← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Dec 3, 2011
00:28:06
Being Italian is bad for your health! That's the contention from Bologna where winter...
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Transcript12 lines
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Hello, this is the from our own correspondent office in Bush House in London. We also make editions of the programme for the BBC World Service, but you've downloaded the latest Radio 4 programme. It's presented by Kate Ady.
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Today, Handel's Water Music by the River Congo, an unexpected accompaniment to a week of election violence. The skeleton rallies which are restoring legal life to thousands declared dead in India. There's a book fair and a beating up in the United Arab Emirates. And with winter weather descending on the city of Bologna, we can reveal that being Italian is bad for your health. At least 18 people have been killed in election related violence in the Democratic Republic of Congo, most of them shot by government troops in the capital Kinshasa. Initial results from the voting give the current head of state, Joseph Kabila a lead. Will Ross says that tension's high in the country as people await the full results of the polling due on Tuesday.
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I walked into the chaotic arrival hall at Kinshasa's dishevelled airport to find a blazing row in full swing. Customs officers and immigration staff all up close and bellowing at each other. I now know it wasn't really an argument at all, just another lively Congolese debate. There's a spirit to this place. Looking like a museum from the 1970s, it must be the worst airport on the continent. Although a colleague from Somalia spent a while comparing it to the one in war torn Mogadishu and decided to call it a draw. I headed into the city centre, past endless election billboards, the current president Joseph Kabila's campaign clearly the best funded of the lot. Next to the 40 year old's beaming face were three photos laying out his vision to illustrate the transport manifesto. There was a dugout canoe, then a small motorboat and finally a huge cruise liner that seemed to have been cut and pasted from a holiday brochure for trips down the River Nile. At the hotel, the waiters, waitresses, chefs and cleaners were all cheering, jumping up and down and looking as though they just won the lottery. If that's the welcome we get, then this place is either going to be damn expensive or we're the first guests in years, I thought. The source of the euphoria was in fact a group of Japanese men walking down the stairs, working in Kinshasa as water engineers. They'd been staying there for weeks, but had only ever been seen in their khaki overalls as they set off in sharp suits for a function at the embassy. The hotel workers were treating them like kings of the catwalk. Today you look so smart, you're almost French. A waitress shouted out in fits of giggles. The Congolese are definitely snappy dressers. Where else would you find a man in a turquoise suit and matching bow tie during the rainy season? It's quite an effort nurturing such a look. I saw people in imitation crocodile skin shoes tiptoeing their way around the vast potholes full of muddy water. Of course, the infectious rhythms of Congolese rumba music can be heard everywhere. But then there are people who just seem determined to break the mould. Heading down one of the rutted streets, as I sought views on the election, I met Bruce Makusanga practicing his viola. No, you don't expect to hear Handel's Water music by the River Congo. When I was about 10, I remember my father used to listen to all sorts of foreign music on his radio. Bruce, who's studying electrical engineering, told me. I was fascinated and I was determined. I wouldn't just listen to it. I had to play it, he said before getting busy with the bow. Once again, Bruce got his lucky break at his church, one that I'd never heard of, the Kimbanguist Church of Africa. It has several million followers who believe that Simon Kimbangu was a prophet. He gained such a huge following with his preaching in the early 1900s, the Belgian colonial rulers considered the man to be a threat and locked him up in prison, where he died years later. Not content with just one viola, I headed to a rehearsal of the Kimbanguist Philharmonic outside the church, which looked like a conference centre. They were playing bassoons, the French horn, a trumpet and flute, whilst Bruce was with a full string section clearly in demand. Some of the musicians had gone to a multi faith service where the bishops and imams were calling for peace. Even after the election, a serious looking, bespectacled clarinetist approached im the secretary general of the orchestra, said Stephen Lupetta, who in his other life is a radiologist at the hospital, but has a burning desire to take his orchestra for a performance in Vienna. For the first three years we had no instruments, so we'd meet up and sing the different parts, Stephen told me as the others carried on belting out Mozart and Brahms. Then the container full of instruments arrived from China. It was quite a day, he said with a smile. In a country so famous for its energetic dance music, I wondered what other people made of the orchestra. Stephen looked serious again. Some people think this music is just for falling asleep to, but I try to persuade them to give it a go. As I left I was promised an invite if the Vienna dream ever comes off. Then it was back to the more familiar sounds of an election trip, like the firing of tear gas canisters and angry crowds complaining of electoral fraud. Of course, I've got recordings of all of them, but I know which I'll be listening to in a few years time.
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Will Ross in Kinshasa five Internet bloggers who'd been jailed for up to three years for insulting the rulers of the United Arab Emirates received a presidential pardon this week. Their trial had been criticised as grossly unfair by a coalition of seven human rights groups who'd campaigned for their release. The UAE has so far escaped the wave of democracy protests which has swept many countries in the region. But Sara Sheridan, who's just back from the Gulf States, says The so called UAE5 aren't the only ones calling for reform.
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I arrive at Dubai airport sweaty, in the middle of the night. It's quiet. The Arab Spring is nowhere in sight. Several men are wearing winterweight dish dash tunics. I can't imagine how people manage the summertime if this is supposed to be cold. I'm visiting neighbouring Emirates Sharjah for the International Book Fair. Sharjah is Dubai's swatty younger brother, more conservative than its shiny, accommodating sibling. No alcohol is on sale here. The ruler is Sheikh Sultan bin Mohammed Al Qasimi and the book fair is His Highness's gift to the nation. I'm delighted. The extensive program includes an event grandly titled Insights into World Leaders through the Ages, and another on promoting understanding between cultures. People talk about the emir in glowing terms. An educated, endearing man whose rooms are littered with books. He forbids his wife and servants to move. He's so cute, one woman enthuses after the opening ceremony where he reads not a speech but a poem. He has endowed 17 museums in Sharjah. I am told repeatedly human rights abuses in the UAE are legion. Human Rights Watch launched a campaign this year to highlight the plight of 70,000 Nepalese indentured labourers. There's limited Internet and press freedom. Skype, for example, is banned and and dissidents are locked up. That's to say nothing of curtailed personal freedoms. On meeting a male friend, I go to hug him and he reels back. You've got to be married to even hold hands here, he hisses. Later, I hear the emir has decided not to attend the event about international politics. There's a rumour he didn't like the course the discussion was likely to take. The event about promoting understanding has been cancelled. Still, I turn out to watch him glide through the hallway, surrounded by acolytes on his way to dinner. And then it happens. The first I know is the wailing. I think someone must be having a heart attack or a stroke. The emir disappears and what is left are seven bodyguards, police, I assume, who have apprehended a man who, it is later explained, seemed threatening. They push him violently to the ground, breaking a leaflet stole. Then they kick him, stamping on his face the terrified noise he makes, his stomach churning. In the main hallway, the TV cameras switch off. I see people put down their mobile phones, making it clear they won't call, tweet or take pictures. The police drag the man, still howling into a side room and the crowd are told to move on. An American woman who is right next to the attack is shaking. Did you see a weapon? I ask her. She shakes her head. His dish dash was short and his beard was long. I think he was a Muslim fundamentalist. Someone volunteers. Rulers in the Emirates are under attack from all sides. The fundamentalists think they aren't extreme enough and the liberals think they're too repressive. The hallway returns to normality. The TV cameras roll. People are interviewed about how much they're enjoying the book fair the next day. I find no mention of the would be attacker anywhere. I still don't know what happened to that man. In the afternoon, I meet a sheik and I ask him about dissenters. We love the royals like a parent, he says. What would you do if someone criticized your mother? As if it is a fete accompli that my answer would be beat him up. I ask about the UAE five imprisoned democracy campaigners. One of them criticized the emir on tv. The sheikh tells me, incredulous, you can't say things in public like that. It's disrespectful. Locals, I come to realize, are similarly hard hearted about the Nepalese indentured labourers trapped by the labyrinthine immigration system and their own grinding poverty. They're here by choice, I'm told, as if these poor people are simply flighty and should not be indulged if they decide they'd like to leave. Checking out of the hotel, I learn that the desk clerk is Nepalese. I ask him if he goes home much. His eyes shift to the Emirati supervisor by the register. Yes, he says uncertainly. He's clearly afraid. I'm glad to get home myself. And not long after I land, the UAE 5, having gone on hunger strike, are freed. Nasser al Gayth tells Grisly stories of being in solitary confinement in Al Watba prison, his hands and feet manacled. Nonetheless, he and fellow detainee Ahmad Mansour the vow to continue their campaign for democratic reform. And after what I've seen, the heroism of that, it strikes me, is breathtaking.
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And that's Sara Sheridan. There was havoc in a busy government office in the Indian state of Uttar Pradesh this week. Officials leapt onto chairs in terror as a disgruntled snake charmer took out a bagful of cobras and other serpents and tipped them onto the floor. He's angry that local officials won't grant him some land where he can look after his snakes. He complained it was impossible possible to get things done without paying bribes. Craig Jeffrey says Indians are now finding all kinds of ways to take on corrupt government officials.
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Indian democracy, one man, one bribe. Salman Rushdie's famous quip has rarely been more apposite. The scale of corruption in modern India is astounding. The size of bribes and kickbacks is enormous, the stories of corruption astonishing, and the audacity of corruption's big players ever more apparent. India has become a great power, but it's done so without washing away the canker of corruption. If any example is needed, look no further than the famous second generation mobile scam in India last year. This involved government officials undercharging telephone companies for licenses. Corruption is everywhere. From the organization of the Commonwealth Games to match fixing, from getting a driving license to getting a divorce. Everyone is playing the game. Indeed, some wise commentators have argued that there's no such thing as corruption in India, because what people in the west define as corruption is simply ordinary life in the subcontinent. But we should beware of wise commentators, because what's also remarkable about modern India is are the efforts of people to protest against corruption in India. People define corruption in the same way as sociology professors. The abuse of public office for private gain. It's mistaken to think that people in India just accept corruption as common sense. This year it's been the North Indian social activist Anna Hazare who has hit the headlines for his anti corruption crusade. Hazari launched a hunger strike in April this year in Delhi, demanding that the state establish a new ombudsman, a Lokpal, to deal with corruption at high levels of government. Volunteer organizations, prominent Indian intellectuals and legal activists quickly wade in. A coordinated Anna movement has been the result. Anti corruption has gone online and there have been some dramatic street protests too. For some, this is nothing less than India's Arab Spring. There's something refreshing about this upswell of anti corruption activity and also something disturbing. As some left wing critics are now pointing out, there's a danger that anti corruption activists will throw the baby out with the bathwater. Youth where I work in Uttar Pradesh point out that you can critique politicians as much as you like, but at least they've been elected. Indeed, many are now seeing in the Anna movement something of a corporate conspiracy. Big Capital can use anti corruption as a cover for pushing forward its own agenda, which is to privatise and deregulate, come what may. And it's perhaps telling that the Anna movement has not critiqued the corruption of big corporations lobbying the Indian government. Be all this as it may, what isn't in doubt is the vibrancy of anti corruption organizing in India at every level. On the main drags in New Delhi to the smallest village courtyard, there's the daily spectacle of laborers trudging to offices to complain. There are social reformers who write long letters to the newspapers to berate government officials. And then there are student activists across India who've been known to barricade bureaucrats in their offices for days at a time, teaching them a lesson. They say, I've worked with many of these everyday reformers, young men, usually underemployed and in their 20s, who spend their days buzzing between offices meetings and newspaper offices, publicizing cases of corruption and making the maximum fuss. These are semi professional whistleblowers. Perhaps the most interesting example of anti corruption comes from a corner of rural eastern Uttar Pradesh. It was here in 1976 that a poor 15 year old called Lal Bihari decided to go on the war path. In that year, Bihari's land was seized by an unscrupulous uncle. The uncle bribed government revenue officers to register Bihari as deceased. But Bihari didn't take this lying down. He quickly complained to officials. His appeals went unheeded. But Bihari still persisted. In an extraordinary move, he stage managed a mock funeral for himself to publicize his case. Bihari quickly discovered that others had suffered the same fate. And so he launched a campaign on behalf of the many thousands of people in Uttar Pradesh who have been illegally declared dead. Bihari's Dead People's Society Maritak Sang in Hindi petitions on behalf of victims of corruption. It organizes regular skeleton rallies in north Indian cities. The Muritak Sang has succeeded in bringing hundreds of people back to legal life, restoring to them their land and pride. It just goes to show, of course, that there's more than one way of being reincarnated in India. But the serious point is that corruption is not taken for granted, and things can change.
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Craig Jeffrey the city of Des Moines isn't often at the centre of the political world, but it is right now. During the next few weeks, wherever you go in this state capital of Iowa, you'll run into another Republican presidential candidate trying to shake your hand. The Iowa Republican caucuses, which take place on January 3rd, are seen as the formal start to the 2012 US presidential election. So that's why the likes of Newt Gingrich, Mitt Romney and Rick Perry will be striding the streets of the state Capitol, hawking their recipes for how best to rescue the American economy. There before them, though, is our man, Mark Mardell.
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From its plain wooden booths to the painting of the late owner, the restaurant says small Town America. The waitress was urging us to try the special special, a cut called the Ladies Fillet. Go on, she teased. We won't laugh at you boys. Not to your faces anyway. Of course. We'll joke about you in the kitchen. So we manfully ordered the T bone instead. But this jokey, chummy intimacy seems typical of Iowa, which came as quite a relief, for the state has a rather daunting reputation. The flat, dull landscape of endlessly merging cornfields is thought to breed a certain sort of hardy Puritanism. After all, the famous picture American Gothic, depicting a grim faced farmer clutching a pitchfork, his equally sour wife by his side, was inspired by Iowa. It's the state where, through a device known as the caucus, Republican candidates are meant to be strained through the narrow filter of evangelical Christian conservatism to remove any remaining taint of liberalism. From outside Iowa, it can look unfair, part of the process that forces American politics to occupy the extremes. From the inside, it looks like a lot of fun, and the extremists seem robust but open and unpretentious. Take Doug Rosendahl. His business is engine oil, but his passion is flying old warplanes from Mustangs to B52s. His other love is politics, he says. In Iowa, anyone who's doing their civic duty will have shaken hands with a president. On January 3rd, registered Republicans will gather in schools and village halls, argue with each other about the merits of the candidate who want to be president, and then they'll vote. Iowa is the first state to do so, and its verdict carries a weight that sometimes seems beyond all common sense. So in the weeks leading up to the caucus, candidates come here and engage in what Doug calls retail politics. They can't get away with just kissing babies. They have to sell to people born on farms who turn over in their hands whatever they're buying, searching for flaws, making sure it's not some cheap flim. Flamingo One of Doug's best selling products is called the Diplomat. It's a mixture of oil and soap. He doesn't want politicians who hawk such a mixture. He agrees it may be unfair that it's Iowa that gets to grill them, but says it's vital that the candidates are questioned about policy away from the big cities and the coasts where money rules. There's a restless sense of dissatisfaction in the cold country air here. The quaint old fashioned script of the closed for business signs in shop windows doesn't soften the message. But Iowa is better off than America as a whole. Unemployment is much lower. Agriculture is booming because of trade with China. All the business people I speak to are doing very well personally, thank you. But grumble all the more about the scale of America's debt. They're looking for drama and a new direction. The Democrats had their chance for hope and change. Now it's the Republicans turn for something brand new. Only there's no speck in the distance, no hero riding across the prairies into town. Most people assume Mitt Romney will end up as the Republican candidate, but then most think he flips and he flops from one winning position to another. That doesn't play well here. Newt Gingrich is a serious challenger, but it's a name that hardly features in the national polls which intrigues me. The former doctor, veteran Texas congressman Ron Paul came top both in a couple of straw polls in Midwestern states and in my even less scientific sample. Here in a bar, a young man, a registered Republican, tells me he likes what he's hearing from Paul Savage. Cuts to deal with the deficit, whole government departments starting with education abolished. The government really getting its nose completely out of other people's business. The 75 year old Congressman comes over like a grouchy granddad with eccentric obsessions. His over long arms flap as though independent of his body when he gets worked up. But when he says he's for liberty and against government, he means it. The young man goes on. He'd end the stupid war on drugs which can't work, and he'd bring us home from overseas. My friends have died in those pointless wars. Back in our booth over that succulent T bone, the waitress is telling us she voted for Obama but wants to unregister as a Democrat so she can join the Republican caucus. Who would she vote for? You'll think I'M crazy. Well, tell us anyway. I like Ron Paul. It's not a movement. I'm not sure it's even a mood. Just a straw in the wind. In a state where there's plenty of both, there's a yearning for a conservatism that's bold and different. As Doug put it, these people came from folk who put Granny on the wagon and crossed the badlands to get here. Maybe a politics that celebrates the pioneer spirit is a little more self sufficient and a little less cocksure will play well here.
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Mark Mardell in Des Moines now, when is an illness not an illness? When it's what the academics call a culture bound syndrome, that is a set of symptoms which only seems to affect people in particular parts of the world. The French, for example, are famously prone to the mysterious ailments of heavy legs and liver crises, while some Latin Americans will contend that letting moonlight fall on you as you sleep is not only irresponsible, it can drive you mad. Then there's the famous or infamous Koro syndrome of South East Asia, where sufferers claim their genitals shrink back into the body. But perhaps we won't go there just at the moment. Either way, it's all just folklore, isn't it? Out of tune with the modern world, Danny Metzman has been thinking about how vulnerable she is or isn't, to some specifically Italian illnesses.
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More than a decade living in this country has led me to a shocking conclusion. Being Italian is bad for your health. As winter draws in, those around me are suffering from a range of distinctly Italian ailments that make our limited British colds and flus sound as bland as our food. As I cycle around the medieval streets of my adoptive hometown of Bologna, I smile to myself, marvelling that I'm still wearing a lightweight jacket at this time of year. My Italian counterparts have their woolly scarves and quilted coats out and are rubbing their necks, complaining of my favourite mystery Italian malady, la cervicale sofro di cervicale. I suffer from cervicale, they tell me, making it sound particularly serious. Most people over the age of 30 seem to have the condition, but I'm still at a loss as to what exactly it is and how to translate it. I've looked it up in the dictionary and found cervical, an adjective referring to the cervical vertebrae, those little bones in the back of your neck. But as an ailment, there's simply no English translation. We don't have it. The British also don't seem to have the sort of exceptional knowledge of their own Anatomy, which Italians have. Soon after I moved here, I remember a friend telling me he wasn't feeling very well. My liver hurts, he said. Now, I've since been assured by doctors that you can't actually feel your liver. But what really struck me was the fact that he knew where his liver was. Italians can also tell you if the pain is in their stomach or intestine, and can even specify whether it's colic or colitis. To us it's just tummy ache. Yet although I should feel embarrassed about my inability to point out the exact location of my gallbladder, I'm not. Why? Because I think it makes me healthier. After years of first hand experience of the delicate Italian constitution, I've come up with a theory about why we British are so much sturdier. If you can't name it, you can't suffer from it. If you don't know where it is, it can't hurt you. Among my Italian friends, I'm considered something of an immuno superhuman. I can leave the gym sweaty to have my shower at home and not catch a chill en route. I can swim after eating and not get congestion or cramp. I can walk around with wet hair and not get la cervicale. I even brag about it at restaurants. I'll say, let me sit in the draft, I'll be fine. I'm English. I ran my theory by a Sicilian psychoanalyst and he says, I have a point. For example, we don't have a term for a colpodaria. It literally translates as a hit of air. And it seems to be incredibly dangerous for Italians. They can get one in their eye, their ear, their head or any part of their abdomen. To avoid getting a colpodaria until at least April, they should never go out without wearing a woolen vest known as a Maglia de la Salute, a shirt of health. British mums hold their kids jackets so they won't get hot and sweaty while they run around and play. In contrast, the parks here are filled with pint sized quilted mishlan men zipped up to their noses to stop the air getting in and hitting them. Italians are brought up to be afraid of these health risks, while our ignorance of their very existence makes us strong and fearless. It's a question of etiquette too. We're a nation that mustn't grumble. Trained from an early age that the only answer to how are you? Is fine, thank you. Our vocabulary reflects this. Whether we've had a cold or spent six weeks in intensive care, we'll tell you, we've been a bit poorly. But last week I experienced a moment of panic. I woke up feeling weak and nauseous. What if that cultural difference were actually contagious? What if years in the country had changed my constitution and I too was suffering from another common Italian health hazard, the change of season. I tried to convince myself that lack of sleep was to blame, but I wasn't certain. Later that day, I bumped into a neighbour and confessed that I was feeling a bit poorly. Oh, she said, looking concerned. I went to the doctor yesterday and he told me there's a 48 hour stomach flu going around. Then her face brightened up. But don't worry, you're English, so It'll only last 24 hours for you. And suddenly, superhuman status restored. I felt a whole lot better.
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Danny Mitzman enjoying the best of British health in Bologna. With that, we've reached the end of another edition. Do join us again next Saturday morning for more dispatches from cities, towns and villages around the world. Until then, goodbye.