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From Our Own Correspondent
Boybandmania
00:27:44
One Direction: behind the scenes with the boy band in the US. Arrest warrant issued a...
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- [00:00]
Kate Adie
Hello from Bush House in London, home to from our own Correspondent.
- [00:06]
Matt Wells
You can hear the World Service edition
- [00:07]
Kate Adie
of our programme by going to the from our own Correspondent website.
- [00:11]
Matt Wells
But this is a download of the latest broadcast on Radio 4.
- [00:15]
Kate Adie
It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Narrator/Host
Today, an arrest warrant issued for the former Prime Minister of a British overseas territory in the West Indies. They left as refugees. They've returned in disgrace. The Cambodians deported from the us, struggling to fit in back home. It's boom time in a Brazilian port 900 miles from the sea. And they may be number one in the USA. But there's a shortage of socks as the British boy band One Direction conquer New York City. Investigators in the British overseas territory, the Turks and Caicos Islands, say they've obtained an Interpol arrest warrant for the former Prime Minister Michael Misic. The islands, close to the Bahamas and 600 miles southeast of Miami, were previously better known as a tourist destination and an offshore banking centre. But two and a half years ago, as investigations got underway into claims of high level ministerial corruption, the United Kingdom suspended the local government and imposed direct rule. It's meant that the islands administration is suspended for up to two years and power transferred to the London appointed governor. Trish Flanagan, who used to work there, says the scandal, along with the global economic downturn, has hit the islands hard.
- [01:31]
Trish Flanagan
Grand Turk was booming when I left in 2007. The country's first indigenous bank, TCI, had been launched and a cruise ship terminal had opened at the south end of the island. People were buying condominiums at the exotically titled Cacique Royale beachfront development. The tennis legend Venus Williams was in town advising on interior design at another condo project called Columbus Landing. Conch Farm, an eco tourist attraction based on the Caribbean's signature seashell, was about to open. But since then, everything has changed. A Category 5 Hurricane Ike swept through the tiny island in 2008. It's the new reference point in conversations islanders talk of before Ike and after Ike. The hurricane was followed by the collapse of the global economy. Then in 2009, the British assumed direct control of the Turks and Caicos because of widespread corruption and mismanagement of the country's finances. The local government and constitution were suspended and a host of British officials rolled into town to take charge. Now the Cacique Royale condos lie unfinished and abandoned. Two concrete shelves was the sum total of the development at Columbus landing. The TCI bank went into liquidation in 2010. Concworld was finished, operated for a short period and then closed. I pick up a Pair of binoculars and see there's a cruise ship in port. Some locals here say it's only the cruise ships which are keeping the island alive. It's not hard to double the local population of 3,500 when two or three of them are in port. Under the administration of Premier Mike Mizick, swathes of government owned crown land were given away to cronies. Bribes and backhanders were paid by developers. Small islands were bought and sold. Then the British stepped in, first with a parliamentary visit, then an inquiry and finally a takeover. They are now conducting multiple civil and criminal investigations against former government ministers and their associates. Several have already been charged with bribery, conspiracy to defraud and money laundering, including Mizik's brother, Chalice. A local newspaper reports that these prosecutions will cost $33 million over three years. In a country whose coffers are empty, the British are trying to balance the books, but import duties have gone up and people are complaining about food price rises on an island which relies on imports. In his heyday, Mike Mizic enjoyed a lavish lifestyle. He married a Hollywood starlet, gathered an extensive entourage and insisted on two prime ministerial houses, one in Grand Turk and one on the larger island of Providenciales. The Grand Turk house was the victim of an arson attack. I take a walk through the ruins. Little remains except the swimming pool, whose surrounds once hosted extravagant parties. Mizic has denied selling crown land for personal gain. His whereabouts are currently uncertain. Some local rumours have him on a ranch in the Dominican Republic, surrounded by heavy security. Others say he's in Venezuela under the protection of the president Hugo Chavez. Although everything has changed here, somehow it feels as if nothing has changed. Wild donkeys and horses still wander idly on the roads. Ms. Dolly is still at her cosy corner store. She makes the best cakes on the island. And I visit to see if the strawberry cheesecake is as good as I remember it is. While I'm there, the former premier, Derek Taylor comes in. His government preceded Mizzigs and he's now been re elected leader of the PDM Party. It's all a bit deja vu to me. We chat about the state of the nation. I want to restore credibility to the Turks and Caicos. He says he's asked the British government to hold elections on the 1st of August, Emancipation Day, to bring back a sense of freedom to people, as he puts it. Elections, whenever they're held, will determine if the people support him. And that's the kind of place Grand Turk is. You can meet a former premier in a small grocery store or the Governor in a dive boat out to the splendid reefs that encircle the island. Governor Rick Todd, the Queen's representative, is on our diving trip. An English tourist, Simon, jokes that it's the equivalent of diving with the British Prime Minister, David Cameron. The Governor's not sure how long his term will last. I'm here at Her Majesty's pleasure, he says. Are you going to sort out the country? I ask. Oh, I'm confident that elections can be held in 2012, he says. There are, however, no plans to have any parties at the Governor's residence under his watch. It wouldn't be appropriate in this time of austerity, he says.
- [06:27]
Narrator/Host
And that's Trish Flanagan. Now it's a contest which so far at least, seems to be notable mainly for the age of those taking part. We thought we'd have the oldest of them all in 75 year old Engelbert Humperdinck. But then along came the Russians with their Babushka supergroup, whose aggregate age is. Well, it's a lot. The British love to laugh at the Eurovision Song Contest, but you can bet we'll still be tuning in on our millions to watch. This year it's being held in Baku, the capital of Azerbaijan. Damian McGuinness says that for the hosts in this form former Soviet nation, it could be a rare chance to bask in the international spotlight.
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Damian McGuinness
Ok, an embarrassing confession. I've always had a weakness for the Eurovision Song Contest. Now, admittedly, the songs themselves aren't exactly innovative, but there's something about the ridiculous outfits, the nonsensical lyrics and the, at times, frankly, bizarre dance moves that somehow makes the world seem, if not better, well, at least more fun. But this year's competition seems a bit different, mainly because it will be held in a country which human rights activists describe as authoritarian. The same family has ruled Azerbaijan for two decades. The current president, Ilham Aliyev, inherited the role from his father, who also, for a time, ran the country when it was in the Soviet Union. Today, government critics regularly find themselves in prison. And it's a government which clearly doesn't have much of a sense of humour. In 2009, two youth activists were sent to jail for two years after they posted a video online of a donkey giving a mock government news conference. And the uprisings in the Arab world have clearly rattled the rulers of this majority Muslim country, meaning that they've clamped down on dissent even more. I saw just how harshly when last April, some Azeris tried to stage their very own Arab Spring. The demonstrations were stamped out before they could even begin. Anyone raising a placard or shouting out Freedom was thrown straight into police vans. Activists were arrested on their way to the protests, or even in their homes after trying to organise meetings on Facebook. So what does all this have to do with Eurovision? Well, Azerbaijan likes to portray itself as open and democratic. The country spends millions on PR companies and lobbyists persuading Western politicians and businessmen of the benefits of working with Azerbaijan, benefits which can be quite substantial considering how wealthy the country now is, thanks to oil and gas. So the government hopes that putting on a good show for Eurovision will help Azerbaijan brand itself as a European country with European values. Pop music as soft power, basically, and Certainly since independence 20 years ago, Azerbaijan has achieved a lot. Baku's ancient city centre has been given a complete facelift and now gleams with designer boutiques. And many Azeris, particularly the young, have more opportunities and more wealth than they ever have done. One reason why an Arab Spring style uprising here never seemed very likely. But the government has also managed to keep its grip, thanks to a tightly controlled media and a ban on protests in the centre of the capital. The most controversial issue at the moment, though, is the case of a group of families who say they've been evicted from their homes to make way for a park around a new concert hall being built for Eurovision. Pensioner Natalia Alibyakova is one of the last people still in her apartment block. When we talked to her in February, she said that the authorities were dismantling the building with her still in it to force her out. The roof a few stories above her flat has now been removed and the water cut off. The organisers of Eurovision told the BBC that the evictions have nothing to do with the contest, which they stress is not political. And the Azeri government says the homeowners are being given compensation and accuses the foreign media of trying to ruin an event which the whole country is looking forward to enthusiastically. But the compensation being offered is far below market value and nowhere near enough to buy a similar property. And Human Rights Watch says that right across the city, as the authorities smarten up the capital at breakneck speed, hundreds of families are being forced out of their homes against their will and that human rights violations could cast a shadow over the song contest. For now, Natalia and a few other families are refusing to leave. But a huge crane is hovering overhead, waiting to knock down the entire block of flats. So by the time we'll all be watching singers bounce around in glitzy outfits, Natalia's apartment will be long gone. Eurovision, she told me when I last talked to her on the phone, will now always remind me of losing my home.
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Narrator/Host
Damian McGuinness deported, disoriented, forgotten. That was the headline on a story in a Cambodian paper about the growing number of people arriving in Phnom Penh after being expelled from the United States. It's believed the US has served deportation orders on some 2,000 Cambodian Americans. Many come from families who arrived in the States as refugees from the murderous Khmer Rouge regime of the 1970s. Max Shapira, who's in the Cambodian capital, says human rights groups have become concerned that the returnees are arriving back with little money and fewer prospects.
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Kate Adie
Sam's first memory is riding a sled in the snow on the way to primary school in New Hampshire. His favourite film is Scarface. In breaks during a conversation, he raps Tupac lyrics. He loves skateboarding, going to the gym. There are millions of American 20 somethings just like Sam, but unlike them, Sam can never set foot in the US again. Two and a half years ago, Sam was deported from America to Cambodia, a country he had never even visited before. A land of chaotic traffic, fermented fish and endemic corruption. In the late 1970s and early 80s, in the aftermath of the Khmer Rouge regime, America granted asylum to thousands of Cambodians. Feeling the anarchy in their home country, they set up home in places like Laos, Massachusetts and Long Beach, California. They got jobs, went to school, learned the language, became in all but name Americans given permanent resident status. Many never thought of applying for citizenship. But in March 2002, in the wake of 9 11, the US and Cambodia signed an agreement allowing any non citizen refugees who had committed felonies to be deported back to Cambodia. Since then, several hundred have been returned. Today they are stranded, lost, a long way from home. I first met Sam in Phnom Penh in 2010, just a few months after he'd arrived in Cambodia. Since then, we've met several times to talk about what has happened to him. Born in a refugee camp in Thailand, he arrived in America one month old with his mother, brother and sister. Sam is proud of his childhood, thrust into a bewildering new world. Things were not easy, but he still talks happily of how he and the few other Khmer kids stuck together. And even though they were smaller than the rest, they would look out for each other and hold their own in fights. After high school, Sam did a range of jobs, mainly factory work. He had a stint in juvenile detention for refusing to help a police investigation and a couple of other short stays in prison, including one for stealing a car radio and speakers. But by 2009, he was working, living with his girlfriend, caring for his young son. That was when the immigration authorities took him in. His earlier robbery of the car stereo meant officially that Sam had committed a felony, and that made him liable for deportation at any time. After several months in detention, he was forced on a plane to Cambodia. Recently, as we sat in a cafe, Sam told me about what it was like arriving in the country. I got off the flight. Officials surround me like vultures because I think I got money, I got no money. They were talking to me, a Cambodian I couldn't understand. Rubbing his head intently, as though still unable to process his experience, he continued, then we get out and it's hot, hot, and all I've got is the clothes on my back and 28 cents in an envelope. And I was like, what the hell am I going to do? What the hell am I going to do? Fortunately for Sam, the organization Risk, which helps new returnees, picked him up from immigration at the airport and gave him a bed for a few nights. But this support is unusual. Most Cambodians have not warmed the returnees. People die every day to try and go to America, sam says, and for you to come back here, they think you're some kind of terrible person. And being a returnee is not something that's easy to hide. Sam spent a long time in the gym in the US he's twice the size of most Cambodian men. He has tattoos and speaks the language with a strong American twang. Blending in is not a possibility. Sam initially spent a lot of time with his fellow returnees. Now he says he doesn't want to, that it doesn't help him settle in. Many already suffering from drug dependencies and mental illness find themselves drawn back into crime. It's not uncommon for attorneys to end up trapped in Cambodia's bewildering and brutal penal system. Sam has tried to get work, but in a country where the average monthly salary is considerably under $50, it's not easy to find a job to support himself. Whenever we talk, he tells me that he feels like he's in a daze, a feeling that he can't shake, a sense of amusement. Although he knows it to be true, he can't accept that America has shunned him so completely that it won't forgive him ever. In the two years since I first met Sam, things have got a little better. He's joined a church, which seems to provide him with a sense of belonging. His Khmer Language skills have improved, and with the help of friends and family in the States, he can afford to rent an apartment. But when I ask him if he might ever feel at home in Cambodia, he's adamant. No, never. Definitely, never ever. No matter how long I'm here, the feeling of being home is when you're really home. I'll never have that feeling again.
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Narrator/Host
Max Shapira, Inpnom, Penn. Next, we go to the city of Manaos, the capital of Brazil's huge Amazon region. This used to be a place you couldn't reach overland. You could fly there, or you could go by river. Well, despite its remote location, 900 miles from the sea in the middle of the rainforest, its fortunes, like those of Brazil itself, are booming. And it's been chosen as one of the host cities for the 2014 World Cup. But Sarah Granger says all this success and development is taking its toll on the surrounding environment.
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Sarah Granger
Manaus has the feel of a frontier town. On a Sunday morning, stroll through the city, my English accent attracts the attention of another stranger in these parts, a gold miner from Sao Paulo. He's here to set up a business, find workers and pay for permits so he can head off into the hinterland and make his fortune. But there's no frontier in sight. Manau sits in the heart of the Amazon basin, an international river port hundreds of miles from the nearest border. Even now, at the start of the 21st century, most traffic to and from Manaus travels by river. Some visitors arrive by air. The city is still cut off from most overland travel. So you might think that this place would be something of a remote, undeveloped outpost. And you'd be wrong. Manaus is doing very well for itself. Thanks to government tax breaks, it's developed a very healthy manufacturing sector. Thousands of workers head to factories as big as aircraft hangars to begin their work on assembly lines. Every day, wrapped up in white coats and with gloved hands, they put together laptops, tablets and televisions for the biggest names in technology production. In the cool of the air conditioning, it's not the first time there's been a boom in the Amazon. Manaus first made its name in the 1870s as the Centre of the rubber trade. Some inhabitants flourished so much that they built themselves an elaborate opera house, a pink and white confection with a golden dome whose component parts were shipped in from Europe. Marble from France, steel from Glasgow, glass from Italy. Now well preserved, it's still the pride and joy of the city. Manaus fortunes changed after an Englishman smuggled seeds out of the country. And rival rubber plantations were set up in Malaysia and Sri Lanka. The city returned to its status as a bit of a backwater, reachable only by river or air. But the Brazilian government was worried it would lose its control over the vast Amazon region, And in the 1960s it introduced tax breaks in a bid to encourage companies to set up business in Manaus. Things have looked up for the city ever since. In perhaps another display of wealth to match that of the opera House, the 20 year old Taj Mahal Hotel boasts a revolving restaurant which offers a 360 degree vista of the city over lunch and dinner. The view is impressive. The ride can be a little nauseating when it's complete. The new 40,000 seater World cup stadium will become part of that view. The design, with latticework across the exterior, reminds me of the top of an apple pie. Currently, though, it looks to be little more than a huge mound of orange mud. Not far away, the Rio Negro Bridge, two and a half miles in length, spans the Amazon. It's been open for just a few months, offering easy access to the southern banks of the river, where city planners hope to build new housing for all those busy factory workers. I visited it during the day with a local guide, Joaquim, who can see both the good and bad in this new link to a world beyond the current boundaries of the city. The new housing is a good idea, he says, but last week some kids armed with a machine gun held up a bank and escaped across the river with their loot. Before the bridge, there would have been no way out. Joachim is not the only one to see a downside to Manaus growth. Ecologists, too, see problems on the horizon. In a dusty university office stacked with books and periodicals, I meet Dr. Philip Fernside, an American academic with a huge bushy moustache who's been working on and in the Amazon for 30 years. He's seen journalists like me come and go over that time. 1992 was particularly busy, he recalls, but then interest in the Amazon seemed to wane. His message has changed little over time. Roads are like poison to the rainforest, opening up new areas to deforestation and destruction. The Rio Negro Bridge is just a link to what will become a suburb of the city. But what if other bridges are built? He says. Other links, other roads?
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Narrator/Host
Sarah Granger in Manaus now the Beatles couldn't do it. Nor could the Rolling Stones, nor the Spice Girls. The British boy band One Direction, who rose to fame via the X Factor this week, became the very first British act to have a number one album in America with their very first record. So of course, amid much talk of conquering the usa, the boys are in the US at the moment. Apparently doing a rather successful job, winning hearts and minds. Fans apparently began camping out in New York's Rockefeller Plaza two days before the group's appearance there. Matthew Wells, making a Radio 1 documentary, joined the boys on their American charm offensive.
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Matt Wells
I'd never heard of One Direction, five guys aged 17 to 20 from the UK and Ireland who'd known each other for less than two years after being put together on television's X Factor. But now I've spent three long days in fancy New York hotels with them, as well as in black vans with tinted windows, radio studio green rooms and a few dingy basements inside suburban shopping malls. Arriving outside a downtown studio, there's a long line of teenage girls whipping themselves into a frenzy. Despite the cold, many have bunked off school for the day to spend 20 minutes in the proximity of Liam, Zane, Niall, Louis and Harry. The gatekeepers in charge here are tour manager Paul and record label executive Lisa, surrogate mum and dad to five young men who won't be going home for months. And with multimedia appearances, album signings and performances, every second counts. But it's mundane and unforeseen problem solving that keeps the show on the road. As the boys are herded into a small room for a pep talk above a record store, the Louis spills oily pizza on his shirt. Hair and makeup specialist Christabel dashes outside for a hair dryer, thinking that she's probably a wily fan just trying to get near the band. It takes her several minutes of arguing before she convinces the store security guards they should let her back in. In the odd minutes that I can snatch an interview, it's clear the group is running on adrenaline. Louis pulls down his lip to reveal a nasty mouse sore. He's waiting for some antiseptic gel to arrive with a stylist who's coming to visit. As they prepare to go on stage at the Radio City Music Hall, I'm treated to a sight that would cause the thousands of fans outside to swoon, several of the boys bearing their designer briefs ahead of a visit from the tour doctor who's going to inject them with vitamin B as a pick me up. With such a demanding schedule, there's little time or energy left for the wanton bad boy behaviour that's marred some previous attempts by British bands to break America. Louis tells me he spent his late night hours not rampaging around Times Square, but sitting on his bed watching One Direction's album reaching number one live on iTunes. Any spare time there is is spent stretched out on floors or chairs, tweeting, texting and messaging their millions of fans and Facebook friends. One night they do manage to cause a bit of old fashioned damage, and by breaking lane equipment at a Manhattan bowling alley. A guy fixed it in 20 minutes with a screwdriver, says one of the boys with a smile, adding, we were just having a laugh, throwing three balls down at once. During my time with them, tour dad Paul only has to issue one serious reprimand when a minor food fight degenerates into paper plate throwing at a New Jersey shopping centre. Chastened, the boys are soon back in line, welcoming small groups of starstruck fans for photos. And they do have a powerful work ethic. Zayn Malik, the serious one you could call him, tells me it's all about the graft. This is my job now, he says emphatically. As the band prepare for their first live appearance on a network TV show that involves arriving in a red double Decker, they sit down together in the hotel and watch footage of the Beatles first visit to America. The success of One Direction's first album Here is remarkable, and yet it's clear the spontaneous, almost innocent age of Beatlemania will never return. In its place are five gifted young media entrepreneurs, professional singers, who are fully aware of how they're being packaged and that their digitally powered global fame could evaporate as fast as it arrived. We don't have big fights, more like brotherly squabbles, says Harry as the hair dryer whirs in the background, and wearing only a bath towel, he bites into a big spoonful of cornflakes. The boys are complaining they've run out of socks. There are no more to be had, the wardrobe mistress tells them sternly. Liam, the thoughtful one, let's say, has managed to punch himself in the face during the night. There's a small bruise that needs dealing with as he sits down for make up. He and the others are all totally exhausted and yawn constantly. Through our interviews, Liam tells me that if he hadn't got his break with One Direction, he'd be a fireman now. A bark from tour manager Paul it's time to go, boys. At the end of the day, Liam tells me with a sudden burst of energy, it's about getting to travel the world with your best mates. They may be homesick and missing girlfriends, but which boy band from any era can really ask for much more than that?
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Narrator/Host
Well, they could try asking for more socks for a start. Matt Wells on the road in New York with One Direction brings this edition to a close. There'll be more from correspondents far and wide on Saturday morning. I hope you'll join us. Good bye.