← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Desperate for Tourists
00:27:54
Despatches from around the world: Jonathan Head on a little-reported but long-running...
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Hello from the. From our own correspondence studios at Broadcasting House in London, you've downloaded the latest edition of the programme broadcast on BBC Radio 4.
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It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today, a bitter and bloody conflict in southern Thailand. Not far from the country's famous tourist beaches. A rare protest on the streets of Singapore. There's mounting anger. It seems in Asia's wealthiest nation we learn who you know is more important than what you know when it comes to getting a job in Italy. And transport wasn't much of a problem for King Tut. But we find the going tough in Egypt's Valley of the Kings. A little reported, yet vicious insurgency has been raging in southern Thailand, only hours from some of the country's most popular tourist destinations. In the last 10 years, more than 5,000 people have been killed in the conflict. In Thailand's southernmost provinces near the Malaysian border, there have been almost daily gun and bomb attacks by rebels fighting for greater autonomy. In the last few days, a series of explosions left three dead and 17 injured in the provincial town of Pattany. Last week, 16 rebels were killed in an attack on a nearby military base. Jonathan Head has been to the area.
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As you head south from Bangkok, along the narrow neck of land that connects mainland Southeast Asia with the Malay Peninsula, you you cross one of Asia's great cultural watersheds. The preponderance of glittering Buddhist temples gives way to squat mosques nestled among the palm trees. The language changes too, from the melodic tones of Thai to the guttural rhythms of Malay. But the political border between Thailand and Malaysia lies further south. What was the Malay Kingdom of Pattani, famed as a center of Islamic learning, was absorbed into the Thai state just over a century ago in a deal struck between the British colonial authorities and the modernizing Thai King Chulalonghorn. It was one of those historical accidents which has had lingering consequences. There's been sporadic resistance to Thai rule in this southernmost region for decades, but nothing like the movement which sprang up nine years ago, seemingly from nowhere, turning sleepy Patony into a battlefield. It's a movement without a name and without a face. Young Muslim men operating in small secretive groups, carrying out almost daily drive by shootings, booby trap bombings, and occasionally beheading their victims. They make few statements, acknowledge no leaders, nor have they ever attacked targets outside their own territory. Even though popular tourist resorts lie just a few hours drive to the north. And because their attacks are usually on a small scale, we journalists have rarely given them much attention. It's a conflict that just seems to grind on, never changing the Primary school in the village of Tanjung seems at first like every other school I've seen in Thailand. A utilitarian two story concrete building open to the warm tropical weather. The sound of rote learning drifting from the classrooms. But this school has a platoon of armed Thai soldiers living on its grounds. They patrol the perimeter and guard the main entrance. Last month one of the teachers was shot dead in the school canteen in front of the children. No one knows why. All the teachers here are Muslim. But government schools have been a particular target of the insurgents who see them as agents of the state inculcating Thai culture into the mainly Malay pupils. So working there takes particular courage and dedication. The school head, Kanakwan Buraheng, admits she's frightened from the moment she leaves her house in the morning. What's even more frightening is that she knows the insurgents are living all around her. In fact, three of them went to her school. I know that because I watched them being buried nearby in the community graveyard. I'd come down following an unusually bold attack by the militants which had gone wrong. 50 of them had tried to storm a small base held by Thai marines a short distance from Tanjung. But the Thais were forewarned and met them with volleys of gunfire. Sixteen of the militants were killed and it turned out that six of those were from the neighborhood. Suddenly the mysterious movement had a face. There was the face of 25 year old Saudi Ali staring out from the passport clutched by his widow Dharani, the only photo she had of him and next door the face of Hassan Burraheng playfully hugging his wife Marta in their wedding photograph from 12 years ago. He's left three daughters. Not far down the road, Roosini Jantrawadi was greeting well wishers in her newly built house, the one her husband Maroso paid for, she told me, but never lived in. Their wedding photo too was on display. A happy looking couple with no hint of the violent death he would meet. Moroso was the commander of the raid on the base, a man the Thai army says was wanted for 14 previous attacks, including the murder of the teacher at Tanjong Primary School. What drove these men to take up arms? All the widows talked of pride in the way their husbands had died fighting to get back our land, said Dharani. Though tearful, they saw them as Shahid, or Islamic martyrs. They'd all spent time in jail, been interrogated many times and they'd witnessed some of the worst abuses by Thai soldiers. They'd also clearly been influenced by the ideas and methods of jihadist groups in other countries. But it was more than that. The solid support for their actions expressed by family members and neighbours, seemed rooted in a profound sense of historic injustice, a conviction that they didn't belong within the borders of Thailand. Very few Thais understand this. History is not a strong point in Thai society. An army spokesman told me they were going to be lenient after the raid, respectful, and they keep talking to the Malay community. But no one is talking about real concessions like autonomy that might take the sting out of this vicious insurgency.
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Jonathan Head with only three days to go, it's far from clear who's going to poll the most votes in the Italian general election. The safest bet seems to be that a fractious coalition will emerge and the new administration, like many before it, will be short lived. Italy is still in deep recession and a weak government is unlikely to be able to drive through the sort of painful reforms the country requires. Few, for example, believe it will be able to overhaul its rigid and closed labour market. Many Italians say that when it comes to finding a job, what counts is who you know rather than what you know. Ed Butler has been learning that nepotism is widespread in many professions.
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It was always going to be an awkward meeting. Professor Vincenzo Fazio had agreed to talk to me about the challenges of young people getting jobs. But he also told me that where he lived, some had begun to see him and his family as part of the problem. So I really did have to ask. You see, as the recently retired head of economics at Palermo State University, Professor Fazio had been in charge when not one but two of his sons had won prized research jobs within the very same department. No, no, really, he insisted. I had absolutely nothing to do with it. I wasn't even on the appointments panel. And just look at their credentials. My sons are the best in the university, the very best. The problem is, of course, it can be pretty hard to prove who is the best in such situations. It's rather subjective, and while favouritism in public institutions is technically illegal in Italy, the no one has ever been prosecuted for it. One of the professor's sons, Giorgio, was sitting next to him during the interview and had begun glaring at me icily. Still, I tried one more question. Don't you think? I asked. Given the problems of nepotism, it would have been better to discourage your sons from coming to the very same department that you're working in. But I did. He exclaims with open arms. They didn't listen. What could I do? It's just this problem I have a remarkable 54% of all academics in Palermo have at least one relative working within the university. Entire dynasties, brothers, nephews, wives and girlfriends dominate the departments of law, medicine and agriculture, I'm told. And it's not much better elsewhere. In La Sapienza in Rome, Italy's largest university, the rector has overseen the promotion of his wife to become professor of medical history. She was just a humble high school teacher before his son became one of Italy's youngest heart surgeons, aged 31, and his daughter a professor of medical law. This despite not having had any previous academic background in the field of medicine. Yes, it is an old problem here, concedes Professor Roberto Parotti with a sigh. He's an economist in Milan and he's written a book charting the amazing concentrations of surnames across the country's academic institutions. Most notaries are sons of notaries, magistrates too, lawyers, doctors. How come it's so widespread? I ask. No one trusts any of the institutions, he tells me. When you don't trust anyone beyond your family, the you rely on your family to get what you need. The very word nepotism was coined in Italy. It refers to the medieval custom of popes giving top clerical jobs to their nephews, or nipote in Italian. Italy is no longer quite so medieval, I'm told. But for one of Europe's top industrial nations, the old habits die hard. And amidst the crisis, it's a serious economic issue. Take the case of Selene. She's one of a number of young law students I met in Genoa. She told me that she was already despairing of getting a job within her chosen field. She's already investigated a range of options and as she approached her final exams, she's found it all demotivating. There are other students around her, she says, born into families of lawyers whose future she knows, is guaranteed. The indications are that despite legal reforms, things aren't getting much better. They may even be getting worse. The Italian Ministry of Labour recently reported that 61% of companies rely on personal introductions for recruitment. That's up from 50% a year before. And then there have been a number of well publicised deals between employers and trade unions. In return for workers taking early retirement, companies have granted their children part time contracts, the all important first step on the jobs ladder. The perceived closed shop is thought to be driving tens of thousands of young graduates to leave Italy every year, heading, they hope, for richer, more meritocratic pastures. Escorting me down the stairs after my interview, Professor Fazio's son Giorgio is visibly angry. He has a PhD from a British university. He grumbles international publications, but now all he hears from people like me is nepotism. This nepotism that no matter what he does to prove his worth, he can't shake off the smears, that somehow he's cheated the system. I offer him my hand and my sympathies. I mean it. Although I guess I might mean it a bit more if he didn't have a job like so many of the others that I've met. It may be true that the blighted system tarnishes everyone. But with Italy mired in its toughest recession since the war, perhaps everyone can agree that it'll take more than an election to fix it.
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And that was Ed Butler in Italy. Over the weekend, thousands of people in Singapore did something they rarely do protest. This is the richest country in Asia. But with that wealth has come a social contract between Singaporeans and their government. The unspoken understanding is that in exchange for some political freedom, people living there will be guaranteed an enviable standard of living and a stable economic future. But Karishma Vaswani says that over the last few years there's been an increasing number of complaints that the government is failing to honour its side of the bargain. The weekend protest followed the authorities decision to encourage the population to grow by bringing in more foreigners.
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I received an unusual email from an old contact in Mumbai this week. Is it true, he asked, that I can get a visa to live and work in Singapore If I pay $6,000 to the government and say I want to set up a business? My amused response to him was a gentle no, and I laughingly brushed the email off. But it was my Singaporean husband's reaction to the email that made me think twice. Who does this guy think he is? He fumed. I can't believe that people out there think it's so easy to get into Singapore as a foreigner. My husband is what I would call a true blue Singaporean. He was born there, bred and served there. As he likes to say, national service in the army is mandatory for all Singaporean men at the age of 18. His grandparents, like mine, migrated to Singapore in the 1920s. Like millions of other families in the region, Chinese, Indian and Malay, Singapore is often famously called a nation of migrants. The island has a land area of just over 270 square miles, making it half the size of Greater London. When it separated From Malaysia in 1965, no one was sure how the tiny city state would survive. But it has. Once a tiny fishing village, it has rapidly transformed going from Third World to first, in the famous words of the country's founding father, Lee Kuan Yew. Where once there was swampland and jungle, now towering skyscrapers dot the skyline. World famous restaurants line the city's riverfront. There's even a Universal Studios, and two casinos have recently popped up, drawing more visitors to its shores. The People's Action Party, which has been in power since independence, says its formula for success has been making Singapore attractive to foreign companies, keeping wages low and the economy open. But many Singaporeans increasingly believe the system is unfairly pitted against them, and they want their government to change its policies. Stop being aloof to the plight of your own citizens, exclaimed Dean Zhou, a 37 year old public relations consultant. This country's infrastructure is bursting at the seams. Fix the problems we Singaporeans are facing before you start to welcome more people into this already crowded, tiny island. Over the last few years, Singapore has become a magnet for foreigners, leading many locals to call it Expat Heaven. But life for Singaporeans hasn't been so heavenly. Many have complained that their public transport system, the envy of Singapore's neighbors, is now overcrowded. They also say wages of Singaporeans have been depressed by the influx of cheap foreign labour and property prices have shot up because of wealthy foreigners snapping up flats. Income inequality is amongst the highest in this wealthy nation. In the developed world, people are angry, says Lin Lee, a prominent filmmaker. But it's heartening to see a large number of Singaporeans making it clear that bad policies are to blame, not foreigners. Many Singaporeans also feel the way the country is run is fundamentally flawed. Ministers here act the way they do because they've been incentivized to do so, says Harminder Singh, a lecturer. Their wages were linked to GDP growth, and the easiest way to increase GDP is to increase labor. The gains are accrued by businesses and the government, while the costs crowded trains, hospitals and buses are borne by Singaporeans. But the government says it's doing what it must to safeguard the country's economic future. Singaporeans just aren't having enough babies, officials say, and the declining birth rate has become a major cause of concern for policymakers. But is growing the population the only way to grow the economy? There are definitely other solutions that are available, says Sumana Rajaratnam with the Economist Intelligence Unit. Not all of the growth has to come from more people coming in. The government can focus on strategies like increasing productivity and encouraging innovation. Singapore's government has acknowledged that increased immigration could put a strain on resources, but insists these policies are needed to help offset a slowing birth rate and an aging population. It's an unpopular move coming at a time when the ruling party recently suffered a stinging defeat in a single seat by election. Analysts said the unprecedented defeat came as voters expressed their discontent over issues like immigration and the high cost of living. Singaporeans have long taken the view that their government knows best, but now they may be thinking again.
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Karishma Vaswani there and from one of the wealthiest nations to one of the poorest. But Uganda has great agricultural land, it's got rainfall, rich mineral deposits. So how come it's still one of the world's poorest and least developed countries? Political instability, trade barriers with neighbouring nations and a creaking infrastructure all play their part. But there are now some signs the so called pearl of Africa could be poised for rapid economic expansion. The World Bank's upbeat about its chances, pointing to an impressive growth rate. Local officials claim that inflation, which soared in 2011 and 2012, has now been reined in. Paul Lewis, who's just been to the capital Kampala, says the outlook may be positive, but many Ugandans are still finding it hard to get by.
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We had intended to broadcast from one of Uganda's largest and oldest universities, Makarereri, in the capital Kampala. But when we opened our newspapers over breakfast that morning, we read that the students were on strike and the police were on campus. Roads were blocked, stones had been thrown, tear gas deployed. So we set up in central Kampala. We were there for a programme on finance in Uganda. Not government finance, not big business, but personal finance. The day to day worries of ordinary people about money. And so the students were not just news, they were our news. Striking because they'd been told they have to pay most of their fees up front at the start of this term. In the past, the university let them pay by instalments when they could. The only restriction was the fees had to be paid in full before they sat their end of semester exams. Students told me that whether the fees are paid by parents, siblings or their own jobs, the money just could not be found earlier and all at once. The new rule, they said, meant many would not be able to stay at Makurereri. Money's tight, partly because of inflation. The governor of the bank of Uganda had told me earlier in the week that inflation was beaten and now sat just below its target of 5% a year. But that wasn't what I heard from traders in the busy market. In the Kampala suburb, Ntinda Eunice sold eggs 30 at a time, placed carefully into a plastic bag for customers to take home. Her supplier charged her more, so the price to customers had rise and it had doubled in just a few months. The butcher was selling what he called cow for 8,000 shillings a kilo, about 2 pounds. Goat was slightly dearer at 10,000 shillings and had risen recently from 6,000. Official inflation rates just didn't seem to reflect the experiences of these people selling and buying food. I was in the market with Makareri student Sissy Lutalo. She studies mainly in the evening because she also does a full time job. When she shops. She visits three supermarkets to make sure she gets the best prices on household products. And although she showed me round Ntinda, she normally used two other fresh food markets where prices were lower. One problem for traders in Uganda is transport. The railway system is all but closed and four fifths of the main road network is surfaced with gravel. Roads are a problem even in major cities like Kampala, as I discovered when we took Sissi home after our shopping trip. Turn left here, she told Ivan, our driver. To me, there seemed no way off the edge of the made up road which ran away from Ntinda market. But with a bump we turned onto a track barely two vehicles wide, avoiding school children coming home and adults with shopping bags. As we negotiated the ridges and bumps in the red sandy stone which covered it right here, onto another track, narrower, bumpier, now right again, onto a single track so uneven and tight I wondered not just how we'd get any further, but how on earth we'd turn round to go back. But then. A gate, a guard, a wave for Cissie as he opened it onto a large paved turning circle surrounded by 20 or more dwellings. Ahead was Ciss's small single storey home, rented for her in this gated development by her boyfriend. So why don't the developers pave the road between the main highway and the homes they've built? I asked. They're not allowed, I was told. The government doesn't let private firms pave public roads. But I protested. The government doesn't do it. Why? Why can't they? A shrug. It's just how it is. Cissy's job is in the tax office. Over tea, I asked her about tax collection. People in employment, she said, pay their tax through paye, a system inherited like the three PIN electric sockets from Uganda's British colonial past. But most Ugandans are not employees. They're traders, dealers, self employed and all in cash. When I explained to Sisi that in the uk, self employed people must fill in a form every year and admit their income. She responded with a peal of laughter. In Uganda, she said, people just don't like paying tax. But then she proudly got out a poster produced by her office with a graph showing tax receipts growing year by year. But still, she admits, not enough. Not enough, anyway, to pave the roads once you leave the highway.
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Poor Lewis, Egypt is safe and offers a welcome to those who come to visit. That's the upbeat message from the country's keeper of archaeological treasures, who admits the unrest there has hit tourism hard. Mr. Mohammed Ibrahim is backing several initiatives aimed at bringing back the sightseers. These include the reopening of tombs and temples long closed because of restoration, and the opening of more air routes to key cities like Luxor, gateway to the Valley of the Kings. There, hotel occupancy rates at this key time of year are down to less than a fifth of capacity. And as Terry Egan's been finding out, the locals are desperate to see some more tourists.
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If you don't let me take you, said the taxi driver who accosted us on the boat, then 50 drivers will come. 200. We'd just got off the ferry that conveys you from the east bank to the west across the Nile. We'd sat at the front and someone had sidled in behind us. Here we go. I thought, welcome to Luxor, he began. You can't walk 10 metres in Luxor, not as a tourist, without someone wanting to sell you something. Kalesh. Kalech. This is the one horse carriage you see everywhere in the city. It will follow you down the street and won't take no for an answer. Want to know how much? Very good price. Come, my friend. Why not Felucca? That's the pretty little sailboat that wants to take you to Banana Island. What's there? Come, my friend. You will see. Five, ten. Ten what? You will see. Having agreed on £10, you might find that it's not ten Egyptian pounds, as you'd thought, but ten English, which is ten times as much. Taxi. Good price. Very cheap. That's the blue and white car that might drive you not to wherever it is you wanted to go, but to some bazaar you definitely didn't. Lucky man. If you want to know what it's like to be famous, go to Luxor. Motorboat. Very cheap. You know how much James Bond springs to mind? That scene where his car suddenly becomes a water vehicle? Somehow the Kaleche driver, who a moment ago wanted to take you to the Valley of the Kings, can turn himself into a Felucca captain. And take you where? Banana island again? Or a piece of mud just like it. But you're walking like an Egyptian, as they say, and then. Closed. That way's closed, they tell you. The whole city is closed. If you listen to the drivers, they don't want you to walk, and they don't want you to think, God forbid, that you stop to make a decision. Don't go that way, they admonish. It's nothing but hassle. Yes, you reply, walking off that way. And don't tell me it's closed. The turmoil in Egypt has led to an economic crisis there. With few tourists, the traders are desperate. As a consequence, anyone bold enough to go suffers just as much as the inhabitants. Backsheesh, cry the kids on the west bank if you stop to glance at their ramshackle dwellings. Money, they exclaim. Tip money. These must be among the first words they learn. And the request, or so it feels to you, evolves from a game into resentment. But speaking of the Valley of the Kings, isn't that where you know you have to get to sooner or later? That and the Valley of the Queens. Not to mention Hatshepsut's temple and King Tut's tomb. Oh, and the Ramesseum with the granite feet that inspired Ozymandias, that poem by Shelley. Have I missed anything? Yes, I have. There's the Colossi of Memnon for a start. And the tombs of the nobles. So how are you going to do all that? And in the one day you've given yourself? You worry about it. It bothers you. Haven't you already developed a terror about what might happen to you during one of these transactions? Could you not, as some guide put it, be sold on from one tout to another, like a slave? So, an excursion, a package. But an excursion to the other side of the river seems cowardly. Negotiate with a guide, then. But how? And what does that mean? Won't he need a driver? And won't you have to pay for both of them, as well as all the entrance fees? How to do it? How? You brace yourself and decide to take the ferry. It's only £1, so you pay up and bundle in. All you have to do now is find someone to drive you around for a few hours and you're done. But don't worry, the driver will find you. La Chaucran, you say out of habit, as he sidles up. No, thank you. But then, why not? And did I mention, if you don't let him take you, then 50 drivers will come? 200. All I can say is be very firm about the price and the time you book him for. That won't stop him trying to bring his brother along. Nor will it prevent him driving you to a papyrus factory and leaving you to your fate. But it will let him know you've thought about it. Want any more advice? Of course you do. Want to know how much? Eh?
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Eh?
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Terry Egan there with questions from Luxor. And I'm sure there'll be someone around who has the answers. That's it. More from correspondence near and far in Saturday morning's programme. Do join us. Goodbye.