← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
16 Feb 2012
00:28:06
No need for expensive cab fares this time! The regime change in The Maldives proves a...
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Transcript13 lines
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You're listening to a download from the BBC. This is from our own correspondent.
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You can hear the version of the program broadcast on the World Service by following the link to the BBC iPlayer on the top of our website. To keep up with our latest reports and get a sneak preview of our stories, you can sign up to our Twitter feed as well. But now, presenting the BBC Radio 4
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edition, here's Kate 80 today, gloom on the road to Patras as the EU further delays decision on a bailout for Greece. Talk of a new cold war as Russia and the west argue over Syria. The international community appeals for calm in the Maldives, but has little to say about the regime change and the big African football match. It may have brought joy to Zambia, but at a refugee camp in Liberia, it was quite a different story. The people of Greece, it seems, are going to have to wait a bit longer before they hear whether the European Union is prepared to hand over another 13030 billion euros to help rescue their indebted economy. The EU finance ministers, who discussed the matter further in a telephone conference call yesterday, are expected to make a final decision on the handout early next week. The uncertainty has led to further speculation that the country may default on its debts and be forced out of the group of countries using the euro. Paul Mason has been to see how the drama's affecting lives and livelihoods beyond the capital, Athens.
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As we walk into the ruined factory, Mohammed reaches into his faded bomber jacket and pulls out a book. Jean Paul Sartre. I like the philosophical novels best, he says, stumbling between English, Greek and French. Also Marx, Marx, Hegel, Nietzsche, Sartre. Ahead of us is the factory yard where his mates are playing football, but they stop when they see me. They crowd around Sudanese, Afghans and North Africans, the ones stripped to the waist, washing themselves under a freezing hose pipe. Stop, too, because a white face here means either the cops, the fascists, or, as with Katya, who's led me here, somebody bringing charity. This smashed up rusting hulk right by the dockside in Patras. Western Greece is home to more than 300, all male, all like Muhammad Young, and all desperate to be somewhere else. By night they roam around in small groups, trying to jump onto trucks headed into the ferry port for Italy. Mohammed has come from Agadir, where he has a masters in sociology and he needs to get into France. Wasim, who's from Kabul, tells me it was easy to get into Greece. No border controls, he says the problem is getting out. The men roll their sleeves and hike their dirty jumpers up to show Gashes, bruises, airgun pellet wounds they say have been inflicted on them by commandos who patrol the port and by the far right who come down regularly to attack them. Abdul, who's from Sudan, has a degree in political science and would like to be a political analyst in London. He tells me the economic crisis has made things worse. The market stall people used to give us food left over at the end of the day. Now there's not much left. We rely on charity from people in Patras, but now they don't have any money either. And on top of that there are fewer trucks going to the port, so it's impossible to get out. He told me he'd been there 16 months. Wassim, who's seen the world, passes a bitter judgment on Greece. This is not Europe. I've been to England, been to France. These guys have police who break the law. They don't even give us a place to stay or food to eat. This is not Europe. This is Asia, man. It's like Turkey. Mohammed, the Sartre enthusiast, nods. They all nod under their rain, sodden hats and hoodies. Elsewhere, the main road from Patras to Athens has been blocked by mudslides. So we go onto the old road which hugs the shoreline of the Gulf of Corinth. It's a narrow highway with a long stretch of two storey self built seaside homes. Some shuttered for the winter, some shuttered forever, some lived in by people whose stuff spills out beyond the crumbling concrete into yards, alleyways and onto the freezing shingle beach. Most of the shops and restaurants are closed, but one is dimly lit, a smart glass fronted eating joint with Ikea lampshades. But no customers. None. It's Saturday lunchtime. The two waiters leap up, startled as we come in. They switch things on the heating, some folk music, and suddenly it's a Greek tavern. And the food, when it comes, is lemony, garlicky and an excellent tonic against the freezing cold. Three years ago, 10 of us worked here on a Saturday we'd have four guys just to do the grilling. It was even alright until last year, says the head waiter. Now there are only three of us. Before, you had people coming to their seaside homes, but we also had people travelling to and from Patras. Doctors, lawyers, engineers. Now these professions are not really making any money. Outside, the sea is shimmering in the winter light, every shade of blue, a dirty turquoise by the shore, almost white beyond, reflecting the snow on the mountains behind us and the colour of a new bruise where it meets the rainstorm that's coming in I realise what memories this scene is tugging out of me. The bumpy concrete road with its layers of old graffiti, the empty restaurant, the rust stained cars and trucks. Thirty years ago, when I first travelled to Greece, a lot of it was like this. Ramshackle, quiet and cheap. And then it had the euro and the boom. The problem now is not just that it's over, but that the story of how it will ever come back is not clear. To stay in the euro, to prove, in short, that critics like Wasim are wrong and that Greece is really European, its leaders just voted for a painful period of Austria. The best they can promise is that it will be short and sharp and that it's something that will get the country's heart restarted.
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And that was Paul Mason. A county council in Ireland's taking court action against a property developer who's erected a huge Stonehenge style construction on a hillside on remote Achill Island. The council wants him to take it down, claiming he never obtained the required planning permission. He's expected to counter that no permission was necessary for this type of edifice. Now Ireland is known around the world for its ancient settlements and monuments. There are beehive shaped stone dwellings where monks once lived and prayed. There are mysterious standing stones and archaeological evidence of homes where some of Europe's very first farmers and herders lived. But could this development out on the far west coast of Ireland eventually become a place for people to visit and marvel? Kieran Cook's been to make his own assessment, but he found the weather, as it often is in these parts, was in fighting mood.
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The wind is so strong, just opening the car door takes considerable effort. A spitting dampour of hail hits the flesh like shards of glass. Balancing on one foot in a gale to put on waterproof trousers is not a good idea. I'm blown hopping along the rough track, eventually toppling into a soft and very wet patch of bog. Achill island is about as far west in Europe as you can go. From here it's next stop New York, said the man in the bar. On a bright summer day, its rolling boglands and towering cliffs have a haunting majestic beauty. But on a winter afternoon with a Force 10 gale blowing, Achill really does feel like the end of the road, the edge of the earth leaning into the wind. I struggle for about a mile up the mountain, its top covered in a thin layer of snow like sugar powder sprinkled on a cake. And then rising out of the bog as if it's some science fiction creation, it comes into view a massive circular concrete construction of 30 columns, each more than four metres high. The edifice, a very modern looking colosseum, is is topped by a ring of stone. In all, the construction is more than 100 metres in circumference. Taking their cue from ancient Stonehenge in southern England, locals have been quick to name the site Achol Henge only a short time after it was built. Roughly made signs now guide the adventurous visitor up the slippery mountain path. A local developer with a grudge against the authorities is responsible for Ackelhenge. In the past he's driven a cement mixer into the gates of the Irish Parliament to protest about what he sees as the politician's inept handling of the financial crisis. I struggle up onto a pile of stone and wet earth to take a picture. What's visible through the rain soaked lens is peculiar, alien, definitely mysterious. To some, it's Ireland's latest tourist attraction. To others, yet another example of developers wanton butchery of the Irish landscape. The hail has gone, but another storm is galloping in from the Atlantic. In between the downpours, the high cliffs in the distance are lit by rays of sunlight. You feel the weather here in every fibre of your being. It is desolate. Achill has always been a place of leaving. In one area, a whole village stands deserted, a relic to those who left during the mid 19th century famine. During the recent boom years of the so called Celtic tiger, people did return to what is the country's largest island. Now, what with financial bailouts and the economic downturn, emigration has once again become a fact of life. There are varying opinions about Acolhenge. Even those virulently opposed to the construction admit it's a considerable feat of engineering. Built over a weekend and without planning permission by a team of workers hauling giant concrete slabs up the mountainside and sinking them deep into the bog. It would have taken the council five years to do anything like that. Says one local. Achol has always had a reputation as a wild place where the rule of law does not always apply. Over the years, writers and artists have been drawn to the island's rugged landscape, the clarity of its light and its tempestuous storms. Graham Greene spent time here in a tumble down house, writing and pursuing his then lover, a rich and eccentric society beauty. The German writer Heinrich Bohl was a frequent visitor. It was a place, he said, where you could play truant from Europe. What, I wonder, would they have thought of Acolhenge? Orders to demolish the construction have gone unheeded. Strangely, the man responsible for the project has said little about what Acalhenge is, what it represents, or exactly what he intends to do with it. A poll in a local newspaper found that most people feel Ackelhenge should be left standing. Some see it as a place of contemplation or even as a daring art installation. It's causing plenty of confusion. One man summed up the general feeling it is meaningless, so each of us can look at it and put our own meaning on it.
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Kieran Cook in the wild west of Ireland, the international community is appealing for calm in the Maldives Islands after the country's democratically elected leader was forced to resign last week. The decision by President Mohammed Nasheed to step down has led to a series of demonstrations and running battles between his supporters and the security forces. Another big political rally is due to take place in the capital, male, tomorrow. Mr. Nasheed's election four years ago was hailed by the west, but Andrew north says he's finding it hard to attract international support for his bid to win back the presidency.
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The Maldives is a nation of a thousand islands, and each one is in many ways a separate world. There's one island for the airport, another for the capital, Male, and of the hundreds of thousands of tourists who come here each year, only a handful ever set foot in the capital. Instead, they're whisked off in seaplanes or speedboats to exclusive and usually very expensive resort islands there. The Maldives Muslim code, including a ban on alcohol and skimpy dressing, doesn't apply. And these palm fringed enclaves are off limits to most Maldivians, many of whom remain very poor despite the riches generated by tourism. So when the Maldives had its Arab Spring Moment Four years ago, when Mohammed Nasheed's election brought to an end a 30 year autocracy, few tourists noticed. And as the sting of tear gas floated through Male's narrow streets in recent days, the well heeled Russians, Brits and others carried on flying in, oblivious to the latest eruption of politics in paradise. Our first stop in Male was the presidential palace, a convenient five minute walk from our hotel where the newly installed president, Mohammed Wahid Hassan was holding his first news conference. The words Presidential palace painted on a small wooden door told us we were at the right place at what otherwise would have looked like just another office block. As we listened to the Maldives new leader deny he'd won power in a coup, we heard the now former president was holding a rally for his supporters on the other side of town. We didn't have to worry about missing it. It was just another five minute Walk from the palace, passing the Defence ministry, the police headquarters and the main square en route where most of the clashes had been taking place. More than a hundred thousand people live in male, squeezed onto an island a little bigger than New York's Central park, and it's entirely covered with roads and modern buildings. A back street store offering live goats for sale reminded me there was a time when the Maldives was only about fishing and farming. We made the rally in plenty of time, then followed the marchers through the streets. More fighting broke out when they reached the main square, the Maldivian security forces responding with baton charges and tear gas against unarmed demonstrators. Walking back to the hotel later to file our reports to London, I realized this was the first story I had been able to cover entirely on foot within a 10 minute walk. It was more like a local dispute than an international crisis. Yet this was democracy in peril. At least that was the early narrative. In the hours that followed, the international community flew in its diplomats and observers. They were fact gathering, we were told. Assisting the US team were several conspicuously fit looking individuals with military style haircuts and a clear aversion to talking to journalists. It soon became clear the outside world had made up its mind and not in favour of the man they used to praise for bringing democracy here. So what happened? Mr. Nasheed's arrest of a key judge on the grounds he was stalling investigations into the old regime brought matters to a head. But many Maldivians suspect the big resort owners had a hand in it too. Unhappy at his plans to squeeze more tax revenue from them. He'd also reportedly annoyed the security forces by refusing to sign a defence pact with China. Saudi Arabia is said to have been displeased at the more liberal direction. Mr. Nasheed was trying to take this traditionally Muslim nation. But he sees more malign forces at work. An attempt by the old authoritarian regime to grab power again using his successor as a puppet. President Wahid's appointment of two powerful ministers from the old regime have only fed such fears. But he says he's committed to restoring democracy. Dr. Wahid is also a known commodity to the Americans from his time as a senior UN official in Afghanistan. And with the outside world concerned about a possible threat to the crucial shipping lanes off these islands, stability may in the end have trumped Mr. Nasheed's status as a democratic totem. So dangerous waters are swirling around the Maldives. On the main square, I found a shop selling marine souvenirs, pride of place. In the display were several shark jaws. Their rows of sharp Angry teeth glaring through the window.
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And that's Andrew North. The failure at the United nations to reach agreement on a plan to end the violence in Syria has driven relations between Russia and the west to a new low. There was furious comment in many Western capitals about Moscow's reluctance to take action against Syria, its principal ally in the Middle East. But it's only the latest example of tension between the two sides. The Kremlin, still unhappy about America's plans for a missile defense shield. It believes foreign spies are deployed in Russia and that the west is trying to foment disorder by encouraging political opposition ahead of presidential elections next month. Steve Rosenberg has been to a Russian town with strong historical ties to Britain and tried to find out what the man and woman in the street there think about the West.
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If you take a commuter train east out of Moscow, one hour and 45 minutes later, you'll arrive in Areekhova Zoeva. It's a small town, more interesting, perhaps, for an unusual past, than its dilapidated present. For it was here, more than a century ago, that Russians began playing football, and who brought the glorious game to the Tsarist empire. Two Blackburn Rovers supporters, Clements and Harry Charnock from Lancashire, ran textile mills for a Russian tycoon. They understood that all work and no play wreaks havoc with productivity. So legend has it that one day Clement brought a football into the factory and kicked it high into the air. The Russian workers had seen nothing like it and fled in horror, fearing the object falling towards them was a bomb. Perhaps not surprisingly, then, soccer here wasn't an instant success. To begin with, the local team was composed mainly of factory managers from England. And when Harry tried to explain the rules of the game to the governor of Vladimir province, the eminent official declared, do you really expect Russians to go and watch this nonsense? But the Chanuks persisted. They even adopted Russian names. Harry, for example, went by the name of Andrey Vasilevich. He eventually became vice president of the newly formed Moscow Football League. Finally, the effort paid off and Russians became football crazy. One thing the story of Russian soccer shows is how close relations used to be between Russia and the West. But ever since Clement and Harry Chanuk hung up their boots, so much has changed over the last century. Russia has experienced Communist revolution, civil war, World War, then Cold War, not to mention the collapse of the Soviet empire, the impoverishment of the 1990s and the Putin years, when the state has pushed to restore its power. Periods of history which in different ways have driven a wedge between east and West. As a result, a succession of Russian governments have regarded the west not as friend but foe and treated the outside world with the deepest suspicion. That's still true today. Just a few days ago, President Medvedev revealed that last year Russian counterintelligence officers had unmasked 199 foreign spies. When anti government protesters poured onto the streets of Moscow recently to condemn vote rigging in the parliamentary elections, Russian officials accused the U.S. state Department of fuelling the unrest. Then there's the upcoming presidential election. Vladimir Putin's campaign team has been busy scaremongering, warning voters that the west is plotting revolution in Russia and calling on the public to defend the motherland by voting for Vladimir. In a different vote at the United Nations, Moscow demonstrated its determination to stand up to the West. It vetoed a UN Security Council resolution on Syria. Watch the news bulletins on state controlled Russian TV and you'll see they have a distinctly anti Western flavour to them. But how do ordinary Russians view the West? Through the negative eyes of their government or in a more positive light? It's a difficult question to answer. Russia is such a huge country with so many different ethnic groups, different cultures and traditions. During my short trip to Arekhovo Zoeva, I tried at least to get a sense of what people here think one short train ride from Moscow is that spirit of friendship and cooperation symbolized by the Chanuk brothers still alive. From the train station, I headed to the old textile mills which have long been abandoned in Arekhovozojevo. When communism collapsed, most of the town's industry came crashing down too. The factory buildings are now empty shells, their window panes smashed, their walls covered in graffiti. They're like giant dinosaurs in an industrial museum. Outside one of the factories, I chatted to passersby. Most people seemed excited to meet a foreigner. Everyone had heard of the Charnock brothers and were clearly proud of their town's sporting connection to England. Few of the people I spoke to claimed to have any deep interest in politics, but their instinct was to be suspicious of the West. Russia has her own interests and needs to protect them, a man called Nikolai told me. Then I met Vladislav, an engineer. I've heard the Cold War starting all over again. Vladislav said America and NATO are trying to set up military bases close to our borders so they can seize Russia and possibly even China. I asked Vladislav whether he truly believed that. Well, he replied, if you're told this kind of thing day in, day out by your TV set, you can't help but believe it, even if you don't want to.
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Steve Rosenberg Tens of thousands of screaming Zambian football fans were at Lusaka airport earlier this week welcoming their football team home from the Africa cup of Nations. They'd beaten the favourites Ivory coast on penalties at the end of a tense final in Gabon. But while there was joy in Lusaka, there was a different response at a camp in Liberia where Thomas and Ford watched the big game.
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A small spluttering generator, two televisions and a crumbling concrete hut. All you need to watch the biggest sporting event on the continent. But for the Ivorians, who are almost sitting on top of each other inside this tiny room at the refugee camp, it isn't just about football. It's about unity, reconciliation and hope. Hope that it could bring the people of their country back together again and that they too can return to their beloved homeland. Big hopes, maybe. But this is a big day. I'm given a wicker chair close to the front. I share it precariously with Boubacar, the man, it seems, who is in charge of making this happen. I had no idea where he got the televisions from, but he's charging people a small fee of 150 liberian dollars to get in. Not much more than a pound. But with more than 100 people here, the savvy businessman knows he'll be left with a handsome profit. The atmosphere is unbearably hot and sweaty, but still incredible. Someone thrusts a hot plastic cup of dark liquid in my hand. Cafe Jumba, the man says with a huge smile. I take a sip. The fiery ginger makes me sweat even more, but I keep drinking. Naked, glistening torsos dominate the room. A man behind me waves, a small fan calling his two young daughters sitting on his lap. Boubacar has been living here for almost six years. He fled Ivory coast during the country's first civil war. He talks about what a win tonight would do for his country. He thinks it will make people see they are all Ivorians, whether they are Muslim or Christian. Whether they support Laurent Gbagbo, the former leader awaiting trial at the International Criminal Court in the Hague. Or Alassane Ouattara, the UN backed president who hails from the Muslim North. As we wait for the kick off, a man called Tienga, in a mixture of English and French, tells me how his brother was killed in the fighting. His wife, he says, is missing. He has no idea whether she is dead or alive. The only family he has now is his son. They managed to escape together. Tienga's eyes light up with excitement as he tells me how the win tonight would mean he could finally Go home. Football unites nations, he says proudly. It will bring peace, real peace to my country, he says. Boubacar leads the chanting. Drogba. He bellows in his deep voice. Cote d', Ivoire. He cries. And the whoops and cheering overtake the room. Chelsea's Didier Drogba is the man everyone's counting on tonight. And as the minutes go by and the game remains goalless, no one seems too worried. But when Drogba misses the penalty, 70 minutes in, the mood seems to shift. Zambia, a young team devoid of superstars, push Ivory coast into extra time. Still no goals. An uneasy feeling fills the room. The ref blows the whistle. It means penalty kicks will decide the championship. Boubacar can't cope. He hauls himself off our chair, stepping through the small children occupying every inch of the floor. I'm not too worried. The pressure of penalty kicks for the young, inexperienced Zambians will surely seal the victory for the Ivorians. Drogba steps up. Nerves are stretched to breaking point. But this time he doesn't miss. It sails in just under the bar. It's neck and neck, sudden death. Then Manchester City's Toure takes the spot. The room gasps as his tame shot is saved. People start to weave their way out of the room. It's not over yet. I want to shout. You can still win. It's Ivory Coast's turn again. Arsenal's Giovinio makes his way. Another miss. He side foots it high and wide. If Zambia gets the next penalty, it's all over. The Ivorian goalkeeper has no chance. Sun Tzu, the young Zambian striker, slams it down the middle. Silence fills the room. It really is over. Within minutes, the room empties. I scan the faces in the darkness, trying to find Boubacar and Tienga. They're gone. I want to tell them I'm sorry. Sorry for their loss. But it's too late. The generator switches off and suddenly we're in a refugee camp again. The party's over. No more talk of unity and reconciliation and no more talk of returning home. The Ivorians make their way back to their tents. Quietness fills the night. The only sounds to be heard are the crickets.
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And on a sad night in a Liberian refugee camp, Tamieson Ford's dispatch brings this edition to a close. I'll be back with more from correspondence far and wide on Saturday morning. Do join us. Goodbye.