← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Good to See You Again!
00:28:06
Good to see you again! Mark Doyle is reunited with his spectacles, which were lost on...
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- [00:00]
A
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. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Hello. Today, good to see you again. Our correspondent is reunited with a pair of spectacles he lost on a battlefield in Africa. In the German city of Leipzig. It's sausage by the meter, glue vine by the litre as a long awaited railway project is finally unveiled. A hippo gets in the way of bath time on the slopes of Mount Kenya and our reporter is grounded by Arctic storms in Greenland. Can he make it home in time for Christmas? There's been more fighting in Somalia this week between the force of African peacekeepers and the Islamist militants known as Al Shabaab. In one incident, three Syrian doctors in the country providing medical assistance were killed when a convoy they were travelling in was ambushed. The peacekeeping troops sent into Somalia by the African Union can claim some success. They restored a degree of order to the capital, Mogadishu. They've also pushed Al Shabaab out of the main towns it once controlled in southern and central parts of Somalia. The AU soldiers have even managed to deliver a Christmas surprise to our man, Mark Doyle.
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This is the story about how I mislaid my spectacles on a battlefield in central Somalia. But it's also about how I learnt something new to me that many parts of Somalia are very beautiful. There are green fertile plains and there are soaring mountains. I got to see these parts of Somalia and yes, I can see without my reading glasses through the bullet proof windows of an armored personnel carrier. My journey was under the protection of African Union troops who are fighting a full scale war against against highly motivated radical Islamists of the Al Qaeda affiliated Al Shabaab army. I call them an army because I think the usual description of them as insurgents or guerrillas is inadequate. Because Al Shabaab, which means roughly the youth, control more territory than any other Al Qaeda linked group anywhere in the world. They sometimes act like an army, using defensive World War I style trenches, for example. They have tactics, they have mortars. This is no ragtag movement. I know because in the two weeks I spent with the African Union soldiers, they were attacked every single day by Al Shabaab who use roadside bombs, snipers or coordinated military advances. One morning, for example, I saw the immediate aftermath of an attack on an African Union base. I touched the flattened grass in the carefully spaced out firing positions the Al Shabaab men had crouched down in just hours earlier. I bent down to the ground to count the empty bullet cartridges that had spewed out of their rifles. They were shiny and brand new. This is a war that involves over 17,000 African Union troops, including armored battalions with enormous Soviet era T55 tanks, Marines off the coast and drones in the sky. The soldiers from countries like Uganda and Sierra Leone are dug in behind earthwork ramparts in strings of fortified outposts. The foreign soldiers are there because the government and army of Somalia are too weak on their own to face Al Shabaab. That's the war. But did you know that there are also orange groves in Somalia? That there are mango plantations, rivers, well watered fields and bustling markets? I didn't. Not really, because I've never seen these things before. With or without my glasses. Journalists are not usually lucky enough, as I was, to spend two whole weeks driving around Somalia. But on this trip I travelled for hundreds of miles through south and central Somalia and saw some of the real life in between the fighting. I saw farms, rivers and canals. I saw vast herds of camels and goats. There are forests, fruit trees and quarries. This war is partly about Islamist ideology, but it's also about winning control of these very real assets and sometimes very beautiful, fertile countryside. But back to my glasses. I mentioned that I'd lost them to an officer from the Ugandan army who was accompanying me, more to make conversation really, than out of any hope of finding them. But the officer started making calls to his colleagues on his mobile, tracing our route back down the road. I must admit, I thought all that was just for show. But a few days later, to my absolute astonishment, this officer said he had located my glasses on the battlefield where I had leant down the to count the Al Shabaab bullets. My glasses then made a circuitous journey home. They travelled first in an armored personnel carrier heading for the Ugandan military headquarters in the Somali capital, Mogadishu. And they weren't broken when this vehicle was hit by another roadside bomb. Then they were taken in another armored car from the Ugandan military base to the Somali President's office where a friend of mine works. He happened to be due to travel to the uk. Then there was a quick hop from Mogadishu to Nairobi, a rather longer flight to London, and my glasses were finally returned to me. My friend handed them over here at BBC Broadcasting House. They were slightly bent, but nothing a little twisting couldn't resolve. My journey with the African Union forces has put a number of things into sharper focus. The first is that this is a terrible, widespread war.
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War.
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But Somalia is not just a war zone. Parts of it are very, very beautiful. And finally, if you ever lose your glasses on a battlefield, all I can say is never lose sight of hope.
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And that's Mark Doyle. There was something of a Christmas present for Greece this week as eurozone finance ministers approved a further $1 billion aid package. The minister's spokesman noted with satisfaction that the government in Athens had made good on promises to reform the country's economy. There are now predictions of growth next year. And with unemployment marginally down too, Mark Loewen in Athens says these glimmers of hope are widely welcomed. But the Greeks, he says, know there are still difficult days ahead.
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They come just before sunset, those magical few minutes in which Athens bathes in a deep purple glow. I often wait for it, looking out at the late afternoon sun. It sets behind the Acropolis where the ancient gods were worshipped, glinting onto the Aegean. Nearby, rays dance across the mountains. And then they reach the one skyscraper in the city, the Athens Tower, as it's called, poking above a skyline where nothing is allowed to stand taller than the Parthenon. The colors change. For a few seconds, it seems like the building is on fire. The the glass now reflecting the shot of orange that hits it square on. It's an almost spiritual moment in a city revered throughout the centuries, but now associated with darker times. And as I watch the scene today, I can hear the distant voices of protest, the megaphone shouting anti austerity slogans. Who is it this time? Doctors, university staff? You lose track. But as the rallies continue and the exhaustion of four years of financial crisis deepens, the Greece goes on. This is something that many outside fail to grasp, that even at the height of the meltdown, when petrol bombs and tear gas enveloped the main square, when parliament argued into the early hours over more cuts, when there were crisis talks in Brussels about how a country might transition out of the euro, this one would pick itself up, dust itself off and go on living. Shops would stay open, cafes remain busy, offices work and tourists arrive. What is known is the story of Greece's decline. How a once confident country has lost a quarter of its economy of 27% unemployment, double that among the youth, of pensions slashed and homelessness up. And that is all true. It has been heartbreaking to see the tearing of the social fabric. And yet, perhaps the story correspondents haven't told enough is about how Greece hasn't actually collapsed, the government hasn't fallen, and this year the protest movement has faded. Far fewer have taken to the streets. There's been almost no violence. Why that the opposition here is split is certainly one reason Communists, unionists, the weary middle class and anarchists converge clumsily in demonstrations, knowing what they're fighting against but not unified in their goals. I joined students protesting this autumn who chanted the same tired slogans that have been heard here for 40 years. The importance of the family unit in Greece has shielded many, and people here love life, even if some can't afford essentials. They still find pleasure in their climate, landscape and culture. But perhaps it's also that there's a large proportion that quietly supports what's happened. I sat in a bustling bar last week with a lawyer who's among them. The crisis is changing Greece for the better, he told me. The bloated, clientelest public sector that often employed unqualified people in return for political support is being reformed. Greeks are learning to live within their means. Tax evasion is no longer accepted. A new culture of solidarity has emerged, a mentality of we're all in it together. There's even a spirit of entrepreneurialism being born. It is, he said, a painful transition, but a necessary one. Psychiatrists talk of the five stages of denial, anger, bargaining, depression and acceptance. Maybe Greece, which has known much grief, is edging towards the final stage. I meet far more now who tell me that if they could choose between going back to 2004, when Greece basked in the Olympics and European football victory and felt wealthy, or now pushing on out of all this, they'd take the latter. The realization has dawned that pre crisis, Greece was an illusion. It was a party which just had to end. For sure, this country is changing in fundamental ways, yet visitors here always remark how normal it seems. That is perhaps above all a testament to Greek resilience. Beneath the smiles, though, there's a fear of the future. The government talks of the worst being over, of an end to recession next year, of unemployment starting to fall. On paper, the figures do look better. But as another tumultuous 12 months come to a close, the nobody can tell if that sunset over Athens really does mark a true glimmer of hope.
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Mark Loewen the Kenyan economy took a knock in the wake of the Westgate attack in Nairobi in September, but it's since bounced back firmly. There are forecasts for growth in the next 12 months of up to 6%. Crucial to this success would be the country's performance in agriculture. Kenya is a big tea and coffee producer and a major exporter of fresh produce. The farmers reliance on foreign buyers and their exacting standards has led to some criticism. Questions have been asked about the way some fertilizers and chemicals are used. But Susie Emmett says these are nevertheless exciting times for the farmers of Kenya and other countries can learn from their attempts to blend science with farming ingenuity.
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This is the honeymoon suite, says David. He's the village guard appointed to guide me in the rapidly fading light to my thatched hut by perched above the swirling muddy Melloer River. See, says David, pointing out to the veranda, where gleaming in the moonlight is a pure white bath. You can wallow just like the local hippos. Well, why not? With the gentle night crescendo of chattering insects and the gurgling river gliding a few metres below, how better to reflect on all I've seen and heard? I set the water running and go inside to search for my soap and towel on the sloping skirts of mighty Mount Kenya. It's a patchwork of productivity. Apollo Awar oversees a company farm and a network of hundreds of outgrowers around the mountainside, all producing top quality vegetables for export. He has a bounce in his step, a permanent smile on his face and a bottomless reservoir of energy, especially for sharing good practice to improve yields of crops to feed Kenyans too. In Africa we have to stay sharp, he explains, with wise water conservation techniques, perfect control of pests and the greatest of care for our precious soil. Amidst the rolling hills covered with fragrant blossom heavy coffee. Near Thika is the Kenyan business leading a revolution. Owners Dr. Henry Wainwright and Louise Labechene are as wedded to biological pest control as they are to each other. With an eyeglass, I can see the minuscule predatory insects they breed for sale and shipping in their billions to flower farmers in Kenya, Ethiopia and beyond. These are insects that kill insects, enabling dramatic reductions in chemical pesticide use. Other new products are even less visible, but their effect is evident in the magnificent cabbages and carrots knee high around Louise's shins. They've been dosed with a beneficial soil microbe, she says. As a result, they grow bigger, faster and fight off pests for themselves. And there's more. They've pioneered the use of other soil life a fungus to kill adult insect pests in bananas, for example. We are using the power of bees, says Louise. The bumblebees going to banana plants to deliver this bio pesticide to just where it's needed to kill thrips or thunderflies, explains Louise. Africa and the Americas are catching up with all this Kenyan innovation. But Europe, with the exception of Denmark, says Louise, is lagging far, far behind. And she can't hide her frustration. I hear leading researchers say the only route to boost food production is with genetic modification. It's not. I'm sorry if I sound angry. I am. What African agriculture is doing with biopesticides is so exciting. We're just waiting for the rest of the world to catch up with these solutions. In the hills of Eldomer Ravine, Peter Cameron is general manager of a rose farm. He's as upright as each of the 70 million roses the business exports each year to Europe, the US, Russia and Australia. Growing the perfect rose is all about detail, he says. Beside the elegant thornless bushes, coaxed into producing swathes of peach, yellow, crimson, any colour the market desires, the farm is right at the heart of this rural community. The greenhouses are surrounded by the homesteads of the 1200 rose Workers employed by specialising in fair trade flowers. They attract a 10% premium on the blooms, which comes back to the community to invest. The results are school classrooms and a community centre with a bank, clinic, IT suite, snooker room and a library. Yes, agriculture in Kenya is not without its problems. But the overwhelming impression from these three Kenyan businesses is of really good farming solutions, where as well as production and profit, there is energy, ingenuity, integrity and community. That nice warm bath of mine should be ready by now. The night sounds have shifted to a different chorus. The moonlight seems even brighter. The dense riverside shrubs and trees are clear against the star strewn sky. Oh no. I shriek with surprise. My honeymoon bath is indeed full. But the water is the colour of the river itself. A deep chocolatey gravy guard. David calls through the night. Madam, are you ok? Through my smiles I describe the bath's water. Ah, comes the response. A hippo has interfered with the pipe again. Never mind, we'll have a solution.
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Susie. Emmett. There, on the foothills of Mount Kenya. Now the Germans really know how to do Christmas. Not for them. Those ghastly festive wonderlands with skinny Santas and moth eaten dogs dressed up as reindeer. No, the Christmas season there seems altogether more tasteful, more family friendly. Their songs are magnificent, their markets magical, their decorations in trees and town centres quite enchanting. But the partying currently going on in the eastern city of Leipzig isn't just connected with Yuletide, as Chris Bowlby's been finding out. They're celebrating the completion of a much delayed tunnelling project.
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It looked at first like a classic German winter scene, beloved of fairy tales and tourist marketing. Brochures around Leipzig's ancient city centre, framed by elegantly restored buildings with just hints remaining of communist Concrete brutalism were hundreds of Christmas stalls. There was sausage by the meter, Gluvine by the litre. And international attractions like energetic bearded Finns smoking salmon on racks over wood fires. A scene in many ways you could have witnessed centuries ago. Apart, that is, from in one corner of the market square, where in mid afternoon, a large, impatient crowd began gathering, surrounded by security guards and TV cameras. As the town hall clocks sounded, three barriers were opened and the masses surged forward and down escalators into a huge, brightly lit underground space. Part of the Leipzig City Tunnels project. It's a network of tunnels which will make the city's railways connect far better. An unremarkable tweak of the system, you might think. But the Leipziggers pouring into the new station, its looming ceiling on the scale of a cathedral, were were ready to worship something much greater. As the first train arrived, I found myself barged aside in the rush to get on and remembered ruefully a German once telling me that Thatcherism could never work in his country because they didn't believe in what he called an elbow society. But this crowd, stuck together with Gluwein and good spirits, didn't seem to mind the crush. The shiny new train trundled through to the city's main station, where the platform was thronged with local dignitaries wearing special yellow ribbons and PR representatives hired for the day to spread the gospel of public transport triumph. So far, so German, you'll be thinking effortless superiority in infrastructure and punctual operation. But in fact, the joy here may well have been more relief than anything. Like quite a few other major projects in Germany, such as Berlin's new airport, this scheme is in fact massively over budget and several years late. I asked one of the beaming young PR women why it had taken so long. Her smile briefly faded. This was clearly not part of her pre prepared script before she uttered soothing words about minor technical problems, resumed the beam and offered me a chocolate embossed with the city railway logo. Next to her stood a man handing out a special edition of the local paper, the Leipziger Volkszeitung. This publication also seemed reluctant to report the project's difficulties. Instead, it celebrated what it called the great opening of Leipzig's project of the century, with endless upbeat interviews and articles on tunneling technique, a somewhat desperate attempt to make boring interesting. I did finally find more sceptical locals that evening, back in the news station after a meal in the famous Auerbach's cellar, where Goethe, once a student in Leipzig, set a scene from Faust. Locals waiting for a train running 40 minutes late might not have felt they'd sold their souls to the devil, but did wonder whether the multi millions spent on the tunnel system had not been the best of bargains. When it finally arrived, there were mock cheers and wild laughter that made me, a veteran of British public transport, feel suddenly at home. But it would be churlish and simply wrong to conclude that German modernisation is some kind of fiction when they mostly run on time. The trains are very impressive, as is the architecture. And when I paused in the main station, I suddenly remembered the first time I'd been there, in the early 1980s, when Leipzig was part of communist East Germany. My wife and I had been delayed coming from Berlin, missed our connection and had to sit for several hours in the middle of the night in one of the vast looming station halls dating from the First World War. There were no cafes, no shops, virtually no lights on. Just a cold, lonely wait, but with a sense of being watched from a distance in this zealous centre of Stasiland. And now that station, like much else in Leipzig, is transformed as the city recovers its commercial energy and cultural excellence. Above all in music. And amidst the bustle and illumination and enthusiasm of the Christmas revellers and admirers of a brand new transport system, I could see that for these people, there truly is a lot more light to enjoy at the end of a very long tunnel.
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And that's Chris Bowlby. Greenland's still trying to work out the consequences of a decision to overturn a long standing ban on uranium mining. The government there is hoping that exploiting the country's abundant natural resources will provide jobs, perhaps even a path to full independence for this autonomous Danish territory which straddles the Arctic Circle. But opponents are worried about environmental damage and say new mines will mean bringing in thousands of foreign workers. James Fletcher's been there, interviewing both sides for a programme to be aired on Radio 4 early in the new year. But as he gathered his material, the weather took a turn for the worse and he wondered if he'd make it home for Christmas.
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Gusts of wind are roaring down from the ice cap as I read the novelty signpost at Kangerslussuaq Airport. Copenhagen, it says, is 4 hours and 15 minutes away. And London my final destination. A tantalising 3 hours and 35 minutes. 3 hours and 35 minutes. I'm weary, miserable and unshaven. I've already been traveling for five days, and as the wind drives the snow against the airport windows, home still feels much more than a matter of hours away. Day one of my journey had begun in Narsak, a small town on what locals jokingly call the Banana coast of South Greenland. The name stems from the area's moderate temperatures and summer greenery, but as I arrive at the town's heliport, a foggy monochrome gauze shrouds the snow covered mountainsides. I've only just settled into a waiting room seat when a woman from Air Greenland appears, hands clasped in front of her, the fingers of one twisting a ring on the other. I'm sorry to say the flight's delayed, she says, well rehearsed, apologetic. We'll have another update in 30 minutes. The words are barely out of her mouth when a fellow traveller dashes off to the supermarket to buy knitting needles and wool. By tomorrow you'll be asking me how to knit, she says with a wicked smile. I'm a little disconcerted by her use of the word tomorrow, but sure enough, after several repetitions of the apologetic ring twisting delay announcement, our flight is cancelled. I'm told to try again in two days time. On day three I do finally get a helicopter flight, and at my next stop a local tells me they call their national carrier Air Imaka Air. May be fog, wind and snow force the delay or cancellation of around a third of all flights. With two out of two of mine delayed so far, I figure the odds should now be in my favour. But after an extended wait to board a flight to the capital Nook, I begin to think the gods of probability are having a week off. Day four is Sunday, which means no flights, so I cool my heels in Nook and of course the weather is beautiful. But on day five I wake to hear my hotel windows rattling. Storm coming, says my taxi driver, somewhat unhelpfully on the way to the airport as I watch a howling wind whip the slick black water of the fjords into savage saw toothed whitecaps. Once in the waiting room, I look out at the tarmac where the wind is causing the planes to shimmy and shift their tails, waggling in the howling gale. When we eventually board, the pilot comes into the cabin to address the passengers personally. His soothing Scandinavian tones radiate reliability, but the involuntary samba my seat is doing as the plane dances on the spot is a little unnerving. Nature makes the calls, he says, apologising for the delay, and we have to follow. It's an attitude that serves Greenlanders well. Slowly, slowly, the hours become days. The locals knit, chat, drink coffee and assure me it could be worse. Back in the 60s, I'm told bad weather left one traveller stranded for 12 months. Before the age of air travel, there was apparently only one boat a year leaving these shores. I start to revel in the linguistic treats offered up by the departure announcements. There are flights to Manitsok, Ilulissat and the Scrabble player's Dream, the southern capital of Kakatok. Its three uvular queues almost impossible for the outsider to master. At the end of day five, I finally make it to Kangersluzuak. But after another long delay, I join the wrong queue for accommodation. By the time I realise my mistake, the wailier travellers have snared all the rooms in the airport terminal hotel and I'm told to catch a bus to Old Camp. The name alone is almost enough to break me. An old yellow school bus drives us through the snow to these former U.S. air Force barracks, and as we arrive, I set my expectations as low as I can. With its bunk beds and shared bathrooms, Old Camp effortlessly limbos under them. But it's my final night, and the next day the flight back home is delayed only once. As we board, I see that novelty signpost. One last time. London. Three hours and 35 minutes, it says. This time I manage a smile. Perhaps it's exhaustion or maybe cabin fever. Or maybe I've learned the great secret of life in Greenland. Nature makes the calls and we have to follow.
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And that's it. James Fletcher, back in time for Christmas, bringing this edition to a close. Next Saturday, trains, boats and planes, background music and sound effects. It's from our own correspondent, but not as we know it. Until then, goodbye.