← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
A Pig of a Sea
00:27:44
More and more migrants are trying to cross the Mediterranean and there are suggestions...
Loading summary
Transcript12 lines
- [00:00]
A
You're about to hear from our own correspondent. We do two versions of the programme, one for the BBC World Service and this one's a download of the latest edition from BBC Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
- [00:14]
B
Hello. We can't just leave people in the sea. A dilemma for ships captains as more migrants drown in the Mediterranean. Rumour and suspicion. In Nigeria, the President's accused of postponing the elections because he's frightened of losing. The price of oil halved, workers laid off, wells mothballed. Has the Texas oil boom turned to bust? And a miracle. In a small town in central Italy, carnivals going ahead. Against all the odds, hundreds more would be. Migrants drowned this week trying to cross the Mediterranean in the hope of new lives in Europe. Their deaths have raised questions about why the European Union decided to cut back its maritime rescue operation at the end of last year. It had been run by the relatively well equipped Italian Navy. Now it's in the hands of what many see as the under resourced EU border control agency Frontex. Latest figures suggest more migrants than ever are trying to make the crossing, despite adverse weather conditions in recent weeks. Emma Jane Kirby's been to Sicily to see how Frontex is faring.
- [01:22]
C
Clinging to the safety bar of the top bunk in the hot and airless cabin A, I decide I want to die. For 24 hours now, the sea has boiled beneath us, catapulting us upwards on the swell and then crashing back down. The 15 foot wave squeezed and squashed under the ship's hull with the juddering force of a pneumatic drill. The metallic stench of bile and acrid engine fuel is choking me. I've been sick so many times now that I'm shaking and there's no getting off. We're on board an Icelandic coastguard vessel in the middle of the Mediterranean, part of a mission run by the EU's border agency Frontex, to intercept a cargo ship which is suspected of having migrants hidden in its hold. I try to imagine them, three to 500 of them, perhaps crammed into the bowels of the boat with no space to lie down, the waves smashing them against the hull and scattering them like skittles. I never thought I'd see anything like it, crew member Andrew Johnson told me when we'd sat on the deck together near the port last month. Andrew was part of the rescue team which saved hundreds of migrants on a rusty decommissioned cargo ship which had been abandoned by its crew off the Italian coast. He spoke hesitantly, not because of a lack of fluency in English, but because he clearly didn't welcome revisiting dark memories, his young moon shaped face gave him a curious look of purity and innocence. When I boarded the ship and saw the dirt, the lack of hygiene, and the women and children so dehydrated who'd had no food or water for days, it was just so terrible and so moving, you know, I have such a good life and to see those people struggling. He trailed off and looked down at the deck. We can't give up, you know, he said firmly. These people need our help. The problem is too many people need Frontex's help. More than 19,000 migrants have arrived on Italy's shores since last November. Frontex, which doesn't have any operational equipment of its own, relies on EU or Schengen member states like Iceland to lend it the plane ships and helicopters it needs for operations. It currently has only a handful of resources to cover the huge Mediterranean Sea. On the ship's bridge, Captain Einar Valsen showed me the course he was plotting to intercept the suspicious cargo ship. When the distress call comes, he said, we have to answer that call. We come from Iceland, he reminded me. A small country of 300,000 people. One life is very important for us. We can't just leave people in the Mediterranean. But people are being left, no matter how hard Frontex is trying. Aid agencies say that this week's tragedy, in which more than 300 migrants drowned off the coast of Lampedusa, shows how woefully inadequate the mission is. When the emergency calls for help sounded, both of Frontex's large vessels, including the Icelandic one I'd been aboard, were in port and too far away to help. 29 migrants who were rescued by a small vessel died of hypothermia on the way back to shore. Doctors on the scene claimed if they'd been picked up by a big naval or coastguard ship, they probably would have survived. Italy decided to end its Mare Nostrum mission after its EU partners refused to share the high running costs. Ironically, it's now those same reluctant EU partners who are being relied on to offer handouts to Frontex. After 29 hours of misery, Captain Valsen finally steers us into the safety of Pozzallo Port back in Sicily. It's been a frustrating mission for him. By the time he'd caught up with the suspicious cargo ship, it had moved to international waters, meaning his crew did not have the right to board and inspect it. No one can now be sure if it was hiding migrants in its hold. The ship then plotted a new course towards the Canary Islands. This, he says, gesturing towards the water, is what we call a pig of a sea. Tomorrow it will be worse. Tomorrow, right now, more desperate people will be stepping into dinghies, inflatable rubber boats, handing over money for a place in the engine room of a rusted cargo ship. I understand a little now of how pitiful their journeys will be. I don't guess as to how they will end.
- [06:09]
B
And that's Emma Jane Kirby. The chaos was a clear sign of South Africa's democratic decline. That was the verdict of the country's respected business daily newspaper. After unruly scenes in the nation's Parliament on Thursday evening, a Group of opposition MPs interrupted Jacob Zuma's State of the Nation address. They were dragged kicking and fighting out of the chamber, demanding the president pay back money he'd spent doing up his home. Eventually, he was able to continue with his speech. But Andrew Harding says the incident has left many wondering about the future of Mr. Zuma's party, the ANC, and indeed, about the future of South Africa itself.
- [06:50]
D
The clouds were sliding majestically down the slopes of Table Mountain. There were brass bands outside the Parliament below, a red carpet on the cobbles and a steady procession of dignitaries all dressed to impress. South Africa does this sort of thing well. World cups, state funerals, pageantry. The rainbow nation still enthralled to its own miraculous journey. But things are changing here. I was sitting in the press gallery overlooking the parliamentary chamber when I noticed my cell phone wasn't working. Nor was anyone else's. In a few minutes time, President Jacob Zuma was due to deliver his annual State of the Nation address. It's normally a rather bland affair sweeping promises, polite applause. But today the nation was poised for a showdown. In recent months, Mr. Zuma has been ducking an important issue. He's been ordered to pay back public money spent on lavish renovations to his private rural home in Nkandla. In a country where corruption scandals are often murky, complicated affairs, Nkandla is pleasingly straightforward. We've all seen the president's new amphitheatre, his swimming pool built courtesy of the taxpayer. Mr. Zuma insists he's in the clear. But privately, even his closest aides admit he should pay up. He's just stubborn, one told me gloomily. And so, smelling blood, a group of opposition MPs announced plans to disrupt President Zuma's speech to Parliament by demanding that he reveal exactly when he plans to to pay back the money. Which brings us to the telephones. Why do you always look For a conspiracy? One of the President's staff asked me irritably when we started wondering if the signal was being jammed. But before long, it became clear that it was indeed a conspiracy. A jamming device had been switched on, a clumsy, unprecedented attempt to prevent the outside world from learning about any trouble that might crop up in Parliament. Things quickly started getting noisy, as they usually do here. The journalists stood and shouted, bring back the signal. Opposition MPs joined in the chorus. And from the government benches came a different chant. Anc. ANC ministers started passing notes. One of them left the chamber. Suddenly, the speaker of Parliament announced that the scrambling had been unscrambled. The phones were back on. President Zuma stood and began to read his speech. If you were to choose a righteous public figure to hold South Africa's rulers to account, you probably wouldn't pick Julius Malema. He's a brash, bullying caricature. Expelled from the anc, he's since formed his own small party, the Economic Freedom Fighters. Malema's critics say he's a dictator in the making, but it seems unlikely he'll get that far. He makes enemies too quickly and he's facing serious criminal charges of his own of racketeering and fraud. But when Julius Malema stood up in Parliament on Thursday evening and demanded to be heard, it felt for a moment like he was doing so on behalf of many South Africans. The country is in a gloomy mood right now. There are daily power cuts, foreign investors are losing patience. And after two decades in power, the ANC seems to have lost its way. The Candler scandal, just one of many glaring examples. The question preoccupying many here is how will the ANC deal with the possibility, you might say the inevitability of losing power? Will it stick to the rules or will it dig in its heels? Suddenly, the chamber was full of police and security guards, white shirts surrounding the red uniforms of the EFF's MPs. From above, it looked like a colour coordinated barroom brawl. Shirts were ripped, punches thrown. One MP brandished his red construction worker's hard hat like a weapon. And within a few minutes, the white shirts had won, bundling Mr. Malema and his team out of Parliament. On the steps outside, Malema said he'd proved South Africa was turning into a police state, that democracy was dying. Back at the podium, President Zuma offered up one of his trademark chuckles and read out the rest of his speech as though nothing had happened. Much later that night, I sat down for a few drinks with some local newspaper editors and columnists all trying to make sense of what we'd just seen. The mood was sombre. Yes, the media had won a skirmish over the jamming of phones, and sure, it was a cheap, predictable stunt by the eff, who'd suffered a few bruises in exchange for exactly the sort of publicity they so obviously wanted. But it was more than that. Maybe not a turning point, but a sign of things to come here in South Africa. President Zuma could have answered the question. Instead, he sat down, smiled, and let the men in white shirts handle it. A South African colleague drained her glass and shook her head. It feels, she said, like something died here tonight.
- [12:02]
B
Andrew Harding in Cape Town the United States has been producing oil in amounts not seen for 30 years, more than 9 million barrels every day, according to a government report. The increased production is the result of a huge increase in drilling and in fracking, but it coincides with a collapse in the global crude market. Europe and China are buying less oil. The price has fallen through the floor. So times are hard in the heart of the US Oil industry in Texas. But as John Sopel's been finding out, the mood's not entirely pessimistic.
- [12:36]
E
When the plane door opened at the small and slightly euphemistically named Lubbock International Airport in West Texas, there was a wonderful rush of warm air. It was 21 degrees outside, and though the winter sun was low in the sky, I had to peel off some of my East Coast Washington layers. The terrain is flat, featurelessly flat, and Texas was wearing its winter colors, all dull browns and watery greys, but the feeling of warm sun on the skin was very welcome. But then the wind got up, and with no mountains or hills to block its advance, when a cold front comes in, it comes in fast. On the way out of town, tumbleweed came bowling past our car faster than we were traveling. The temperature was plummeting. By the time we reached the town of Midland, the geological area known as the Permian Basin and epicenter of the fracking industry, the mercury was at zero and the sweaters were back on. In the space of a few hours, we'd gone from hot to freezing. The oil price has done just the same thing, with the same chilling effect for the thousands who work in the industry. This is a global world we live in, and so a slowdown in Chinese demand, coupled with a Saudi stubbornness to keep production at the same levels, has led to thousands of Texan oil workers being laid off and vast numbers of wells being mothballed. For various operational reasons, we had to go and see them fracking at night. The site was in the middle of nowhere and temperatures were now at bone chilling levels. The place is dominated by what looks like a mini Eiffel Tower. It reaches up into the sky, illuminated by white sodium lights. Up close, it's a muddy quagmire. Water plays a vital part in the fracking process. It's injected into a pipe that goes deep down into the earth at phenomenally high pressure, £8,000 per square inch. If you're asking to crack open the rocks, permitting access to the oil that has hitherto been unreachable. To achieve that pressure on the site, there's a row of enormous trucks with even bigger pumps on the back. When they start to rev up, they. The engines go from a low rumble to a high pitched scream. Next to the lorries is a trailer and in this warm place sit a few guys, their eyes focused on a series of bewildering screens. They show how far the acid has penetrated, how much sand they're putting down the pipe, what pressure the water is moving at. Overseeing all this is the master of ceremonies, one fabulously named Storm MacDonald. He's a burly Texan and has worked in oil fields all his life. He spent three years drilling in North Dakota, on the Canadian border. He's worked on the biggest oil fields around the United States, doing every dirty job imaginable. But though he lacks the white gloves and a baton, he is now the conductor of this orchestra. And he's still only 30. Outside in the icy cold, men are wearing hard hats, goggles and and headsets, awaiting his instructions. It's gone one o' clock in the morning when we strike up our conversation. And though presumably somewhere there is a warm bed waiting for him, he's in clover. He loves what he does, adores it. The smell of oil, the gush of oil, the riches that oil can sometimes bring, but also the hard physical labour involved. He tells me about the boom times, when every bar is heaving and every supermarket shelf is empty. When you have to drive for hours just to buy clothes or food, because all the towns nearest to the oil boom have sold out of everything. The company he's working at has six sites. Four have been closed, and when they complete the frack on this one, the owner says the probability is that they won't pump the oil. They need the price to be at $80 a barrel to break even, and today the price is nowhere near that. But Storm is philosophical. He says that although this downturn was unexpected, it will blow over. He says that in this industry, when the times are good, you put money away for when the times are bad. In other words, says storm, this storm will quickly pass.
- [16:48]
B
John Sopel in West Texas. Millions of Nigerians should have been going to the polls today, but last weekend the elections were postponed. President Goodluck Jonathan claims the decision was nothing to do with him. It was taken by security officials, he said, concerned about the Boko Haram insurgency in the northeast of the country. The presidential and parliamentary vote, which analysts expect to be the most closely contested since military rule ended 15 years ago, will now take place on March 28. Will Ross as many Nigerians view the postponement with suspicion, it's dangerous to predict
- [17:26]
A
anything in Nigeria, and this has been another week of wrecked plans. At a press conference which was delayed by five hours, we learned that the election would be delayed by six weeks for security reasons. The nationwide groan was deafening. Millions of Nigerians can't wait for this all to be over because whilst the politicians perform their not so pretty dance for power, an ominous uncertainty hangs over the country. Everyone predicts some violence when the result eventually comes out, but no one knows how much they'll be. Last time election results were announced, more than 800 people were killed. It's easy to feel sorry for the electorate in Nigeria. They're not exactly spoilt for choice. The front runners are the incumbent, Goodluck Jonathan, who's been lambasted for not doing enough to stop rampaging jihadists spreading terror whilst corruption scandals have been quietly laid to rest under a bulging carpet. Then guess who's the contender promising change? A 72 year old former military dictator, Muhammadu Buhari. So many young people ask me, Prof. Who should we vote for? The Nigerian author Wali Shoinka told me recently, adding that it's not an easy one to answer. There is a huge albatross hanging on the necks of the two main candidates, he says. The Nobel Prize winner is easily recognizable by the cloud of white hair rising from his head and falling from his chin. Imprisoned under military rule, he's been a key figure in the ongoing struggle for democracy in Nigeria. Wole Shoinka has strongly criticized the current president's performance and in his memoirs described General Buhari as a brutal dictator. Playing on the phrase, he who sups with the devil should have a long spoon, he said of Buhari, in my calculation, no spoon exists long enough to justify the risk of even an impromptu snack. When I read this quote back to him, Professor Soyinka sounded hopeful the retired general had changed for the better over the years, but said, I've been disappointed before and we must be ready to be disappointed again. Then, in a damning indictment of decades of misrule in Nigeria, he concluded, we cannot continue this cycle of repetitious evil and irresponsibility. As to why this election was postponed, well, that depends on who you ask. There are those who believe people around the president were so scared their man might not win they chose not to risk it. The excuse that was given was that the military wanted a few weeks to finish off the Boko Haram jihadists in the northeast, a bizarre last minute excuse seeing as the conflict has raged for years. Another great Nigerian writer, Chimamanda Ngozi Adichie, pulled no punches when she criticized the postponement. It's a flailing act of desperation from an incumbent terrified of losing, she wrote in an American publication, saying many people she knew were utterly unenthusiastic about the main candidates. The president of Nigeria very rarely gives interviews, but this week he took some questions from a panel of local journalists and did his best to dispel fears that the potholes were getting deeper on the bumpy road away from democracy. The elections will take place and there will be a new government in place in line with the constitution, he said. One of the journalists, who flattered the president with great gusto, provided a moment of comedy when she said, it's great that we're hearing this straight from the horse's mouth before putting a hoof in it by adding, do you mind if this evening I call you a horse? Last week I was given a chance to interview Muhammadu Buhari in the capital Abuja, but the plan went out of the window as I sat in Lagos airport watching the hour hand swirl round the clock. I expected an apology when I told an employee of the airline how I felt about the four hour delay, but not a bit of it. You see, that's why we need change in this country, he shot back. If Buhari was in power, that plane would have left right on time, he said, putting an awful lot of faith in one man's ability to break the mould in the poisonous world of Nigeria's politics. On my living room wall is a painting which seems to sum up what's going on in Nigeria. Five men sitting round a table whilst a sea of faces looks on, helpless. It's called the sharing formula, the artist Babalola Lawson told me, pointing at the colorful canvas. The leaders are there, sitting down, sharing out the wealth of the land amongst themselves, not even looking at the people. What do you make of the election delay? I asked Babalola. Just tactics, he replied, to give them more time for their vote rigging.
- [21:58]
B
And that's Will Ross. Now, traditionally Protestant Britain doesn't see much to celebrate in this part of the year, which precedes Lent. While Catholic nations don masks and raid the dressing up box for Carnival, all we've got is Shrove Tuesday. Nice. If you like pancakes. The biggest carnival of them all in Rio de Janeiro began yesterday. The Brazilians were expecting at least half a million foreign visitors. Carnivals are underway in various parts of Europe too. The most famous one in Venice, dates back to the 13th century century. Danny Mitzman's been witnessing preparations in another Italian community where there were fears the party would never happen.
- [22:38]
F
February's not the best month for Italy's street cleaners, especially in the most picturesque historic city centres. The cobbled streets and squares are strewn with coriandoli, multicoloured confetti that gets into the narrow cracks and stays there. It's carnival time, and that means parties in the piazza in fancy dress. Princesses and spider men race round fountains boisterously tossing bagfuls of their rainbow paper snow. When I was a boy, 45 year old Angelo tells me, I used to dress up as Zorro. All the boys round here did. This year, shops have sold out of frozen dresses. It seems every little girl wants to be Princess Elsa. Whether or not you like dressing up, it's a joyful celebration that serves as a perfect bridge between yuletide festivities and Easter eggs. Unsurprisingly, it's not the best time to diet. On the greyest of days, bakery windows glow invitingly with carnival specialities. Strips of ribbon shaped dough fried to a crisp and topped with thick flurries of icing sugar. They're sold on wide trays in mountainous piles known as Sfrappole. In Bologna, there are dozens of other names for them that vary from region to chiacchire, galani, buggie, crostoli. While carnival's all about having fun, there are some towns which take their fun very seriously. Where traditions are deep felt, this can be fundamental to the very fabric of a community. I witnessed it two winters ago in the little town of San Giovanni in Persiceto. The earthquakes of May 2012 in the Emilia Romagna region had left 27 dead and thousands homeless, with extensive damage to buildings throughout the area. I was visiting a team putting the finishing touches to their float. The first thing we asked ourselves after the earthquake was how's our carnival shed? Eva, the chief float designer, told Me showing me round the warehouse they called their second home. Eva explained how for their small community, Carnival became the driving force in the reconstruction of buildings and morale. When we come here, we leave our problems outside. We've never lost the desire to laugh and have fun, as the team manager put it. On the morning of the Grand Parade, Carnival is the end of all the tragedy and the start of a new life. But a short drive away in Cento, locals weren't so lucky. Theirs is one of Italy's most famous carnivals, a historic event featured in paintings by Guercino in the 1600s. In modern times, the tradition had all but died until a certain Ivano Man Servizi decided to revive and relaunch it in the 1990s. Since then, it's hosted celebrity guests like Dustin Hoffman and Diego Maradona and achieved the enviable status of being the only carnival in the world, twinned with that of Rio de Janeiro. In its golden years, the best float would even win the chance to parade in Rio's San Bodromo. In such a small town, the floats have always looked jaw droppingly immense. 20 meters long, 15 wide and 18 high. Tree branches are pruned and street lamps and signs removed to make space for them to parade. The earthquake's legacy threatened to destroy all this. The city centre was a red zone for nearly a year, explains Stefania Ognibene, who's worked for the carnival for 15 years. The traditional parade route was pronounced off limits, the float building warehouses inaccessible. Cento's Carnival 2014 was cancelled altogether. Stefania blames it on what she calls the bureaucracy that suffocates Italy. And things were looking even more bleak as 2015 arrived and nothing had changed. Carnival is serious for us because it's a tourist resource, says Stefania. We knew if we missed it two years in a row, it would die. And then came their miracle. Just 20 days before the start of carnival season, the council finally declared the warehouses structurally safe. There are usually six competing floats. This year there are four. Nevertheless, they are ecstatic. People have taken time off work, they've been labouring day and night to make it happen. And they've done it. Stefania enthuses. We've managed to achieve the impossible. The float's decorative themes are traditionally characterised by political satire, but this year they're all about new beginnings and reigniting hope. And if competition's less fierce than usual, maybe it's because deep down, the participants feel they've all already won.
- [27:33]
B
Danny Mozman in central Italy, where they take their fun very seriously. And that's it. More dispatches? Some serious, others less so, on Thursday and Saturday of next week. Until then, goodbye.