← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
BBC Radio 4 August 6th 2011
00:28:04
Mexico's drug wars are notoriously violent and the killings have spread to Guatemala...
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Transcript12 lines
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This is from our own correspondent. We make an edition for the BBC World Service as well, but this is a download of the latest Radio 4 programme and here to introduce it as ever, Kate Ady.
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Today we visit the site of horrific killings in Guatemala. As drug violence spreads from neighbouring Mexico, the young indignants of Spain take their message onto the road. We go on a trip downriver in Colombia's red zone and hear why the disco music has come to a stop. And why do Poles like to dress up as knights at the weekend? Mexico's drug wars have been notoriously violent in recent years. Only last week, the authorities convicted a teenage gang member of murder, kidnap and possessing drugs and weapons, who admitted to cutting the throats of four people. He was just 14 at the time. A number of the leaders of drug cartels have been arrested in recent months, but the killings have not abated as different groups fight it out for control. And those battles have spilled over into neighbouring countries like Guatemala, which is no stranger to violence as it is. Linda Presley has been to the scene of a massacre in northern Guatemala, where Mexican groups are trying to take control of the drug routes coming from further south.
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There are just so many shoes, flip flops, a cowboy boot, Wellingtons, a single cheap trainer and a child's Sunday best navy leather sandals. They're strewn across the tropical earth outside two rough wooden buildings. These would have been home to the workers on Los Cocos ranch, migrants from the south of Guatemala who moved north to the region of Peten, near the Mexican border, to get a job. Now those workers are gone, their bloody, decapitated bodies removed in refrigerated trucks. The day after the massacre, 27 were murdered. Birdsong carries on the hot, still air. Occasionally, I hear voices. The young soldiers who accompanied us have fanned out across the property and are chatting in twos next to empty cattle pens. Past the wooden homes, you reach a clearing. There's a well, and just ahead is a whitewashed brick building with a veranda tiled in terracotta. I've seen pictures of this scene on the Internet, but it's still deeply shocking because the entire front wall of the building has been stained with blood. In a message written in giant letters to the owner of the ranch. I'm going to find you, it says, and I'm going to leave you like this. It's signed Z200. In a whisper, our guide tells us the gruesome details of how the message was written. Extreme, cruel and stomach churning violence has become a mark of the Zetas, the group believed to be Responsible for what happened here. Apparently revenge for an unpaid drug debt. Over the last few years, the Mexican cartels have moved into Guatemala with the aim of controlling territory. Paten is home to hummingbirds, ocelots and jaguars, and it was the birthplace and heartland of the ancient Maya civilization, where great cities rose out of the thick forest. Now it's one of the main transit routes for cocaine heading to the United States. A huge area of sparsely populated, remote jungle with little infrastructure, ideal for organized crime to melt into. The brutality at Los Cocos completely stunned Guatemala. Not easy in a nation where gun, gang and drug violence is an everyday occurrence. The President arrived within hours of the massacre and Patten was put under direct military control. When we visit his headquarters, the colonel in charge of the operation is behind his desk in a room with vicious air conditioning, the speakers on his computer belting out a popular ballad. He offers us cold drinks and shows me pictures of his wife and granddaughter, who are at home in Guatemala City, hundreds of miles away. Then we go outside to do the interview. The Colonel clocks our translator. Matthew's a pony tailed American who arrived in Guatemala more than a decade ago with a Peace Corps and then stayed on to set up a local environmental organisation in Peten. He's an invaluable guide for us, knows the area is in touch with communities, and he's just one of those people you always hope you'll meet on an assignment, but rarely do. But the colonel is suspicious of Matthew. Perhaps he thinks he'll twist his words. You're here to translate, not interpret, the colonel tells him. And then, realising I'm taller than him, which he thinks might not be a good look on television, he orders one of his minions to bring a breeze block over and stands on it. Now, I misinterpret this as quite a good gag and start to laugh, but the colonel is deadly serious. Then it dawns on him that standing on a breeze block in front of his men might be an even worse look, and he orders someone to take it away. The colonel won't be drawn on how many more soldiers have been brought into Paten since the massacre. All he'll say is that the military has the area under control and that it's working in harmony with other institutions to keep the peace. The ban on civilians carrying a gun may bring down the number of murders. No bad thing in a region where the murder rate is twice the national average and Guatemala has one of the highest murder rates in the world. But locals question whether the military does have the area under control. As the Colonel, says. Father Javier, a local parish priest with an easy manner and a cotton shoulder bag, tells me the presence of the soldiers has made no impression on the cartels or the drug dealers. And since the massacre at Los Cocos, the fear is palpable. It's always been there, he says, but now it's like the screw's been tightened.
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Linda Presley if the second financial bailout for Greece was supposed to calm the money markets, it clearly hasn't worked. This week, billions have been wiped off the stock markets as fears continue to grow that Italy and Spain will default on their huge debts. Given the size of their economies, the consequences could be extremely serious. Already, anger has spilled out onto the streets with protests at guns, government cutbacks. In Madrid this week, we saw the most violent clashes with the police since a group calling themselves the Indignados the Indignants began their protests back in May. Sarah Rainsford recently joined some of the young Indignants on the road.
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If you walk down Granville in Madrid, you can still see the traces of a recent protest by the Indignant. There are bright red handprints on government buildings, paint smeared over cash machines, and on one bank's wall, the word guilty in big black letters. It's quite clear then who protesters here blame for the economic crisis and the fact that 46% of young Spaniards are unemployed. They're angry at the banks whose risk taking started this recession, and at politicians who responded with spending cuts, privatisations and redundancies. Back in May, the indignation of Spain's young generation finally spilled out onto the streets. Thousands pitched a protest camp right in the heart of Madrid. Every night, Seoul Square was filled with huge rallies. The camp has gone now. But this was not the Spanish spring some predicted. The spirit of Kinthe EME May 15 has survived into the long, hot summer. Recently, I went hunting for a group of the protesters as they marched on Madrid. We finally met after a flurry of text messages just outside the pretty town of Aranjuez. Slumped by the roadside, the young marchers were exhausted. You don't sleep or eat properly. Your muscles ache. Some days you just collapse and think you can't go on, Carolina admitted after 23 days walking from Granada. Hers was the southern March, just one of seven columns converging on Madrid. Carolina joined in because she's highly educated and unemployed, and she's angry at what's happening to her country. She told me the pain and the effort were worth it. We want the politicians to see that millions of people are unhappy. Another girl, Julia, explained As her friends sucked on slices of watermelon and gulped down water. The marchers aim was to be noticed. They stopped in towns and villages on their way to hold assembly meetings in the open air, spreading their own message and collecting local concerns to carry to Madrid. As the group I was with entered Aranjuez, they filled the high street, dancing and singing. We won't pay for your crisis, they'd chant, or they call this democracy, but it's not. A few broke away and surged, still chanting, into banks, all very passionate, but still peaceful. And all along the road, shoppers and shopkeepers stopped to watch. The protesters were a bedraggled bunch, but almost everyone I spoke to was very supportive, like Santiago Montalba, who owns a jewellery store in Aranjuez, a family business on the verge of collapse. He told me his sales have slumped by 80% and three of his own four children are unemployed. These people have studied, prepared for life, and they're in a dire situation. Things can't go on like this, the jeweler told me as the indignant poured noisily past his shop. We have to support them. They're the only ones with the power to try to change things. Another woman in her 60s told me she's a great fan of the protesters. She's defaulted on her mortgage and the indignant have promised to help stop her house being repossessed. It's a cause they've taken up across the country, deploying flash mobs to physically prevent police and bailiffs from evicting families on behalf of the banks. The dramatic campaign has had an impact. The government's brought in new regulations protecting a larger slice of people's income from banks reclaiming mortgage debts. And now Santander bank has declared a three year moratorium on repayments for mortgage holders whose income falls significantly. A spokesman said the bank was sensitive to people's difficulties. But the indignant demands go broader and deeper. They want Spain's electoral system overhauled and tougher sanctions against corruption. And they want politicians who won't bow to every whim of the financial markets. Many Spaniards call it a social awakening. They're energised, enthusiastic, excited even. We didn't know each other before this, Arora told me at a weekly assembly meeting in a Madrid park. Now we're talking. We see how much we have in common and we can fight for change. The paint splashes on Granville suggest there are more radical elements within this very diverse movement. But the vast majority are peaceful, intent on reforming the system, not destroying it. And recently they got Some high profile encouragement when a Nobel Prize winning economist dropped in on an assembly. Joseph Stieglitz told me later he understood the protesters frustration. This isn't how a market economy is meant to work. The professor agreed. In fact, given everything that's happened, he said, I'm surprised how moderate they are. And he added, I'm surprised they're only indignant and not outraged.
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Sarah Rainsford A new report from the International Committee of the Red Cross looking at healthcare in conflict zones across 16 countries claims that medical workers, doctors and nurses, as well as ambulances and hospitals are being deliberately targeted. And the number of attacks is increasing. Imogen Fuchs joined an ICRC team in Colombia visiting an area that's been off limits to medics and journalists for years.
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It's six in the morning on Colombia's River Caguan, and I'm about to travel down it with a medical team from the International Committee of the Red Cross. Our journey begins in the town of Cartagena del Chaira, and as our little flotilla of three boats sets off, it's beautiful. This is the Amazon basin, and as the sun comes up, I'm privileged to see this natural environment in all its glory. Lining the shore are plants I know mainly from greenhouses, banana trees, palms, and gloriously huge hibiscus bushes covered in yellow blossoms. A pair of red and turquoise parrots swoops low over our boats along the bank. River turtles stacked up one behind the other like tiles on a roof, sun themselves on logs. There's even an alligator snoozing in the shallows. But this is also Colombia's Zona Roja, or Red Zone, a region long fought over by the rebel group, the farc, the drug cartels and the Colombian military. It's traditionally a no go area for journalists, and I'm only here because the ICRC has carefully negotiated my and its presence with all sides. The aim is to provide some modest medical care to the communities along the river's 400 mile length. Government doctors, threatened, taken hostage and even killed, stopped coming here years ago. And once ashore, the dereliction of this region becomes clear. The villages here were once well off. The reason the farmers had a crop the young and wealthy of Europe and North America were willing to pay handsomely for not any more. Coca eradication is putting an end to the boom. In one village, a river bank disco complete with sparkly mirror ball lies abandoned. In another, a vast bar is closed and eerie, but the chairs and tables, even the empty glasses, are still there. And the paradise environment of the river is gone. Too. On land, the mosquitoes are vicious, the humidity intense, There is no electricity and the water is not fit to drink. Now, you may not approve of making money out of the plant which makes cocaine, but tell that to the thousands of men, women and children along this river who have no jobs, no health care whatsoever and no way to pay for the day's boat journey to the nearest Hospital. Maybe 18 year old Graziella's father, brother or uncle still secretly have a few coca plants. Or maybe they are FARC members or both. But Meanwhile, she is 40 weeks pregnant with her first child. It's a high risk pregnancy and she really needs to have her baby in a hospital she has no money to get to. Or Mercedes, a mother of four children. The last time the Red Cross medical team visited, she had a routine test for cervical cancer. Now, four months later, she's told it's positive. The Red Cross offer her some money to travel up the river for treatment. But it may be too late. The people of this region are trapped in a conflict which denies them the basic human right of decent health care. Along the river, army checkpoints slow down river traffic, even boats carrying the sick or injured. In the villages, the FARC watch everything and everyone. When at a community meeting, the Red Cross team suggest that the next time they visit they would like to bring local doctors and nurses with them. The proposal is met with stony silence because the people know Colombian medical staff cannot come here without the FARC's approval. So when after two weeks treating the communities along the river, the Red Cross head back upstream, they know they won't be back for at least another four months. But after working 18 hour days in 100% humidity, the river is cool and the mood is good. Until that is, the three boats dock again at Carthagena del Here, the heavens open in a drenching tropical rainstorm. And just outside the town there is yet another army checkpoint. The soldiers are belligerent, wearing Rambo style bandanas and waving their guns. Local people travelling by bus are made to get out and open their bags. The contents become soaked. After some explanations, we are waved through and round the corner we see the cause of the army's anger. Overnight, the FARC have blown up the main power line. Its charred wreckage lies in a field. Tonight, Cartagena's tiny hospital, the only one on the river, will be without power.
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Imogen Fuchs In Colombia's Red Zone as we heard earlier, there has been anger across Europe at the banks and at severe cutbacks in government spending, especially for Social Security budgets. In France. The president of Samus Social, a municipal humanitarian emergency service which provides care for the poor and homeless, resigned last month. He said it was no longer possible to operate under such severe financial restraints when demand was soaring. Emma Jane Kirby has been spending time with those who've fallen onto hard times in Paris.
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Claudine leans in close to me as she talks, speaking softly and shyly, her right hand often rising to her mouth as if she wanted to rip out the words that her lips keep forming. Tents dont l' amisaire falling into misery is the phrase she whispers most. We don't eat lunch, she tells me. I haven't eaten lunch for 15 years. Now it's time. Just my little way of economising. She nods down to her bulging shopping caddy and explains, it's enough for my family's dinner, but not enough for two meals a day. We're sitting in a big warehouse in the north of Paris which serves as a food distribution centre for the city's chronically poor. It reminds me of the sort of indoor market you find in former Soviet states mountains of unbranded pasta and rice piled on tables, misshapen, anemic looking vegetables wilting in CR biscuits and chocolate wrapped in such bland, plain brown paper that not even a child could be excited by its contents. We watched the steady line of people, a disparate group of Europeans, north and West Africans, trudging from table to table, collecting their rations. Despite the animated cheerfulness of the staff, I noticed not one of the customers meet their eye as they take the food parcels and, embarrassed, mutter a barely audible word of thanks. Shame, Claudine tells me, is what links everybody here. She remembers when she lost her job five years ago and was first forced to register for her weekly food handout. She could hear tormenting, spiteful voices in her head, taunting her with the word charity. Charity, Charity. On the way home, she'd met a neighbour who eyed her bag suspiciously and asked how come she could afford to do such a bulk shop when she'd lost her job. I told her I'd found another one. Claudine laughs. And then I went home and cried for hours. I'd become a charity case and a liar. Poverty is conditioned by lies. While I've been chatting with Claudine, a beautiful little girl of about six, with pink plastic sandals and matching hair ribbons, has been edging nearer to us, drawn in by the big microphone I'm holding. Her father, a handsome Portuguese man, comes to tell her not to bother us, and I ask him what's happened in his life that he needs to come to this warehouse. He motions down at his little daughter, who's distracted by the recording machine, and puts his finger on his lips. She doesn't know, he whispers. She thinks this is the supermarket and that we're just shopping. I dread the day when she asks me, daddy, why don't we pay? He excuses himself suddenly and heaves his daughter onto his shoulders. She's too high up now to see that her father's crying. Look at the books in the food distribution centres like this one and you'll see the figures steadily creeping up month by month. Meanwhile, the French government continues with its programme of social welfare cutbacks. 115, the helpline for those who suddenly find themselves homeless, is buckling under the weight of its calls. Millie, a savvy, smart bilingual secretary from Cameroon, is one of Those who's recently dialled 115 after she fell ill and had to stop working. She says her carte de sjour, the papers that allow her to stay and work in France, were revoked and she could no longer pay the rent on her studio apartment. Looking at her, it's difficult to believe she spent last night sleeping on a veranda because she's immaculate and has the deportment of a society deb. Appearances, she instructs me, are everything. Let yourself go and you'll go straight to the dogs. I'm a valuable person, she says proudly, but I notice she looks to me for reassurance, and I see the fear in her eyes that I might be judging her, because she has also told me that she has to wash in the public baths, wear other people's clothes, and eat at soup kitchens frequented by drug addicts and alcoholics. She's battling poverty with a fierce, indignant energy, refusing to be sucked down into its depths of despair and despondency. Although it's miles from the hostel where she's staying tonight, Millie offers to come with me in the taxi to the station where I'm catching my train home. In my country, she smiles, we never let a traveller start a journey alone. She's very jolly in the cab, reminiscing about her family, her sister in London, the present she sent her nephew last year in America. By the time we get to the Eurostar terminal, I've forgotten that Millie's homeless, and I realize with a real physical shock that this is exactly what she wanted, that she wanted me to see her as she once was and still is, a proper, dignified, intelligent woman. She waves me off, her whole body swaying into the gesture in that exaggerated way that small children say goodbye. Sitting in my seat on the train, my eyes closed, I can see her still. The last line from a Stevie Smith poem comes into my head, not waving but drowning.
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Emma Jane Kirby and you can hear from Emma Jane on the homeless in London during Broadcasting House tomorrow morning. The summer holidays are kicking off in earnest. For those fortunate enough to be going abroad in these economically straitened times, it may be that sun and sea are priorities. Others might prefer culture and history, so why not take a browse round some of Europe's medieval castles? But if you're planning on visiting Poland, then make sure you have the right protective headgear, adam Easton explains.
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There's something about summer that makes many Poles want to slip into chainmail and pretend to be a medieval knight. Of course, battle reenactments involving knights are popular across Europe, but in the Polish holiday season, there's one every weekend. One of the largest tournaments is held over four days at Malbork Castle, a place that symbolizes the medieval period for poles. Dating from 1274 and constructed of 36 million red bricks, it's the largest lowland castle in Europe, built by the Teutonic Knights as their Prussian stronghold. The knights retreated here after their crushing defeat by a combined Polish and Lithuanian army at the Battle of Grunwald in 1410. The Poles and Lithuanians followed them and laid siege to the castle for more than two months. Several hundred Poles recreate the event every evening during the tournament in front of thousands of paying spectators. It's directed by Boguslav Vorosansky, a man who's done more to popularise history in his homeland than any other. He reckons its appeal lies in the Pole's romantic nature and their patriotism. Much of their history is painful. The Middle Ages, on the other hand, hark back to a time of chivalry and bravery when a knight could pit his skills in hand to hand combat, he told me. It also heralded the start of a period when Poland and Lithuania ruled an area of Europe stretching from the Baltic to the Black Sea. The Battle of Grunwald is particularly important in Polish history because, as Krzysztof Ptashinski, one of the night tournament judges, eloquently explained, we kick some German butt. In his hooded robe and somewhat incongruous summer footwear, Krzysztof, or Redneck Chris, as he introduced himself, looks like a monk in flip flops. He speaks English with an American accent. Whoa, dude. Ouch. In your face. He hollers as two Knights dressed in full body plate armor batter each other with double handed swords. Each knight gets a point for a clean blow above the knee and five points seize you into the next round. The swords are blunted, of course, but that doesn't render them entirely harmless. Chris tells me he has broken his hand 14 times and he stopped fighting because it was endangering his ability to play banjo. Once, in combat with a Belarusian knight, his kidney was displaced. So what's the appeal? I asked. It's the thrill, he said, adding the only way to find out was to try it for myself. Somewhat recklessly, I agreed and Chris's friend Damian said he'd show me a few moves. Three people helped me into leggings, armour plate for the legs and arms, a chainmail vest and a dog faced helmet. I was almost ready to compete. The gear weighs five and a half stone and I felt ready to fall over armed with wooden shields and swords. Damian said, follow me. And the next thing I knew I was walking away from the backstage area and being introduced to the crowd. I was beginning to sense that Damian might not be planning to show me some slow motion air lunges and ripostes as I'd hoped. Instead, someone shouted go. And Damian bore down on me and almost cleaved my shield in two with his first blow. I managed to fend off his assault for quite some time, actually about 10 seconds before he contemptuously aimed a strike at my head, clattering my helmet. The resulting noise was almost deafening. Amazingly, I didn't make it through to the next round. There were other tournaments too. Archery, crossbow and jousting, as well as a medieval craft fair. People dressed like Robin Hood and Maid Marian sold mead or paper made out of fabric. Blacksmiths forged tacky ornaments or small weapons. Outside the craft fair. Vendors who didn't have to wear period costume sold bendy foam swords and plastic helmets. Boys aged seven or eight dressed in tunics decorated with the black cross of the Teutonic Knights jewelled beside the moat at Malbork. As many as 10,000 people visit during the four days of the tournament. But it's not just for tourists. There are medieval knights brotherhoods across the country whose members take part in knights competitions throughout the summer. Most people I asked said they did it simply for fun. It was difficult to be more precise, they said. There's just something about dressing up and getting together with friends at picturesque medieval castles that appeals.
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Adam Easton with his ears still ringing from that bash on the head. And that's it for today. There'll be more from our own correspondence next Saturday. Do join us. Goodbye.