Bordeaux: who are the “invisibles” of the Lac tent village?

Dn one side, the Lac beach, dismal in winter. On the other, Boulevard Chaban-Delmas, where the traffic of employees leaving the offices dries up. In the middle, a single lit point: two barnums are like a beacon in the night. Towards its beacons converge several dozen people with empty bags. The line stretches between two barriers, calm and cold.

“It’s like that every Tuesday,” comments Valentin Tellier, coordinator of Gratuits-Gironde Solidarité. About fifteen volunteers from the association are active. They distribute food, coffees and smiles to beneficiaries from the surrounding “tent village”. That is, from all over the world.

Dn one side, the Lac beach, dismal in winter. On the other, Boulevard Chaban-Delmas, where the traffic of employees leaving the offices dries up. In the middle, a single lit point: two barnums are like a beacon in the night. Towards its beacons converge several dozen people with empty bags. The line stretches between two barriers, calm and cold.

“It’s like that every Tuesday,” comments Valentin Tellier, coordinator of Gratuits-Gironde Solidarité. About fifteen volunteers from the association are active. They distribute food, coffees and smiles to beneficiaries from the surrounding “tent village”. That is, from all over the world.

Here, they have a name and a face, these “invisibles” who populate the shores of the lake and the bad conscience of passers-by. “Sometimes people passing by stop to give us a hand,” says Valentin Tellier.

Damien and his hut

Damien, 53, arrives with a bang. A native of the Dordogne, he lives in a cabin he built in the most remote corner of the lake, near the woods and his furtive male loves. “It’s my sixth year there. I have seen everything. Even the driver of a hearse would stop with a corpse on board long enough to get his business done in the bushes. He has lived in the area for fifteen years. “First in my car, but it ended up not being in order. »

Damien likes to tell stories. From the pun to the dissertation on the Marshals of the Empire. But if he were to write a book, it would be a lakeside survival guide: “The cold? I built myself a fireplace. I cut dead wood, it helps, everyone finds it. And then the secret is not to sleep fully clothed. It’s a blow to wake up sweaty, drenched, to catch death. ” The water ? “I go to the fire hydrant, I fill myself with bottles. It’s been a fortnight, showers included. » Electricity? “I have about twenty batteries that I recharge. And solar panels, but little idiots stole me. He is also an ace fisherman, well known to his neighbors for his generosity.

The anonymous philosopher

He doesn’t want to give his first name. Not either that one invents one for him the time of an article. He gauges the journalist, whom he suspects of wanting to make people cry about his fate. This anonymous is Polish. He lived for a year and a half in a tent at the lake. “The truth is, downtown is better than here. But there are too many drug addicts out there. I drink beer, huh, I’m not going to lie. But there are no drug problems here. “Thanks to the support of Free, he found a studio. But he returns to distributions to lend a hand. “There are solutions for those who know how to seize them, the important thing is to keep the motivation”, he professes, the index finger pointed at his temple.

“The truth is, downtown is better than here. But there are too many drug addicts out there”

In the line, very few women. Some come from the city of Aubiers. Here, the welcome is unconditional. But a priority card is granted to those who have no roof. Salem provides coffee service. He too found accommodation thanks to the association. In March 2020, in full confinement, he drew attention to his living conditions by posting a video on the Free Facebook page. “After the distribution, I will show you. Nothing has changed. »

Its former “camp” is set up under the bridge which takes the tram over the ring road. A “wall” of barriers and blankets divides two rooms.

life under a bridge

Salem raises the curtain. Here, we can’t stand up. A group of men hold a living room in the half-light, where one can make out tents. “They are all Sahrawis, like me,” Salem explains. Gare Saint-Jean, Quai Deschamps, Cenon, Pessac… Successive evictions from squats have fragmented their community into small groups. Some landed here in 2014. “They work as seasonal workers and are waiting for the resumption of agricultural work. The recent installation of a water point has been a relief.

Behind, the bridge rises, there is no longer any question of protecting oneself from the cold by erecting barricades. The men who live there are younger. Among them, Ahlbakar, 21 years old. He shows papers issued to him in Switzerland. “Look at what is marked: ”without nationality”. He recounts the war in Western Sahara. Says he wants to go back there to fight the Moroccans.

In the surrounding tents, the neighbors are Sudanese, Polish. “Cohabitation is going well. She is more complicated with the rats, which gnaw the covers. They swarm in the thickets. When you raise your head, the hangar of the Swedish furniture giant bars the horizon, derisory.

In images, in pictures