← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Feb 5, 2011
00:27:55
With Egypt in turmoil Kevin Connolly discovers what Hosni Mubarak's sense of timing...
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You're listening to a download from the BBC.
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This is from our own correspondent.
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You can hear the version of the program broadcast on the World Service by following the link to the iplayer on
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the top of our website.
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To keep up with our latest reports
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and get a sneak preview of the
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stories, you can sign up to our Twitter feed as well.
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But now, with the addition Broadcast on
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Radio 4, here's Kate Ady.
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Today, the crowd's thin in the centre of Cairo, but for President Mubarak, the dilemma remains. On the streets of Athens, we find immigrants poorer than ever and stripped of their illusions. There's a new pecking order in Zambia, but why have the Chinese come to market in Lusaka? And there's skulduggery to report among the truffle hunters of southwest France. The Egyptian government and opposition are to start talks about the transfer of power. The main opposition group, the Muslim Brotherhood, says it is ready to take part in the negotiations if the government responds to the demands of the people. This morning, thousands are still in Tahrir Square in central Cairo, demanding that the president, Hosni Mubarak, stand down. But the size of the crowd is significantly smaller than yesterday's huge anti government rally. Doubts seem to be emerging within the protest movement about how much more can be achieved. Kevin Connolly is watching events unfold.
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He was late, of course. As dictators often are, the link between punctuality and autocracy is one of history's great myths. Hitler and Mussolini didn't actually make the trains run on time any better than their democratic contemporaries. They just created circumstances where only a madman would complain that they were late. So when rumours swept Cairo that Hosni Mubarak was going to appear on national television last Tuesday, no one in Egypt really thought he'd make it to the studios on time. This is, after all, not just a man who's governed his vast country for more than 30 years through a temporary state of emergency and enforced it with a colossal network of secret policemen and torturers and informers. It's a man who, in a lifetime as a senior military officer and powerful politician, probably hasn't personally heard the engaged tone on the telephone, or indeed the word no in any circumstances. For 50 years, there's no one to tell him to get a move on or to warn him he's in danger of missing a deadline. And in any case, on this particular occasion, Mr. Mubarak had every reason to be late. He had been grappling with the dictator's eternal dilemma. When faced with anger on the streets, a dilemma which boils down to a simple repression or concession. Mr. Mubarak, we now know, has made a mistake lots of autocrats make when they're forced suddenly to make that choice by an eruption of anger on their streets. He's tried a mixture of both. The problem is that democracy is like virginity. You can't have a limited amount of it. So by the time he made his appearance on television, the Egyptian president's brutal police force had already made one attempt to batter anti government protesters off the street. Less than 48 hours later, many of those officers were back in plain clothes, making a sustained assault on the protesters. In between, though, Mr. Mubarak appeared on television to tell Egyptians that he would not be leaving office immediately, although he wouldn't be a candidate in this autumn's presidential elections. The message was simple. If Mubarak had to go, he would at least attempt to go with the dignity he'd always denied his political opponents. There would be no helicopters lifting off from the roof of his presidential palace and no hastily arranged exile in Saudi Arabia. If he delivered the speech two weeks earlier, it would have been a sensation, the start of a kind of Arab Spring. But then, of course, you only have to look at Mr. Mubarak's head, which to know that his sense of timing is a little wayward. He is in his 80s now, but his hair is dyed to a rich, deep shade of darkness and still gleams like a polished boot. A more subtle man might have instructed his hairdressers to start introducing a thread of silver as a nod to the passage of time. To the outsider, his speech was a little dull and a little lacking in grace, as well as a little late. Some Egyptians, though, read it differently. They noted the references to duty and the allusions to the steadfastness of his military service. The subtext was simple. Here was an old warrior, old enough to have flown Spitfires, perceiving that his responsibility to his country lay in remaining in office, at least for now, and resolving to do his duty one more time. It did not, of course, impress the angry, impassioned protesters on Tahrir Square. They have made the intoxicating discovery that the mantle of authoritarianism under which they have been suffocating can be lifted. So they want it lifted all the way. But there are other Egyptians with whom it struck a chord to negotiate the leafy suburban streets outside our offices. Every evening we are obliged to pass through a number of civilian checkpoints set up by local residents in response to the disappearance from the street of the conventional Forces of law and order. For the last week or so, Egypt has been a police state with no actual police officers. It is eerily quiet in the hours of curfew, so quiet you can hear the rustle of a bat's wing and the gurgle of the Nile. But the vigilantes are a reassuring bunch. Their weapons range from pump action shotguns to golf clubs, meat cleavers and machetes. But you can't help noticing too, the occasional hint of a Harvard accent and the occasional glint of a Rolex. These are prosperous, well heeled residents who are ready to shoot to kill to defend their homes against the threat of looting. When people like this take to the streets, then change really is in the air. It is the luxury of the historian to know how events like those of the last week in Cairo will finally be characterized. Those of us caught up in them can't be sure if this is a revolution or an uprising or a revolt. Nor can we say what sort of Egypt will ultimately emerge from it. Dictators know that people fear instability and they stay in office by portraying themselves as the only alternative to it. Well, Egyptians like our vigilantes are now finally bracing for all the uncertainties of change and are preparing to pay the price and instability that will come with it. If Hosni Mubarak only had better timing, they might have been spared it.
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That was Kevin Connolly. China's enormous presence in Africa causes unease in some quarters. Already, the country is Africa's biggest trading partner. Business between the two grew by almost 50% last year. It's now worth £70 billion a year. There's something of interest to China in almost every corner of the continent. If it's not oil, gas or minerals, it's trading and investment opportunities. And Africa's need for better roads, schools, computer and telecom systems has opened a lucrative window of opportunity for the Chinese. But Justin Rolatt has been learning in Zambia. Their presence on the continent is not always welcome.
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If you want to get an idea of how China is reshaping the world economy, just try and buy a chicken in the Zambian capital, Lusaka. The city's main market is hot, humid and very, very busy. As you push your way through the crowds, the hawkers and traders will shout and cajole, offering you almost every product imaginable. You probably won't see a single non African there. Until, that is, you get to where the chickens are sold. Here, you'll see a row of trucks piled high with cages, each packed with plump white chickens, all fussing and squawking the African shoppers will be weighing the birds in their hands, looking their prospective purchases in the eye. In the background, you might spot the owners of the trucks. Chinese men and women holding wads of money and making sure things go smoothly. These people are chicken farmers. It sounds extraordinary, but these Chinese businessmen and women spotted an opportunity to make a bit of money raising chickens on small farms here in Zambia and up sticks. And traveled 7,000 miles from their homes to do just that. I got talking to one of the farmers, Pan Weezi, a small, friendly man in his early 60s. Mr. Pan invited me to visit the small holding he and his wife run on the outskirts of Lusaka. As we sat together outside the tiny two room house they share with their teenage son, I asked why the family had made this epic journey. Simple, Mr. Pan told me with a gentle smile. Because it is so much easier to make money here in Africa than back home in China. He said it cost £25,000 to set up the farm and within a couple of months they were already making a profit. Two years on and they are selling 2,000 birds a week. At my age in China, I can't do any serious work, Mr. Pan told me. Here, I don't feel old. I can still do something. Mr. Pan may feel liberated by his African enterprise, but push your way a bit deeper into the market and you hear another side to the story, because the Chinese aren't the only people who farm and sell chickens in Zambia. Right in the centre of the market, down one of the unmarked, narrow alleyways, you'll find the Zambian chicken traders. You will know immediately if you're in the right place because there is a miasma of dust and feathers in the air and a terrible sour stench from the chickens. The chicken traders will probably be laughing and chatting in the shaft of bright sun that lights the alley, or in amongst their birds in the dark pens on either side, waiting for customers to push their way in. There are fewer of those than before, the traders claim, thanks to the arrival of the Chinese chicken farmers. They say they're lucky to sell 50 to 100 birds each a week these days, and that it barely covers their costs. They're going to drive us out of business, wails Mildred when I ask how she's been affected. We'll be left destitute unless something is done. What she can't understand is why anyone would want to travel halfway around the world to set up a chicken farm. If they want to have small, small businesses, says Mildred, exasperated. Let them go back to China and do Those small, small businesses in China, not here. But Chinese migrants are now setting up small businesses across Africa. The latest estimates suggest there are more than a million Chinese people living and doing business on the continent. Most have arrived within the last 10 years in the West. It is the big infrastructure projects and huge mineral deals that set the terms of debate about China's role in the world. This staggering migration tends to get less attention. But in the long run, it may well be that the vast and growing diaspora of Chinese entrepreneurs like the Pans will have the greatest impact. That's certainly what the Zambian chicken traders think. They may have been a bit complacent about their businesses hidden away down their dark alleyway, but their growing anger at this new competition is very real. Mr. Pan says he's not worried. A few Zambian chicken farmers will probably go out of business, he concedes, but that is what happens in a competitive market. He believes very passionately that his business is good for Zambia. Our chickens are cheaper, he says, and that means more people can afford them. I ask him whether he thinks more Chinese people will, like him and his wife, go out into the world to set up businesses. Chinese people have a bit more money now, and China has become a powerful country, he tells me. We will not get bullied and pushed around anymore. There is no hint of threat in his voice. This is a statement of fact.
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Justin Rolatt, and you can see his film the Chinese are coming on BBC2 on Tuesday evening. To some poor people in Africa and Asia, Europe, despite its recent economic woes, still seems like the promised land. And that's why every day, many of them leave towns and villages back home to make the long and often dangerous trek to Europe in search better life in what they imagine to be this place of plenty. Many of the migrants first stop in Europe is Greece. But as Malcolm Brabant has been finding out there, some are quickly stripped of their illusions.
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The brief drive to our son's school on the outskirts of Athens is an uplifting ritual. His sunny disposition turns the car into a cocoon of optimism. His expectations are sky high and, given a fair wind, attainable almost every day. Three minutes into the school run, we encounter a scene that is the antithesis of our privileged existence. A Greek farmer stops by a vineyard he deposits a man of South Asian appearance who carries a bundle of plastic bags. The immigrant pulls up the hood of his cheap anorak as protection against the cold wind whipping through the olive trees and low pruned vines. He empties the bags onto a trestle TABLE he's selling weeds for €4 a bundle, about $5. To a Briton, the weeds are dandelions. To Greeks, they're Horta. When boiled and drenched with olive oil and lemon juice, this salad is a nutritious component of the Mediterranean diet. During civil war, famine or just plain poverty, Horta has made the difference between life and death. As Greece inches along the high wire stretching across bankruptcy's Grand Canyon, more and more people, trowels in hand, bend their backs, scouring the scrub for the best specimens. I've been observing the immigrant since before Christmas. He never seems to make a sale. I wonder if the farmer pays him commission. Only his features are a mask of resignation, loneliness and sadness. If I can sense the antipathy of the Greeks who pass by without purchasing, then so can he a thousandfold He's a foreigner, or xenos, the Greek noun that is the root of the word xenophobia. The government, correctly judging the country's rising anti immigrant sentiment, wants him and his kind to go home. The poor, dispossessed and oppressed of Asia, the Middle east and Africa are walking towards Europe. According to Frontex, Europe's border agency, 90% enter through Greece's border with Turkey. They're driven by visions of prosperity in Britain, Germany, France and Scandinavia, where they believe they will quickly earn the sixth thousand pounds or so, plus interest needed to repay the trafficking gangs which cynically exploit their dreams. Once in Greece, most find themselves trapped, incapable of proceeding westwards and having discarded their passports in an attempt to claim political asylum, unable to return home. Greece is being swamped and cannot withstand this burden, says Christos Papuzzis, the minister for citizens Protection. He's proposed erecting a fence along the most vulnerable stretch of the Turkish frontier. Greek government policy has been propelled by tensions in the historic centre of Athens, which has been colonized by tens of thousands of illegal immigrants. The impact can be judged by taking a walk along Sophocles street, not far from the Parthenon. At the top of the marble colonnaded headquarters of Greece's major banks, as well as the former stock exchange. As the street descends, it's lined by doss houses where immigrants sleep in shifts, 20 or more to a small box room. Midway down Sofolys street, there is a soup kitchen that feeds immigrants and an increasing number of Greeks. At the very bottom, the street seethes with the desperation, poverty and potential violence of a Karachi slum. Last month, opponents of the border fence held a protest march. They retreated to the Church of Aospadlemanos a district of Athens that has become a magnet for migrants. They were attacked by Krisi Avgi, or Golden Dawn, a neo Nazi group which did well in last autumn's municipal elections. Greek TV showed Krisyevgi doing Nazi salutes. I wasn't there. I was near the town of Dadu in Sindh, the southernmost province of Pakistan worst affected by last year's flood. I met a farmer called Abdul Nabi, whose home and smallholding are still under water six months after the deluge. Abdul Nabi, his wife and five children were nibbling on two chapatis flatbread cooked in oil. It's all they had to eat. Since the flood, aid agencies have discovered that almost one in four children is malnourished, mainly because of poverty. According to the children's agency unicef, the malnutrition is as bad as that seen in Ethiopia, Darfur and Chad. In Pakistan, it's thought there are millions of bonded farm labourers who spend their lives in debt to their landlords. In Karachi, I met a flood victim called Abdul Ghaffar, who refuses to return to the fields. I don't want to be a slave anymore, he said. I want to educate my children. The man who sells Horta on my school run is called Asif. He comes from Lahore. He's been in Greece for three years. I want to go home, he told me. It's better in Pakistan.
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Malcolm Brabant in Athens now the march of technology and globalization may continue inexorably around the world, but in many places it doesn't mean that the old way of doing things is extinct. In the far north of South Africa, for example, men from the Venda tribe gather by a river, as they've been doing for hundreds of years, to partake in a ritual called Msangwi Hamilton. Wendy's been along to take a look at what is a fierce and often bloody contest.
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A fighter steps into the ring and holds out his arm. With a clenched fist, he circles the gathered men, waiting for someone to take him on. Soon, another man holds out his fist and the fight is on. A silence falls over the spectators. All of them are men or boys. Women are not allowed near the Musangwe ring as the two opponents circle each other warily. The favourite is Rexen Ralukake, or as he is known, Killer Punch. He is in his 40s and is an experienced boxer who has traveled all the way from Alexandra township near Johannesburg to take on all comers. Opposite him is 18 year old Nepalama Kobani. He is a much smaller man than a heavily muscled champion Killer Punch is confident. He crouches down and sticks out his chin and waggles it, tempting his opponent and delighting the crowd, who roar with laughter. Suddenly the tension snaps and the two men are hitting wildly at each other. Killer Punch ends up on the ground, and Nepalama raises his hands to be acclaimed as the victor. In this ancient place called Chifude, set between green rolling hills, the fights continue for days under the hot African sun. The next contest is over in seconds. A swinging straight arm punch to the eye socket results in a stream of blood pouring out over the fighter's face. The brawl is stopped, and the injured man is rushed to the nearby Lundeve river to wash off the blood. I'm worried about his eye, one of the older men says as he follows the humiliated loser. There are only three rules to Msangwe boxing. The struggles continue until blood is shed or someone is knocked out, or if either fighter raises his hand to signal surrender. Musangwe boxing has been practiced in the same beautiful valley for centuries. Originally, it was a way of teaching men to be warriors and of selecting the bravest men to fight for the tribe, and the custom has never died. Some people see it as barbaric, says chief organizer and once invincible champion Poison in Devana. But it is our culture. For us it is like karate for the Japanese. Poison is now too old to fight, but he is a central figure in keeping this ancient tradition alive. We are not fighting for any rewards, he explains. There is no money that changes hands. Musangwe makes your heart strong. He gestures at the patch of green grass where men gather in a ring and watch the fights. This is a sacred place, he says. The blood of our forefathers and their teeth have all fallen here. My grandfather was a fighter here in 1939, and then my father. And then I started in the 1970s. The name poison has been passed down from them. When I was fighting, I fought for my clan and my ancestors. He smiles wryly. I cannot let my name go down. Musangwe today is seen as a way of teaching men to be brave and to stand fast in a time of joblessness and economic hardship. There is so much crime these days, poison explains. Fighting here keeps the young men away from crime. It also teaches them not to beat their women. They must be men to fight other men. The matches start at an early age. The youngest category, the Mambibi, are nine to 12 years old. Teens are known as the Rovasais. Above 18, they are called Igwenya, or crocodiles. 35 to 45 are seniors, and the few boxers over 45 are honoured with the name of legends. The Lundabe river is the boundary between the rival groups. Those who live north of it always fight the southerners. Shumani Mashige is a 23 year old who comes from the north. His homestead is a 45 minute walk away through maize fields and groves of mango trees. He has no job and lives in a cluster of huts on a rocky hillside with his parents and grandmother, Popi Mashike. We are proud of him for being a fighter, she says. We have always had fighters in our family. I don't worry about him. I know he will be strong. Musangwe is the highlight of Shumane's year. He jogs to the river where he washes his hands in the traditional ritual and then joins the crowd. At Chifude. He stretches his fist out eagerly and is met by Komolo Mulalo. The fight doesn't go well for Shimani. After a few punches and a scrappy clinch, he ends up defeated and raises his hands in surrender. He is sweating and bruised but not bleeding. I'll fight again today, he says. He watches ruefully as the victor is carried out of the ring. Anyway, he adds, he is my friend. I can't feel bad that he beat me.
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Hamilton Wendy There There are few foods that cause as much excitement as truffles. These strong smelling fungi grow underground, and while they don't look very attractive, they certainly sell for astonishingly high prices. Sometimes they're sniffed out by pigs, but most truffle hunters prefer to use dogs. Dogs don't like truffles, so they don't eat these prize specimens. But all is not well in the truffle world. Chris Bockman, who's in a village not far from Toulouse, says there's violence and crime involved and, as is so the case these days, globalization too.
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It's early Tuesday afternoon in the medieval village of Laubenque in southwest France. It's market day in this attractive, well preserved community and there's excitement in the air. Wandering through the main street are elderly men and women with wary eyes and firm grips on small baskets. Their desire to keep the contents of these baskets safe from prying eyes is understandable because they contain truffles, or black diamonds as they're known down here. The earth and weather conditions in this part of France are considered perfect for the black truffle. It's found in shadow soil on the roots of oak trees, and if you're lucky, you might find one the size of a potato. They're on sale at this market once a week, and hundreds of cooking enthusiasts come to buy one or two to grate over their omelettes. There are brokers here, too, people who buy up truffles for restaurants around France. They can pay £400 for a pound of truffles. Some chefs like to come and smell the merchandise themselves, like the dapper trilby hat wearing local dandy Alexey Pelissu. Alexei, whose restaurant has a Michelin star, is treated like a rock star here and comes to the market every week to buy a bag full. He tells me his black diamonds will be shaved and sprinkled over foie gras or onto a spongy cake. Local radio and television come too. The reporters want the very latest truffle prices. It's a bit like the close of day figures at the US commodity markets. Is the cost up or down? How many kilos were sold? What's the quality like compared to last week? This year, when it comes to quality and quantity, the figures are definitely down. I get talking to local truffle hunter Guy Della, whose beagle Matrix sniffs them out amongst the oaks next to his home. This year's been a lean one. Guy says there's a real shortage because there was very little rain over the summer and then a deep frost in late December. Many farmers in the area, he told me, struggle to get by, and truffles are their sort of annual bonus. The truffles help to boost their income, and it tends to be cash in hand, so the taxman doesn't get to hear about it. The shortages have created another problem. Theft. Truffle poaching has always existed, but it took an ugly turn over Christmas. In another region of southern France, La Drome, a farmer shot dead a man he claims was hunting for truffles on his land. Around La Benque, nothing so dramatic has occurred, but the local police, the gendarmerie, have nevertheless stepped up their patrols. They're using mountain bikes to keep an eye on the vast area of hilly woodland around here. They're also keeping a highly visible watch on the Tuesday market, looking out for anything suspicious. The police captain, Gerard Catulla, explained to me that truffle hunting requires a certain expertise and local knowledge. So often it's the farmers who steal from each other. Sometimes gangs have been known to steal dogs with a reputation for a good nose. Alain Ambialy runs the local truffle farmers union. Yes, there is one. He says most of the thefts occur during the day, perhaps when there's a funeral on. This leaves the poachers several hours free to roam while the church is packed. And if the weather and thieves aren't enough to give truffle farmers the winter blues, there's another formidable foe, and one which doesn't look like going away globalization, which has come in the form of Chinese truffles at a tenth of the price. Perhaps it's no great surprise that farmers here say the Chinese version is flavorless. Though calling on the government to take action over imports and labeling, that hasn't stopped the odd French truffle seller from putting a Chinese one in his basket and trying to sell it at the market. The French truffle is said to be far darker in color than its Asian counterpart and has a different texture. The local authorities now check stock before the market opens and to make sure buyers are getting their genuine local article. And it's not just the farmers who are down in the dumps. These are tough times, too, for the sniffer dogs like Matrix. For each time they find one of the valuable truffles, the farmers give them a sugary treat. And with so few to find these days, the dogs too often go unrewarded.
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Hard times for the truffle hunters and for their dogs. Chris Backman in Toulouse, bringing us to the end of another edition. There'll be more from our own correspondence on Thursday and Saturday of next week. Do join us. Goodbye.