil I would probably die.

Looking at its black color I had no doubts he was right.

The quality of food was much better where Patricia was working and although they had a microwave it was nothing compared to Natalia’s workplace. Once fresh and healthy vegetables had withered and were kept in huge containers. Similar ones you find in a zoo. Animals are fed better than businessmen from a very rich district. Natalia said to me that they didn’t have any cooks. They didn’t need them. The only difficulty was to put each ingredient by weight and then place them in the right corner of a box. Sometimes with gloves, sometimes not.

I had the opportunity to try those “delicious” salads but preferred to avoid them even though I did not have to pay. Given what I would try later in London, I shouldn’t criticize.

Two weeks passed by in the wink of an eye. Things were starting to look up. My parents sent a pack full of food and £100 hidden in a pocket of trousers. It meant I could afford to pay one week’s rent but we promised F. to pay for two weeks. My girlfriends had almost run out of money. They were buying food from tips that Patricia earned at work. I also had a return ticket in case of an emergency, they didn’t.

First possibility was to persuade F. to let us give her the money later, after my first salary was paid, but she was not a person we could convince easily. We kept secret our financial problems and decided to disappear. There was no agreement made and no legal reason to stop us.

The problem was where to go.

With my wealth we could afford staying three nights at the cheapest hostel but what then? I could go back to Poland but the girls had no money to pay for transport and no one could lend them any money so we were seriously risking being homeless. The only impossible possibility was to find someone who would rent us a room and did not require us to pay upfront. But the properties we looked at were so dirty that Maria’s house seemed to be a five star hotel, or the landlords openly tried to kiss girls or me. I don’t suppose it’s a tradition in London to kiss strangers on their lips.

The day before moving we went into London, hoping for a miracle. We walked around asking people on the street if they could offer us free accommodation. They regarded us as freaks. We lost hope when the sun set. No money, no possibility to quit our jobs because of two weeks’ notice, first salary within two weeks and… no home.

And then I started to believe in miracles.

We walked into a hairdressing salon managed by a Polish woman. We explained our story and she felt sorry for us. We reminded her of her own poor beginnings many years ago and she promised to do her best to help. She closed earlier that day and called friends, asking if anyone had a room to rent. When it came to the last call we didn’t have more illusions, but that was the one call that delivered results. The woman said that her roommate had recently moved out and she might have something. She invited us to visit the following afternoon.

Being so happy, we forgot to mention limited budget.

The next morning we deceived our landlady, promising to pay later on during the day. Although she was suspicious, she agreed. In the meantime, Natalia went to the new abode which was our last chance, leaving Patricia and I to pack our luggage.

It was very likely we would end up on the street and beg for money.

I supported a few homeless people in London with my last pounds so maybe they would accept us in their environment. Thinking the worst, and finally, after two hours of waiting, Natalia called. She had negotiated a weekly rent of £55 per person. Moreover, Polish landlady understood our difficult circumstances and agreed to wait two weeks until we were paid.

It was more than I expected. Starting to believe in wonders, I forgot that karma exists.

When Natalia got home and we were ready to leave, F. entered our room to find our luggage lying on the floor. She already knew what we were plotting but that didn’t scare me because we were not legally obliged to stay there. I didn’t even have to listen to her screams. We could simply go. Maybe it was not fair that we decided to leave, but she stood in the doorway, blocking our way out.

What was going on? Was she crazy or desperate?

She explained that although she couldn’t force us to stay, we had used her address while applying for a bank account. She wouldn’t let us go until we changed that because she didn’t want to have any problems in case we were criminals.

It was Sunday. Banks were closed. We promised to do it the following day and bring her a confirmation. But, she was stubborn, threatening to call her many friends to help her stop us. We pretended to understand to calm her down, apologized and sat on the couch saying that we needed to find the money for another night. She believed us and went upstairs for a second while her boyfriend, earlier observing the situation, took the dog out for a walk.

It was our last chance. Snatching handles of suitcases on wheels and pulling them behind us, we got out of the house and ran as fast as we could to the bus stop at the end of the long road.

Being in the middle I turned back. The Italians had noticed our defection, and were walking in our direction. We sped along the street but they were faster.

Fortunately a bus arrived.

We didn’t have time to think because the Italians were getting closer. We climbed aboard and urged the driver to go because the Italians wanted to kill us. He shut the door just in front of angry F. She knocked furiously but it was too late because the driver moved away quickly, leaving her far behind us.

Finally we were free.

The nightmare had ended.

We had jobs.

Enough money to manage for the next two weeks and a new abode.

London good times was about to begin and I didn’t expect that after almost two weeks of struggling.

But the loneliness and unhappiness would come…