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From Our Own Correspondent
BBC Radio 4
00:28:11
Today: We hear French lessons for an American truck driver; the surprising story of in...
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- [00:00]
Rajesh Merchandani
Hi there.
- [00:01]
Matthew Price
You've downloaded the BBC radio programme from our own correspondent.
- [00:04]
Kate Adie
We make two versions and if you'd like to hear our World Service programme, you'll find it on the BBC iplayer.
- [00:10]
Matthew Price
This, though, is the edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4. It's presented by Kate Ady.
- [00:16]
Narrator/Various Reporters
Today we have a French lesson for an American lorry driver. There's the surprising story of why some schools in Japan are funded by the North Koreans. In Uganda, children hear explicit warnings about AIDS. And in Ireland, we learn how a 21st century St Patrick could help out with their economic woes. Everybody knows that the French love to go on strike. Well, at least that's the stereotype we like to believe. And while we're all facing extreme belt tightening measures, this week's announcement that we would have to work longer before getting our pensions to to 66 passed without any significant reaction. Yet in France, the unions have been out on the streets in force because the government wants to increase the retirement age from 60 to 62. Matthew Price began his new job as the BBC's Europe correspondent on Monday and immediately he was plunged into the world of Gallic industrial disputes.
- [01:15]
Matthew Price
I'm going through a little bit of culture shock. For the last three years I've been based in the US and the only protests I've covered, the only ones vocal enough to have been worth reporting on, have been angry mobs demanding the government stop spending and get out of their lives. Now, just one week into my new role as Europe correspondent, I'm faced with angry mobs demanding the exact opposite an end to government cutbacks, a promise that the state will continue to provide for them. Talk about a change of scene the Americans could never stomach, or indeed even understand what's been happening in Marseille. The stench of rotting oranges, old coffee grounds and the occasional soiled nappy sticks in the nose as you walk through the narrow lanes of the old city. And every day that the rubbish collectors remain on strike, the piles of overflowing black bags and cardboard boxes grow ever higher. Wind your way past them and down to the port where a thousand stylish yachts bob quietly and look out across the sparkling blue waters of the Med and you'll see more evidence of these strikes. The oil tankers anchored offshore, waiting for port workers to return to their posts. Then there are the petrol stations, the bright red covers strapped over the pumps which tell you that they are horservisse. Out of service, out of petrol. To be more accurate, the strike is taking its toll. But what Americans would also perhaps not understand is how, despite this slap in the collective face, everyday life is not on hold. Basically, it's to be expected here. It's France. It's normal. Huh? One man shrugged before heading off back to work. Another, having found a petrol station with supplies, said he'd had to drive around the city a bit, but it was ok. In fact, for a city that's been deemed the epicentre of French Union militancy, there wasn't at first much evidence of it. Yes, there was the rubbish and the thought in the back of your mind that you might run out of petrol. But where were the picket lines? For three glorious hours, I drove along the coast looking for strikers and watching the wind surfers zip across the sea. At one junction leading to a fuel storage depot, a suntanned policeman and his swaggering colleagues told me there'd been a protest earlier, but they'd closed it down. Eventually. I ended up at a total refinery, which I knew to have been having problems even here. No picket, just the wind whipping across the massive empty car park. Out the front, a sign tied across the gates. Plant on strike. The next day, though, came word of a shutdown at the airport. Strikers had blocked the road to the terminal. This sounded more like it. A proper bit of argy bargy a la Francaise, surely? Well, not. By the time I'd made it there, within an hour or so, the strikers had forced perhaps a hundred or so people to abandon their hire cars a short walk from the terminal and then cleared off. Airport in disarray. Job done. Some hours later, a call from the main train station. A group had plonked themselves on the tracks in front of a TGV bound for Paris. They shouted for a bit, but again soon vanished. Lightning strikes, I guess you could call them. The big question, of course, is where is all this leading? Is this indeed the big social movement that the unions say it is? A movement that in true revolutionary style, will end with the overthrow of the Court of Sarkozy. Will the French people finally get back what the workers want? A government that sees its main purpose as being to look after the citizens? My sense is the answer is twice non. And indeed that most French know the world has changed since the days of the all embracing welfare state. They know the age of austerity inevitably implies an age of personal responsibility. And personal responsibility is something the Americans I've lived among for the last three years have have adopted as a way of life. I'm reminded of a trip I took with a truck driver named Duane from Wisconsin on mile 759 or so of an epic ride across the States. He mentioned the French lorry driver's proclivity to strike. We'd never do that here, duane proudly told me. We work hard, and it's true, they do. One year he spent 352 days on the road in order to pay the bills. I told him the French strike in order to protect their working conditions, which were far better than anything he had ever known. He looked at me shocked, as if to say, you mean the French have it better than us?
- [06:29]
Narrator/Various Reporters
Matthew Price North Korea is a secretive place. No argument there. Nor is it a country that many of its neighbors feel very comfortable with. Like many, the Japanese worry about the country's nuclear ambitions. However, there are hundreds of thousands of Koreans and people of Korean descent from both north and south, who live in Japan, and, as Roland Burke explains, some of their children are educated in schools that have surprising ties to Pyongyang.
- [06:58]
Kate Adie
From the outside it looks like any other Japanese high school, a big concrete building set among the tightly packed houses and apartment blocks, a place built for function rather than style. But go through the steel gate, past the bright green artificial football pitch, and there are clues that this is no ordinary school. First are the uniforms. The girls are wearing long, loose smocks, a traditional Korean outfit. The boys have standard issue black trousers and blazers. All the lessons are in Korean. And then there are the framed portraits gazing out over every classroom from above the blackboards the Great Leader of North Korea, Kim Il Sung, still regarded as its eternal president despite being dead, and Kim Jong Il, his son, the Dear Leader and current ruler of the isolated communist state. There's no sign yet of Kim Jong Un, the newly appointed 20something heir apparent. The Tokyo Korean Junior and Senior High School is one of 73 institutions in Japan, from nurseries to a university for the children of ethnic Koreans. The deputy headmaster, Yun Tae Gil, shows me around, friendly with his hair swept back in a style rather reminiscent of the elder Kim. He's remarkably open about the school's unusual setup. Pyongyang has been sending us money for more than half a century, he tells me, hundreds of millions of yen in all. That's why we had the portraits up, and gratitude. All the students visit North Korea in their final year, but Japan has always been uneasy about these outposts of a hostile totalitarian regime. In the education system, they're run by Chongryon, the General association of Korean Residents in Japan. The association says its guiding principle is juche, or self sufficiency, the official state ideology of North Korea, a rival Organization Mindan, which looks to South Korea, has more adherents among ethnic Koreans in Japan these days, but runs just a handful of schools. Chongryon has been back in the news recently, struggling to keep its own economy. Staggering on North Korea is now paying out less to the schools than in the past. So ethnic Koreans in Japan were doubly disappointed when they also were excluded from a new Japanese government subsidy to make high school education free. The deputy headmaster, Yun Tae Gil, insists his school is not pumping the students full of Pyongyang's propaganda, and the history they teach is balanced. Its curriculum covers how Korea became a Japanese colony a hundred years ago and remained that way until 1945, and how the students, grandparents or great grandparents, came to Japan either looking for work or as slaves. They say they've faced discrimination ever since. Even after generations living in Japan, those ethnic Koreans who haven't formally become Japanese still have to carry the alien registration card, just like any other resident foreigner. In 1965, when Japan formally recognized South Korea, they were given a choice. They could opt to be classified for life as Kankokujin, South Koreans resident in Japan, or they could stick with the old label of chosen Jin, a term used during the Japanese occupation to describe anyone from the then undivided Korean peninsula. Although the majority were actually from the south, most of them declined to swear loyalty to South Korea, then a poor US backed dictatorship, and so they became North Korean by default. Since then, many of them have assimilated officially becoming Japanese or South Korean. Life is just easier that way. But out of respect for their parents or a wish to keep their culture alive, a significant minority still describe themselves as being from the united Korea chosen, a country that no longer exists. In the afternoons, the high school in Tokyo turns to a frenzy of extracurricular activities. The football team splits up to practice, passing or running groups around the pitch. The drama society paints dragons on sheets of plywood scenery for an upcoming play. In the music department, girls play scales on Korean instruments like harps, but with the strings laid out horizontally to be hit with felt covered sticks. They sound a bit like pianos. With five students to a room, each engrossed in her own tune, the cacophony is deafening. In a hall around another, 100, girls practice traditional dancing, pirouetting and turning in unison, an echo of the mass displays in North Korea. It's all taken very seriously. Everyone keeps going until well after dark, and the school's sports teams routinely win competitions. I asked one student taking a break from rugby practice about the Kims on the walls of his classroom. It's not that we see them as Dear Leader, he replied, but that we want the peninsula to be reunited. We're taught at school that we must be proud to be Korean. And, he concluded, it's the ideology of Kim Il Sung, Kim Jong Il and North Korea. And I believe in that.
- [12:15]
Narrator/Various Reporters
Roland Burke in Tokyo back in the 1980s, the first major campaign here warning people about the danger of AIDS included a film featuring a tombstone. Quite apart from the question about the effectiveness of the campaign, some people found it frightening or in bad taste. Spare a thought for Ugandans, then. It was once the country with the highest HIV infection rates in the world. In recent years, though, there's been good news in the battle against AIDS in Africa in general and in Uganda in particular. The Ugandans have had a sustained effort to make people aware of the dangers. Slogans like zero grazing are used to encourage monogamy and as Anna Cavell has been finding out, great frankness is used to get the health message across to children.
- [13:02]
Anna Cavell
The book How Kwesi Got Into Trouble has a picture on the COVID of a girl sobbing into a tissue at a school desk. So when I saw it, I thought Kwesi might have got into trouble for handing her homework in late, or perhaps she'd been copying somebody else's exam paper. Then I looked at the text on the back cover and got quite a shock, it read. At her mother's funeral, Khwesi is raped by her late father's best friend. Khwesi has no one to tell but her mother lying in the grave. Though she gets aids, Khwesi is determined to let other peoples know how dangerous AIDS is. It's a surprising storyline for a book aimed at 8 to 10 year olds, but this is a book about AIDS in Uganda, the country that used to have the highest rate of infection in the world. AIDS is a serious subject here and children are seriously educated about it. In another book from the same series, two 12 year old boys have sex with a girl at the same time as she is HIV positive. Both boys are infected and die of AIDS before they reach adulthood. Now that is quite a cautionary tale for young children. But when it comes to tackling hiv, the Ugandan government has never tried to deny it has a problem. As President Museveni puts it, when a lion enters your village, you must raise the alarm loudly. I came across the books in Kampala when I was shopping with a schoolteacher from London. My God, look at this, she said. This is a book about a father who has an affair. He gets hiv, so his wife leaves him, but not before they've had an enormous fight and tried to strangle each other. I found the book surprising too, not just for the plot lines, but also the explicitness of the descriptions. The passage where one character recounts being raped by a taxi driver would make for harrowing reading in an adult book, never mind a children's one. But talking to the Ugandan parents in the bookshop, I found an altogether different reaction. I spoke to Juliet, a 33 year old mother of two who'd already bought one of the books for her daughter and had come back to buy more. Her daughter's 11 and apparently very interested in novels, so Juliet thinks these stories are a great way to stimulate discussion about some difficult subjects. I asked her about some of the passages in the books that have particularly shocked me and wondered whether she'd feel comfortable reading them to her daughter. Of course, she replied, that way she'll be able to protect herself because she'll know everything. And were there books like this when you were growing up? I asked. Oh, not at all, she said. Back then your aunties would come and tell you about sex on your wedding night. But now we have hiv, you have to discuss these things. The older generation isn't yet convinced, though. When I approached two sisters who looked to be in their 60s to ask what they thought about the books, they told me there hadn't been any need for this kind of thing in their day. Firstly, there was no aids, and secondly, and more importantly, people back then behaved decently. It was an uncomfortable conversation, so after a short chat about the decaying moral fabric of society, I thanked them and left. I wasn't surprised by the reaction of these two ladies. It's not just the explicit content of the books that's jarring. It's also the contrast to the other HIV education campaigns out here. Kampala is littered with posters promoting abstinence, but the billboards with the messages like she's saving herself for marriage, what about you? Usually bear the logo of a Christian organization from abroad. Uganda's internal strategy seems to be rather more pragmatic. It's not just government raising awareness among Ugandan youth. The books are written by local children's authors and they're produced by a commercial publishing house. Their use has been encouraged by the government, but it's schools and parents who are buying them. As much as I believe that informing children is the best way to protect them, I'm still struggling to imagine myself reading these books to my goddaughter. But Uganda can claim to be a success story when it comes to hiv. It used to have the highest rate of infection in the world. Over 20% of the population was estimated to be carrying the virus. Now that rate's down to just 6.7%. When the lion entered this village, they raised the alarm loudly. Perhaps other villagers should take note.
- [17:04]
Narrator/Various Reporters
Anna Cavell Income Parlour the Arctic winter is closing in on northern Canada. Soon, ice floes will block the shipping lanes, and communities along the shores of Hudson Bay will have to wait until the middle of next year before another ship with supplies heads their way. But right now, the sea lanes are still open. What they have is something called Bergie water, with the occasional iceberg floating about. Rajesh Merchandani boarded a vessel making a supply run bound for the north.
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Rajesh Merchandani
The Hudson Bay Explorer was no cruise ship. It was a 100 foot long working tug, noisy and with a strong smell of diesel. The broad deck was empty apart from a giant iron winch. A hefty steel cable was coiled around the drum and extended to a huge barge on the water behind us that was laden with vehicles, construction equipment, even a metal shed. And our job was to haul this cargo north to the remote communities along the tundra shoreline of Canada's Hudson Bay. Two of us shared a tiny cabin. I took the top bunk. Sleep was not forthcoming, rolling around in that strange cubbyhole to the din of the engines. It was windy and our shallow tug pitched and rolled with vigour. I had to wedge myself against the edge of the bunk to stop falling out. Later, my colleague Maxine braved a shower. I think it was more of a swim. In the morning I went on deck, steeling myself against a chill wind. I could see nothing in all directions except the slate grey sea. It billowed and churned, tossing us from side to side. I felt very insignificant. Behind us, the steel cable dipped into the water and clung onto the barge. We ventured down to the galley. Don't call it a kitchen. This is the heart of the boat, the hearth if you like. Apart from their cabins, this is really the only place where the eight crew can relax. When they aren't sleeping or keeping watch, they're here. They're nearly all middle aged men, either Newfies from Newfoundland or from Nova Scotia, two of Canada's east coast provinces. Each year they leave their families behind and spend months at sea. It's a tough life that breeds distinct characters. Jerry, the engineer, proudly showed us his domain in the bowels of the boat. It was immaculate, every spanner in its place. I'm not sure if he was joking, but he looked at my colleague Maxine and said how nice it was to have the scent of a woman on board. Randy the cook interspersed his stories of hunting wild animals in the woods back home with telling us his best recipes for bread. Each morning, delicious fresh rolls would appear. We soon learned the cook is the most important person on a ship. Tucked away on his bridge, Captain Richard Lambert whiles away the hours listening to country music. He's been at sea for nearly 40 years, and he thinks the tug and barge industry will soon disappear. Melting polar ice will open up sea routes to bigger ships. After two days, we arrived at the small Inuit community of Arviat. Walking into town, we passed weathered wooden houses. Arviat seems a practical place rather than pretty. It can get to minus 40 Celsius in winter. Ancient Inuit culture is well preserved here. The local language, Inuktitut, is more widely spoken than English, even though the Queen is on the Canadian banknotes. This is a place where the old and new mix. People race around on all terrain vehicles or quad bikes. But many women wear traditional clothes long, brightly colored tunics with extra big hoods in which they carry babies. And there are a lot of babies. People do spend a lot of time indoors, after all. There's not much work here, and many depend on state handouts. One woman showed me two baskets of groceries that cost three times what they would back home. How do you afford it? I asked. She pointed down. With the help of my children, she said. Child benefit payments. Aviat, like most native towns in Canada's north, doesn't allow alcohol. But everyone smokes, and everyone, it seems, gambles. The most popular spot on a Saturday afternoon is the foyer of the local radio station, which, where game cards are on sale, a frenzied crowd gathers to buy them 20 at a time, in the hope of winning a few hundred dollars later, there's even bigger prize money on offer when they play Inuit bingo on the radio, Jenny, the radio announcer, calls out the numbers in a lively mix of English and Inuktitut. It was in Arviat that we said goodbye to our tug, the Hudson Bay Explorer. It was heading further north. At this time of year, there's something of a scramble to get as much cargo delivered as possible. The sea will soon freeze over, bringing the shipping trade to a halt. We hitched a lift back aboard a bigger tug with a younger crew, but even better food. It came courtesy of Christina, who introduced herself as the crazy Cook. Her meals were mouth watering. Perhaps because of the secret spice blend she used quite liberally. Despite our probing, she would not reveal the recipe. She said she planned to market it one day. I said I thought it would sell well. Two days later, as we disembarked, she gave me a sample to take home. I have used it since, but somehow it just doesn't taste the same as it did during that extraordinary voyage.
- [22:42]
Narrator/Various Reporters
Rajesh Merchandani Missing the flavours of the sea the Catholic Church in Ireland is having a difficult time. It in recent years, there have been a number of child abuse scandals involving priests, congregations have shrunk and fewer young men are entering seminaries. The Irish economy too is in crisis. But could spiritual tourism help restore some faith in the church and some money to the economy? That's something Christine Finn wondered as she followed in the footsteps of St. Patrick.
- [23:13]
Christine Finn
A few years ago, I found myself amongst a group of pilgrims heading to Lough Derg on Ireland's west coast. It was. It was a happy accident. I wasn't joining the famous retreat, but curious to see its location. Station island. It's believed St Patrick prayed there back in the 5th century. I'd taken the local bus and sat surrounded by several mainly elderly men and women. Some were looking a bit fragile. The pilgrims begin their fast the night before. Keen to know more about the pilgrimage, I was delighted when the woman opposite started to chat. The three days of prayer and fasting sounded intense and challenging. I suppose people have visions? I asked. She looked at me, puzzled, then shocked. Oh no dear, we're not allowed that. Nor the radio. I am still not sure if this was a genuine mishearing or another example of the wonderful Irish way with words. But I gather Station island pilgrims are still not allowed televisions or radios or Although visions are presumably welcomed. And yet with its website and blog, Lough Derg has entered the digital age and it's flourishing. This pilgrimage season just ending has been one of the most popular in years, especially, I gather, amongst young men. Station island is a challenging retreat. But Ireland's lush landscape is laced with sacred sites and Celtic crosses, many of them pre Patrick despite or perhaps because of the uncertain economic climate, they are attracting the Irish faithful and increasingly those of an undefined spirituality. It's part of an international phenomenon called faith tourism and it's a booming industry. The US based World Religious Travel association suggests it's worth $18 billion a year. Faith tourism is the catchy marketing name, but but it's an ancient concept. Going on holiday started with people taking walks along holy ways. Pilgrims were assailed by Stallholders selling souvenirs, holy relics, a various authenticity and other signs of being there. One of the best known is the scallop shell motif I've seen worn by pilgrims on the Camino de Santiago de Compostela, a well trodden trail across Spain's north coast. I was told that recent visitors to Santiago included a study group from St. Patrick's Heartland in County Down. Not from a local church, but the Northern Ireland Tourist Board, which is rebranding St. Patrick for the 21st century. Consultants had described Santiago as the gold standard for the pilgrim experience. The bustling Camino was lined with cafes, restaurants and hostels for pilgrims. Could similar food and lodging help to boost Ireland's local economy? I've just done my own St. Patrick's recce in the landscape south of Belfast. First, the heritage site of Struil Wells, a complex of healing bars long associated with the saint. The faithful still come here for annual Mass, and I'd seen paintings in which trees were festooned with offerings. All was bare on my visit, but inside, the tiny buildings felt alive. As my eyes adjusted to the dark, I made out the steps leading down to the baths and gingerly leant down to splash my face. More than once I turned round, sensing company, but I was a good hour there, entirely alone. Back on the road, I found signs to rival the Santiago scallops bishops crook markers for the new St. Patrick's Trail. It's 92 miles long, linking the saint's grave at Downpatrick Cathedral with with other patrician sites. I didn't realise it was a driving route. Finding myself lost and on foot, I flagged down a passing car for directions. The driver was a local priest. He happened to be travelling to Saul, believed to be the site of Ireland's first church. Are you climbing sleeve, Patrick? He asked as we drove, nodding to the vast statue of the saint high on the hill above Saul. I read the memorial marking 1500 years since St. Patrick brought Christianity to Ireland. The mountain had been donated by a local man and renamed for the saint. Top that for a votive offering, I thought, climbing up through the rain. But where did St. Patrick actually tread in Ireland? It depends who you talk to, as the tourism team are finding out. Researchers are investigating place names and gathering local lore. It's all a bit contentious and it could take years, but perhaps a new generation of faith tourists, tweeting, blogging and geotagging all the way will be lured by the challenge to make their mark on this new and ancient pilgrim's way.
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Narrator/Various Reporters
And with Christine Finn In Search of Holy Footsteps. We've reached the end of this edition. There'll be more from our own correspondence next Thursday and Saturday, so please join us then. Goodbye.