← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
March 08, 2012
00:28:06
The extraordinarily spry 80-year-olds of Shikoku: Peter Day's met them and tells us as...
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Kate Ady
Hello from Bush House in London, home
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Martin Patience
to from our Own Correspondent.
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Kate Ady
You can hear the World Service edition of our programme by going to the from Our Own Correspondent website. But this is a download of the latest broadcast on Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady today.
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Narrator/Presenter
Growing anxiety in Greece as people fear they can't cope with more government demands for austerity. There's a lonely, dangerous mission for a doctor trying to help the injured on both sides of a troubled African border. We find out what happened to the Chinese villagers who dared stand up to the authorities and how the fortunes of a mountainous corner of Argentina have been transformed by a passion for wine once again. The clock has been ticking this week for Greece. Its officials are desperately trying to sign up private investors who hold Greek government bonds to a new deal. The deadline is 8 o' clock this evening. The deal would see bondholders lose more than half of their original investment, in turn helping Greece reduce its overall debt. If agreement isn't reached, then the country's second multi billion euro bailout could be in doubt. That financial package also depends on the Greek government bringing in a series of new reforms. And Matthew Price says people there are becoming increasingly concerned about what that'll mean for them and their families.
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Kate Ady
It's not surprising to see handouts in the Middle east or Africa or the Caribbean, but food aid in a Western European capital? This was Athens this month and there were plenty of people queuing up for the free tins of beans and packets of soup. Among them a pharmacist, Sotires Triantifullu, who looked as if he was in his early 30s. A well turned out and serious man with short dark hair, he had had eight years of continuous employment until two months ago when the Greek economic crisis finally forced him from his job. His 7 year old daughter had kept the family up all night with an illness. He had come for some medicine for her and left with it in a rustling plastic bag, a box of food supplies under his arm. There are no jobs out there. It's my only way of getting by, he told me sadly. A child cried briefly, but mostly the people around us muttered quietly, waiting their turn under fluorescent strip lights. A chilly late winter breeze blew in through the door from the street as another person stepped inside. We were in a clinic in a poor suburb of the Greek capital. Vaccinations were being given to some of the children in an office. Another was getting a free checkup from a volunteer doctor who'd just come off shift at the nearby hospital. A nurse came out into the corridor a face mask on and called out someone's name. A woman stepped forward and held out her arms. Another box of food Dimitra Kulizou was sitting patiently with, waiting her turn beneath one of the charities posters. It showed a malnourished child from a far less developed country staring into the camera. Dimitra's a pensioner and she can't afford the costs in even the public health care system. Her story was typical. Up until now, she's received €600amonth from the government. It supports her, her son, who can't find work, and his family. They're no longer entitled to benefits. This month, though, the government's announced pension cuts of up to 20%, possibly €120amonth less for Dimitra and her dependents. It's not right, she told me. If her income falls that much, it will be even harder for her to support her family. And this is the fear that that hangs over many here. While it's estimated that a third of Greeks now live below the poverty line, most do not live at the extreme end, most are not homeless out on the streets. Most indeed do not need food aid. Yet almost everyone knows someone who has lost their job or had their wages or benefits cut. And the traditional networks that provided a natural safety net are fraying. Once, if one son or daughter lost their job, the family would rally round, help them out, support them. But when two or three children have no income, when the pension and unemployment benefits are slashed as well, what then? It is this that is most alarming about Greece. The capacity of the population to cope is being eroded almost every day, it seems. For some, it's a matter of being unable any longer to afford organic fruit and vegetables. For others, it is far, far more serious. But for almost everyone, there is a sense of unease, of anxiety about the future and how to survive it. It is this that does not show up in the spreadsheets of the bureaucrats in Brussels, in the charts of the European Central bank, in the sums of the International Monetary Fund. You don't measure a people's ability to survive in percentages of gross domestic product. Perhaps Greece is finally on a secure path to financial stability, though I doubt it. But even if it is, there are many, many more who'll be heading to the clinic to get their food aid before this is over.
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Narrator/Presenter
And that is Matthew Price. Now, any hopes that there may have been that the creation last year of a new country, South Sudan, would usher in an era of peace to the region seem sadly to have been misplaced. The former head of the United nations in Sudan says that soldiers loyal to the Khartoum government in the north have been committing crimes against humanity, including ethnic cleansing in parts of the north, close to the border with South Sudan. Tens of thousands of people have fled into the south, which now faces a mounting refugee crisis. Martin Plout is there and has sent us this dispatch from a camp not far from the border.
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Martin Plout
This is the story of one man's attempts to bring medical aid to his people caught up in this, one of Africa's least reported wars. I first saw him sitting under a tree, patiently discussing how best to improve the services for refugees with a group of aid workers, we'd been told to look out for Dr. Atta. You have to meet this guy. He's amazing, one of our contacts said to us. Dr. Atta, ADA Evans used to work in the hospital at Kirmuk, a town just over the border. A tall man with an open face, easy smile and a soft voice, he did everything from surgery to maternity care. But when the fighting broke out, he decided to stay, despite the risks. For months, he remained behind, helping where he could. But last December, the situation became unbearable. Loading the equipment he had into the hospital's only ambulance, he followed the path trodden by some 80,000 refugees and sought sanctuary in the south. In stages, over 18 days, he managed to get through. He went back to work, still serving his people in a local hospital. Many medical staff would have thought they'd done their bit, but not Dr. Attar. He knew no medical services remained in the war zone. There was nothing for the civilians left behind or the rebels fighting the government in Khartoum. So now, when his network of contacts tells him of casualties on the other side, he loads up his ambulance and sets off back into Sudan. It must be an extraordinary journey through sorghum fields and past the giant baobab trees that dot the landscape, picking up the injured along the way. Who do you treat? I asked him. Anyone who's desperate, he says. Civilians, rebels, prisoners of war. During Sudan's last war, I even treated government army officers. They continue to write to me, he says, until two weeks ago, his ambulance carried the logo of the Red Crescent Society. But then they objected, so Dr. Atta removed it. It was no protection anyway, he says calmly. They bombed the UN compound in Kurmuk. They bombed Save the Children. So what does he do when the bombers come overhead? Well, I put the ambulance somewhere and I lie flat. But it's sometimes a close run thing. Once they bombed his tent just after he'd left. He just laughs about it. And what does his family think about his trips? Well, says Dr. Atta, my wife asks me if I'm mad. What's your problem? She asks. Why did you marry me if you wanted to die? His eldest son is just as skeptical. Why can't you just come home and forget all about it? He says. But the doctor is firm. I have to remind them it's sometimes necessary to help people who are helpless. Underneath this quiet exterior, there's something truly steely about Dr. Attar. It's a sort of determination I've met time and again across South Sudan. This is a land that's known little peace since the end of the colonial era in 1956. Decades of war saw 2 million people killed. Some former soldiers I've talked to walked across the entire width of this vast land to sign up to fight. The peace agreement between Khartoum and the southern Rebels back in 2005 was meant to put an end to all this. But the peace left many former rebels and their people north of the new frontier. It was perhaps inevitable that war would revisit this part of the world. There's no sign that talks to break the deadlock are making any progress. Relations between Sudan and South Sudan are about as bad as they can be with oil no longer flowing northwards and troops all along the border. There isn't an all out war at present, rather a rash of smaller, smouldering conflicts on both sides of the border. As long as this continues, there's every chance that today's strange mixture of rebels, aid agencies and refugees will continue to inhabit this region. And Dr. Atta and his ambulance making the dangerous journey between them, as he puts it with a shrug, my life is in God's hands.
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Narrator/Presenter
Martin Plout in South Sudan. China's annual parliamentary session got underway earlier this week with a speech from the premier, Wen Jiabao. He surprised some observers by dedicating part of his address to the controversial subject of farmers rights to their lands. His comments came after land grabs by officials in the village of Wukan in southern Guangdong Province. They led to angry protests and then headlines at home and abroad. Martin Patience was there during that disorder in December and has just been back to see whether there's been an improvement in relations between villagers and the authorities.
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Martin Patience
Once again, villagers had gathered in their square, but this time there was no longer fury in the air. Instead there was a carnival like atmosphere. A loudspeaker blasted out a surprisingly catchy pop song with the lyrics socialism is great, the Communist Party is great Locals had come to attend hustings. 20 or so villagers were standing as candidates for the village committee. While the Communist Party selects the country's leaders, it does allow villages to form committees with par over some local issues. The party, however, often interferes in the process, making sure its favorites get the jobs. But the villagers of Wukan insisted that this election would be free and fair. Three months ago, the atmosphere had been very different. Locals had risen in revolt. They were furious after a villager had died in police custody, officially because of natural causes. But many believe the police beat Xue Jinbo to death. He had been negotiating with the authorities to end a bitter land dispute. Following his death, villagers staged daily protests in the square calling for the overthrow of corrupt. They set up makeshift roadblocks, branches strewn across the street, to repulse the police. Packs of young men patrolled the village's narrow alleyways. They clutched bamboo sticks with sharpened tips. Their faces were drawn by a lack of sleep and a fear over what the night might bring. I will never forget one man telling me that unless the people of the village stuck together, they'd all be taken away one by one by the police or thugs. Local officials fled. The party had lost control. After days of protest, senior officials stepped in to end the standoff. Rather than crushing the revolt, they agreed to make concessions that included holding fresh elections to replace local officials whom villagers believe had sold them out in the first place. Back in the square and three months later, I spotted the farmer whose words I will never for they'll take us away one by one. Sitting in the wings of an open air stage where the hustings were taking place, he was almost unrecognizable. It was as if he had had a facelift. He looked so refreshed. Things are better here, said the man in his 60s with a small smile. His son, who had been bundled into a car by undercover policemen during the protests, was now standing as a candidate. Between speeches, the son told me that polit politics was now the best way to proceed. The revolt of Wukan was an extraordinary event. It was an exceptional show of people power that the authorities chose not to crush, most likely because of the international coverage it received. The rebellion laid bare the simmering tensions in China's countryside over government land grabs. Across the country, there are more than half a million villages the same size as Wukan. Many FAC disputes rampant development means land is a precious commodity in China, and with huge amounts of money to be made, the system is ripe for abuse. But the way Wukan stood up and fought has inspired others. In a neighboring village, a group of farmers told me they'd smashed up a fence surrounding what they said was their confiscated land. For some, Wukan is seen as a model for China's leaders in settling the tens of thousands of disputes that break out every year. Indeed, the official newspaper of the Communist Party praised the authorities handling of the dispute. But there remains many reasons to be cautious. The land grab at the heart of the Wukan dispute has yet to be resolved. That will be the new village committee's main task, to try and reach a settlement with the authorities. And while they are the people's choice, the officials they will deal with aren't elected and will have their own entrenched interests. Democracy very quickly runs into reality in China. Many in Wukan say that if the authorities don't return their land, they'll simply return to the streets. But what worked last time may not work again. Instead of making concessions, the authorities may crack down. What often happens in similar disputes is that the authorities bide their time, waiting for tempers to cool. They then buy people off and arrest the ringleaders. Despite Wukan's remarkable stand against the authorities, there's absolutely no guarantee of a happy ending.
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Narrator/Presenter
Martin Patience Argentina's reputation for providing the finest steaks isn't questioned by anyone. But until recently, fewer people were impressed by its wine. In the past 20 years or so, there's been a revolution in the Argentine wine industry. Most critics and consumers will now concede it produces some of the best in the world. Daniel Schweimler has been to the province of Mendoza in the foothills of the Andes Mountains, where he discovered a match made in heaven.
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Daniel Schweimler
One is small, dark and juicy. The other is loose and sandy, blasted by scorching sun during the day and cooled by mountain air at night. The Malbec grape and the soil of the western Argentine province of Mendoza were introduced to one another in the middle of the 19th century. However, it was more than 100 years before local producers realized that this combination of the thin skinned, sun loving grape and the sandy soil of Mendoza could produce a wine that was both tantalizing and lucrative. It doesn't rain much here. The relationship is therefore lubricated by ice melting off the Andes Mountains. There are other grapes grown in Mendoza. Bornada, Cabernet, Sauvignon, Syrah and Tempranillo, to name just a few. But there is only one Malbec. It has transformed the region. Wine runs through the veins of Mendoza. It smells of wine. There are wine barrels, wine posters and wine shops from the moment you step off the plane at the provincial airport. For the large producers, it's big business. For the smaller operations, it's more a labour of love. We don't make much money out of wine, explained Gabriella Forlotti as she guided me through the 90 year old vineyard behind her hotel on the outskirts of the city of Mendoza. She is the fourth generation from her family to produce wine, which began when her great grandparents came to Argentina from Italy in the 1890s. The word that kept cropping up was passion as she caressed the bunches of grapes on the vine just now turning from green to purple, or popped out the cork from a bottle of Finca Adel Gisa, produced from her own vineyard and named after her great grandmother. It's more than a business, she said. It's a way of life. It's something you belong to. The French would blend Malbec with other grapes to make Bordeaux wines. In Argentina, it has become a grape in its own right, a stand alone grape. As the established producers realized the potential of the Malbec, they brought in experts from the more traditional wine producing regions of Italy, Spain and France to enhance and improve what was obviously something special. Many big producers are now operating in Mendoza, not just Argentines, but Americans, Spaniards and Italians. They even come from countries not generally associated with quality winemaking, such as India and Holland. They've been seduced by the grape. The Mendoza region has been producing wine for generations, but previously it was for domestic consumption, to accompany those succulent beef steaks cooked on the barbecue. I tried some more than 20 years ago on my first visit to Buenos Aires. At a stand up pizzeria near the main railway station. The first glug felt as though it was blistering the skin on the inside of my throat and it settled in my stomach like something that had been siphoned from a tractor engine. I asked for more, but that was then. Now I was encountering robust tannins, the rich velvety texture and intense fruity flavours of the three Malbecs I tasted with Mark, the Swiss operating manager at the Forlotti bodega. Three Malbecs from the same region, but each he explained with its own character, thanks to different winemakers, different procedures and varied soil. We were looking for color, holding the glass against a white background to highlight the deep crimson wine we were sniffing for aroma, first from a still glass, then a little gentle slopping to activate and release the distinctive smells. Finally we were tasting a healthy sip sloshed around in the mouth for 10 seconds or so, looking for texture, for body and character. Then the part I was most looking forward to spitting it out into a small bucket before rinsing the mouth out with water for the next tasting. I was becoming a wine connoisseur. It all sounds so romantic, so captivating. And it can be. But it can also be grinding work with producers at the mercy of variable weather conditions and pests, volatile markets, bureaucratic and invasive government practices and fierce competition, Marcelo Aliziardi runs an organic vineyard in a semi desert region a two hour drive east of the city of Mendoza. As we stood beside the reservoir dug by him and his father in the late 1990s, I asked him what his favourite wine was. They all are, he said. All the ones that we produce. Each is like a small child. It's in the blood. I have spoken to producers of many things of beef, of soya, of tobacco, but none has the passion bordering on obsession that I encountered among the wine producers of Mendoza. Now that is something worth drinking to
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Narrator/Presenter
Daniel Schweimler in Argentina now you can say that a steadily aging population such as the one we have here in Britain is a remarkable achievement. It certainly means people are living much healthier lives than they used to. But the task for the authorities is how to take advantage of this demographic to make best use of the experience and expertise of this growing sector of the population. The potential problems it poses are well documented. Healthcare and social services under pressure, employers running out of manpower. Peter Day says that finding the answer to the ageing question is a task for governments not only in Britain but in other developed countries as well, among them Japan.
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Peter Day
There is snow in the air up in the hills on Shikoku island, about an hour's flight south of Tokyo. But the chill winds are more than just the weather. Like so much of Japan, Haigyu Village is getting old. Its senior citizens are beginning to feel their age. On a recent Saturday afternoon, a group of them met to talk things over with me round an inadequate little fire in the long, low workshop, where a local craftsman still creates exquisite handmade Japanese paper in sheets rough on the surface and full of random worlds of embedded plants and leaves. All but One of the six were well into their 70s. The paper maker was an Active 82. Like so many of the aging people I met in the fields and woods and farmhouses of Shikoku, these 80 year olds seem extraordinarily spry and alert. Many of them are still busy working to supplement meagre pensions. The women are bent but disarmingly Smooth skinned and relaxed about getting old, the men are more circumspect, especially those who live on their own up the steep village lanes. Every night I worry about what will happen if I get ill, said one of them, edging closer to the fire. Would my neighbors find me? The traditional life in these upcountry villages is under threat. In two places I visited, the over 65s now outnumber younger people. Haigyu Village is becoming a ghost town as offspring leave for jobs in the city. Buddhist farmers do not like ancestral homes to be occupied by incomers, so their abandoned farmhouses lie empty and decaying in the sleeting wind. Now, of course, there is much that is wonderful about these extraordinary increases in longevity, especially when the Silver Ages remain so fit and active, helped perhaps by that Japanese diet of fish and vegetables. But eventually the increasing number of elderly will need care. That is going to be expensive in a country already more indebted than is Greece. By the year 2050, 4 out of 10 Japanese will be over 65. On the other side of this story is an extraordinary reluctance to have children. The young people I asked about this slightly touchy subject were rather vague about the reasons for the baby famine, though many mentioned a feeling of foreboding about the cost of the future. This doubt comes after two strange decades of slow or negligible economic growth and weird price deflation following the bursting of the huge Japanese property bubble at the end of the 1980s, to say nothing of the more recent twin catastrophes of March last year, the shrinking of the Japanese population has already started, and it's gathering pace. By 2050, the total number of Japanese will have been reduced by one third, to less than 90 million people. The young working ones will have a great burden of elderly Japanese on their backs. Nothing like this has ever happened through natural causes in history. And it's not just Japan. As baby boomers born after the Second World War start hitting 65 in many countries this year, Germany, Italy, and China will soon join the Japanese as aging, shrinking countries. Britain is facing a similar trend, but not so sharply, thanks to immigration boosting its workforce. Japan, to put it mildly, is wary of immigrants. In many countries, the next 50 years are going to be hugely different from the decades of economic growth we've enjoyed over the past century. In a shrinking population, growth can no longer be assumed as a default position. In conventional terms, recession becomes the norm. The pressure on prices is falling, not rising. Japan has shown that deflation is devilishly hard to get rid of. Why buy things today when they'll be cheaper tomorrow. I went to Japan to pick up tips for all our futures how to cope with this unprecedented problem. Ingenuity and technology may help ease the high price of caring for older people. So I sat on the Japanese lavatory that monitors your vital functions on a daily basis. And elsewhere there are robot pets to keep aging minds alive, and remote sensors to alert a son or daughter hundreds of miles away if an old parent fails to get out of bed in the morning. But many Japanese politicians and policy makers I heard from were hoping against hope that active old age and a huge increase in volunteering may ease the burden on the state. Even so, you can't get away from the idea that we are all heading into a huge unknown. At least that's what the old man told me the other afternoon, huddled round a struggling fire in the paper workshop in Haigu Village.
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Narrator/Presenter
Peter Day, who had his own 65th birthday just the other day, brings this edition to a close. I'll be back on Saturday with more from correspondence. Young and not so young. Do join us. Goodbye.