← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
May 28, 2011
00:28:11
Fin de Siecle Deauville hosts the G8 summit of world leaders where there have been of...
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Hi there.
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You're about to hear from our own
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correspondent, a download from the BBC. We make editions of the program for both the BBC World Service and Radio 4. And this is the latest Radio 4 broadcast.
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As ever, it's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today, the man in a pickup truck who takes NATO's orders to the rebel fighters in Libya. We hear how the Chinese have bought up a town in Laos and paid its residents to go elsewhere. There's a picnic under the palms for the last Russian women in Algiers and the windy island in the North Atlantic where the men are hardy, the sheep are hardier, and there may just be puffins for lunch. But first, the G8 club of some of the world's richest nations has ended its annual summit with a pledge of aid for Egypt and Tunisia and an unexpectedly tough statement on Libya. The global influence of the G8 club has been questioned in recent years as its financial clout has been usurped by the larger G20 antigrouping. But as Bridget Kendall's been finding out, in the French seaside resort of Deauville, where this year's summit was held, the glory days of the G8 may not be over yet.
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With a Gallic shrug and a dogged refusal to be talked round, the local bus driver deposited us out of town at the far end of the promenade, slammed his doors shut and departed despondently. I and my fellow hacks gripped our cases and laptops, looked along the famous boardwalk and wondered how far it was to walk back into the town centre and to the G8 Press Centre. The wide sands stretched down to the grey Normandy sea. Gaudy striped windbreakers tugged at gusts of breeze walking past us. Off the beach, a small boy with spade and fishing net stared at us as though we were aliens. High on the hillside above was a panoramic display of the picturesque architecture of this part of the French coast, which it's so proud of. Impossibly tall and thin villas, half timbered, tiled and turreted, with their shutters closed, staring out to sea blindly. I felt as though I'd been dropped into a French painting from before the First World War, when famous writers and artists flocked here to take the air. And Deauville the was the seaside retreat of choice for Parisian high society. Gustav Flaubert was a regular visitor. The famous Russian ballet dancer Nijinsky danced at the casino. Coco Chanel opened a boutique here in 1913. Hazily, I remembered those oil paintings of the beach at Deauville and next door, Trouville by the impressionists Eugene Baudin and Claude Monet, bustle clad ladies, their faces hidden in the shade of parasols, looking out across the water. A far cry from this travel worn, slightly grubby journalist of the 21st century on her way to a political summit. I hoisted my rucksack and started trundling my suitcase along the pavement. As I walked through the town, it occurred to me this was indeed a fitting venue for G8 leaders. The Fin de sicle charms of Deauville were perfectly suited to the changing fortunes of an elitist club of once wealthy nations clinging to the faded promise of once undisputed influence. Shaking out the creases of moth eaten glory. The wealthy Parisian patrons who fostered Deauville's reputation as a desirable resort came from a time before world wars when the great European powers reached out to shape the globe, confident in their unrivalled leadership. Not so very different from the complacent Western outlook of the 1970s and 80s, when the G7 club of the world's most industrialized nations also believed in an old order. Unaware of the imminent growth spurt of developing nations like China and India round the corner and the coming universal connectivity that would undercut privileged access to to power and information. In recent years, some have muttered that surely by now the G7 G8 club had outlived its usefulness. What global problems could today's leading Western powers solve on their own without enlisting the backing of those emerging economies whose growth rates now far outpace them? And when G8 did try to take on climate change or global poverty, how often were ambitious targets revealed embarrassingly as empty promises? After the crisis of 2008 turned the financial tables and economic debate was shifted to the larger G20 grouping. It seemed this dusty troupe of older democracies was destined for the scrapheap. But then this year came the Arab Spring and a chance for G8 members to show they could still gang together to make a difference. So this Deauville summit has been something of a test case. Could G8 show it still did have the political will and leadership to galvanize support for the world's newest fledgling democracies? Could the leaders forge a united front on Libya, despite Russia's growling for months about NATO's military airstrikes at the conference center next to the casino on the beachfront? The discussions, it seems, have been fruitful. The multi billion dollar aid package for Tunisia and Egypt, hedged carefully with conditions, may indeed help to kick start their economies. And the message to Colonel Gaddafi was he must go. He has lost legitimacy. Even Russia said President Medvedev would not offer him a haven in exile. The beach hats are packed again. The sand has been shaken out of shoes. This fleeting summit holiday by the sea is over. And curiously, it does feel as though the G8 club has been revitalised. The full test of its relevance is still to come. A show of unity can quickly fall apart, but the sea air seems to have done them good, and I suspect they will be back next year.
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Bridgette Kendall and as you heard, the world leaders gathered in Deauville had a stark message for Colonel it was time to step down and go into exile. Their statement came not long after reports from the commander of the NATO Libya mission that army units loyal to the colonel are still deployed around Misrata. This coastal city suffered widespread damage and casualties during the two months it was besieged before being recaptured by the rebels. Andrew Harding has been telling us what life's like there.
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It's an unusually quiet morning so far. On what passes for the front line south of Misrata, there are some chicken farms. Behind us, maybe 30 rebel fighters milling around smoking. And ahead, a straight road leading to Colonel Gaddafi's soldiers and artillery. Somewhere in the distance, Ibrahim Al Halbus is peering through binoculars. He's 36, a dealer in second hand car parts and, following the recent death of his brother, the new commander of the rebel battalion in charge of this sector of the front. Someone passes round paper cups of strong coffee. There's a breeze this morning that coats everything with a light dusting of Saharan sand. Ibrahim's men have earned a reputation for discipline and competence in the past few weeks, rare qualities in this amateur rebellion, staffed for the most part by courageous novices. There is none of the endless festive cloud shooting here. We get sent home if we fire our guns in the air, one soldier tells me earnestly. But as I wander around today's front line, the soldiering still looks fairly shoddy, Guns pointing all over the place. No attempt dig in or fortify a position. And Ibrahim doesn't really try to hide the fact that NATO is calling the shots now. They've told us to stay where we are today, he says. No attacking. Soon we hear the roar of fighter jets, probably British, overhead. NATO tells Ibrahim what to do via the rebel administration in Misurata. A man in a pickup car races to the front every few hours to pass on the latest message. For now, Ibrahim says the plan is simply to secure the territory outside the city, to make sure the enemy's artillery can't get close enough to resume the Devastating bombardments. It sounds practical, but it doesn't sound like a recipe for defeating Colonel Gaddafi. I arrived in this pocket of rebel held territory after a 34 hour trip in a small fishing boat. I spent much of the crossing clinging to the legs of a heavy machine gun on the deck as the boat wallowed flamboyantly in the swell. Misrata's rebels had just pushed the last of Colonel Gaddafi's forces out of the city and there was much talk of a wider offensive, perhaps even a march on Tripoli. The next big town along the coast from here is a place called Zlitten, half an hour's drive to the west. The rebels say they've been smuggling weapons to their allies there, but it's complicated. Several fighters tell me that the rebels inside Zlitten want their help, that they'd even fight them if they launched an attack. Is that pride? Tribal frictions? Probably a mixture. Besides, a lot of people in Zlitten are understandably keen to keep the war away from their town. Ibrahim reckons 40% of residents there still support Colonel Gaddafi. I've heard similar estimates from many others. So for now, Misrata remains on its own, the only liberated city in western Libya. The place itself is a mess. Ruined buildings, the wreckage of tanks, roadblocks everywhere. No foam system, no power in some neighbourhoods, queues for food and a daily flow of dead and wounded fighters ferried back from the front lines. And yet, you would have to be very cynical not to be moved by the energy, unity and determination shown by the besieged residents of Misurata to survive. Everyone seems to have changed jobs. I've met a 17 year old guitarist who now delivers lunch to the front lines. An electrical engineer who has turned into a skilled marksman. There's Mohtar, who's come out of retirement to direct the traffic at the roundabout on Blood Street. There's the navy captain who now runs the smuggling operation that brings weapons into the city by boat. And then there's the plump clerk from a printing company who set up a small factory to cook for the rebel administration. 4000 meals on wheels delivered daily. With NATO patrolling the skies, it's hard to imagine Misrata being recaptured by Colonel Gaddafi's army. As for the state of that army, I've heard plenty of gloomy assessments from some of his own soldiers now being held prisoner in the city. But no one I've met here seems to believe this conflict will be settled on the battlefield. NATO is bombing to exert pressure on the regime, not to enable Ibrahim and his fighters to March on Tripoli. Is that the right policy? Let me duck that one and leave you instead with Ismail Fortier, a chubby 44 year old doctor with a warm smile and sad eyes. In 1989, he was arrested and jailed for six years without explanation. His father died beside him in the same cell. Last month, his brother was killed during the battle for Misrata. This will end soon, he says with certainty. And then we'll have our dignity back.
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And that was Andrew Harding, who's back now at his base in Johannesburg. China's big spending beyond its borders has been one of the stories of recent times. The list of nations receiving heavy investment in return for the raw materials it needs lengthens almost daily. Chinese activities in Africa are well documented. A little less so is the country's spreading influence amongst its Asian neighbours. One of these is Laos. And Beijing has been pouring billions into this landlocked country. Once regarded as a sleepy backyard of Soviet influence. Chinese companies are now involved in almost all areas of its economy. But Conor Woodman has been finding out that their presence isn't always welcome.
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Place your bets. The croupier pings the bell to bring to an end the flurry of Chinese banknotes being flung onto the baccarat table. Everyone is backing one man in particular, who's been on a winning streak. The croupier deals two cards and then reveals what the man has to beat the nine of clubs. All attention turns back to the man, who turns over the other card and then slams it down onto the felt with a flourish. Jack of hearts. Everybody cheers. He is one. And so they have two. This casino is one of several in the town of Beautent, where guests are greeted with a deferential Ni hao hello in Mandarin Chinese. What is remarkable is that this casino is not in China, where gambling is strictly forbidden, but across the border in neighbouring Laos. Investors have leased the whole town and its surroundings from the laos government for 60 years. In BO10, the road signs are all in Chinese. Staff in the hotels speak MANDARIN. The town's main strip is a line of food stalls selling dumplings and fried duck, outside which young Chinese prostitutes parade up and down until all hours of the night. I meet Robert, a security guard who works in the casino, having a crafty cigarette break outside. This used to be just a crappy Lao village. Robert tells me they gave each of the villagers around 800American dollars and told them to get out of here. Since then, it's basically a Chinese town. And Chinese investments in northern Laos go a lot further than Boten's casinos. Several Chinese rubber companies have begun to build offices in nearby Luangnam Thar, just over the border. China's Yunnan Province is a booming centre of the global rubber processing industry, producing rubber for everything from car tyres to condoms. But with no room left to plant more trees there, Chinese companies are having to look further afield. The Lao government believe they have spotted an opportunity gambling that Chinese rubber money could open a fast track to development in the region. They've offered generous incentives in the form of tax breaks and land concessions. Ban Chag Ni is a Lao village in one of those concessions. I arrive in the village in the middle of a particularly torrential downpour, and a thin young man with a long drawn face called Borsai invites me in to shelter from the rain. While his chickens cluck loudly in the backyard, Borsai squats on the floor and pours us both a glass of whisky. Four years ago, he says, sliding the glass towards me, the military came and told us the government had sold our land. Anyone who tried to grow rice there again would be arrested. The army offered poor compensation. They paid me 15 pence for every day's work I had done, he says. Nothing for the rice, let alone for the land. The Lao government argues that the strategy of trading villagers land in exchange for jobs is necessary to benefit the country as a whole. But Borsai says only the politicians and the generals profit through backhanders and corruption. We prefer the old way of life, says Borsai. Yes, we can make money if we work for the Chinese, but our expenses are higher. We should spend money on rice, but instead we spend it on phone cards and alcohol. Heaven help him. When the casinos and prostitutes arrive, it isn't only Chinese companies that can grow rubber in laos. There's evidence 50 miles down the road where Han Yuang boldly tells me that he was in fact the first man in Laos to plant rubber 14 years ago. Han is now in his 60s. He learnt the skills needed to grow rubber during the time when he was exiled in China after the Vietnam War. Now, back in Laos, he and his sons farm 50 acres of rubber that will produce a very good income this year. He shared his knowledge freely, so that now every family in the village is benefiting from rubber. We're not rich here, says Han as he smiles with his two remaining teeth. Let's just say we have enough. But Han is not happy with everything that he sees. I worry about all the Chinese companies coming into Laos, he says. How will they find enough people to work all those trees? A rubber Plantation requires three or four people per acre to maintain it. Once in full production, add up all the land ceded to Chinese companies already, and that means over 1 million people are going to be needed. Are they planning to bring a million Chinese here to Laos? Asks Han. What will that do to our culture?
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And that's Conor Woodman. Earlier this month, Russia celebrated victory day, marking 66 years since what was then the Soviet Union triumphed over Nazi Germany. As usual, tanks rolled across Red Square in celebration, and families and friends gathered across the country to raise a glass. It was an event marked, too, in Algeria, by a handful of Russian women still fiercely loyal to their country, although most haven't lived there for more than 40 years. Back then, this North African country had a thriving Russian community. Many Algerian men had been to train as doctors, pilots and engineers in the Soviet Union. Some returned home with Russian wives. Today, these women have children and grandchildren. But as Chloe Arnold has been finding out, their Russian roots are gradually being lost.
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In an old French colonial building, in the shade of the palm trees, a huge table's been laid with traditional Russian food. There are pirozhki and palmienni. There's black bread with cheese and a huge bowl of aubergine caviar. As the sound of the muezzin calling his flock to prayer drifts across from the local mosque, 50 or so women sit down to eat. They wear their best clothes, and many have pinned medals won by their fathers and grandfathers in two world wars to to their lapels, the colorful lines of ribbons fluttering in the breeze. After the meal, they sing old war songs and linger over cups of tea, sharing jokes and reminiscing about times gone by until dusk begins to fall. This is the association of Russian women in Algeria. They've met every week since the 1960s, when thousands of them came to Algeria with the husbands they'd met studying in the Soviet Union. Missing home, the women got together, setting up Russian schools and clubs, trying to keep the Russian language and culture going in a place far from home. Natalia Skorinka has lived in Algiers for 47 years. Tall and full of energy, she's been a teacher all her life. I met her when I moved to Algeria from Moscow two years ago and was keen to keep my children's Russian going. As a Russian graduate myself, who lived in the former Soviet Union on and off for 15 years, I too found myself yearning for some things Russian. In my new home, over sweet black tea and Russian patisserie one day, Natalia told me her story. She met Hamid el Berkenou in 1963, it was the height of the Cold War, and like thousands of other students from non aligned nations, he'd been offered a grant to study in the Soviet Union. He'd chosen the Aviation Institute in Ulyanovsk, Natalia's hometown. Of course we loved our country, but we were never allowed to leave it, she remembers. We were desperate to talk to foreigners about life outside the ussr. Natalia and Hamid met after lectures to stroll along Ulyanovsk's leafy streets, eating ice cream as Hamid told her about North Africa. They fell in love, and within months he proposed. But though friendships with foreign students were encouraged under the Soviet regime, marriage was not. I was told I was a traitor, natalia says, tears welling in her eyes. The authorities told my parents to end our relationship. I lost my job. My family were happy for me. They loved Hamid. But when I told them I was moving to Algeria, I broke my mother's heart. It was a miserable departure. The authorities confiscated all her documents and told her she could never return. But arriving in Algiers, her spirits lifted. Hamid was at the airport with all his family, smiling and full of pride, she says. A band was playing, and there was a warm, salty breeze blowing in from the Mediterranean. It all felt so exotic, so wonderful. I knew I'd done the right thing. Soon, Natalia began working at the Aeroflot office in Algiers, her Russian, French and English making her an ideal sales assistant. But within weeks, Moscow had had her sacked because she was considered a traitor to her country. Undeterred, she got a job teaching Russian at Elise. In the meantime, she'd had two sons and was bringing them up to speak Russian along with French and Arabic. But relations between women like Natalia and the Soviet authorities would remain strained right up until its demise in the early 1990et. It was partly this rejection that drove us Russian women here in Algeria together, natalia says. They didn't like us, though we've always been great patriots. We still celebrate all the Soviet holidays today. Of course, their motherland, the Soviet Union, no longer exists. Home these days really is a long way away. Back at the Victory Day party, the women are clearing up and starting to drift home. Twenty years ago, there would have been hundreds of guests. But these days, there aren't many Russian women left in Algeria. With the collapse of the Soviet Union, the study program for Algerians came to an end. At almost the same time, a brutal civil war broke out in Algeria, and many of the Russian women fled the country with their families. Those that remain have tried to hold on to their Russian identity, but their children and grandchildren who've lived all their lives in Algeria and have lost many of their Russian roots. One of Natalia's sons now lives in France the other is married to a Finnish woman. Of course, I still feel Russian myself, and my sons feel Russian and Algerian, but my grandchildren don't really speak the language, she says sadly. Do they feel at all Russian? Well, who can say?
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Chloe Arnold in Algiers Now One place where the weather always provides something to talk about is the Faroe Islands. Perched up there in the North Atlantic, halfway between northwest Scotland and Iceland, these craggy, windswept outcrops are a semi autonomous part of Denmark. About 50,000 people live there. Mostly they make their living from fishing and sheep farming. The Pharaohs are notorious for their weather. The maritime climate brings highly changeable conditions at any time of year, as Tim Ecot's been learning.
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Somewhere over the North Atlantic, the pilot announced that it was too foggy to land in the Faroese. The cabin crew smiled sympathetically and served more tea and coffee. 90 minutes later we landed not in the Pharaohs but in eastern Iceland, where we spent the night. Over dinner, our pilot, captain Kurt Fosseberg, talked to me about the challenges of flying with Atlantic Airways, the Faroese national airline. Landing at our airport can be tricky. Fog is common, high winds are common, and there's turbulence to deal with because we have some big hills close to the Runway, too. The next day we did reach The Pharaohs, over 24 hours after leaving London. By now, the passengers had forged friendships, exchanging email addresses and phone numbers and talking about their reasons for making the journey. None of the pharoeese passengers had complained about the delays, even though, as I now knew, several were on their way home for important family gatherings and business meetings. The weather didn't stop me visiting the place I'd most wanted to see, the rugged island of Mychines. This sliver of bright green turf is the westernmost of the 18 islands that make up the archipelago. Several of the larger islands have now been joined together by undersea tunnels built at great expense to allow the islanders to travel more easily. But Mycenes is accessible only by boat in summer. In the winter, the only option is by helicopter. A monument to drowned sailors from Mychiness stands on a promontory above the sea. On the landward side of the carved stone is another list of names, local men who've fallen to their deaths from the cliffs while hunting birds or herding sheep in winter. Only 11 people live on the island, including two children whose teacher commutes weekly from the mainland by helicopter. The hamlet is tucked into a valley sheltered by the steep slopes of the surrounding cliffs. Insulated with roofs covered in living grass, the small wooden houses seem to hide behind one another against the prevailing westerly gales. Walking along the narrow spine of the island, with the churning North Atlantic 400ft below me, I watched three shepherds herding shaggy sheep into a pen. Apart from their dogs and sticks, they carried coils of rope around their shoulders s bairn. The youngest of the three explained that the rope was for climbing down the cliffs to fetch any sheep that had strayed too far from pasture. On some islands, sheep are taken by boat to improbably steep grassy patches on the sides of the cliffs. With no escape short of jumping into the sea, they are left there to graze for the summer. Pharaoh's sheep are hardy like their owners. The shepherd also pointed out some wooden stakes buried in the ground along the edge of the cliffs. Men tie ropes to the stakes and abseil down the cliffs to collect gannets, fulmars, kittiwakes, and in summertime, the puffins, which the islanders also traditionally eat. It seemed an impossibly hazardous way to obtain food, but it's a tradition that still continues. One day, sailing out to the island of Nolsoi, a few miles offshore from the capital, Thorshaven, I watched plump breasted Fulmars flying alongside. They follow the fishing boats, joel, one of the crewmen, explained. So close you can just reach out and grab them. They're delicious. But I won't be catching any this summer, he lamented, because when you grab them, they have a tendency to vomit, and they carry bacteria, which are dangerous for pregnant women. And my girlfriend is expecting a baby. It's the kind of thing people in Faroes need to know. On the island of Varga, there's a small museum dedicated to the British occupation of the islands during the Second World War. On display, I spotted a book written by one of the British soldiers in 1943. It was entitled Cancer, the Land of maybe, which it seems was a nickname for the Faroe Islands. Back at the airport, I told Magni Aga, the chief executive of Atlantic Airways, about the museum exhibit. Cancer means more than maybe, he explained. It's really a state of mind, part of our Pharoees character. Perhaps it's why our passengers and crew take it in their stride when we make a diversion. The Pharoees seem to have struck a balance between living in the modern world and respecting their ancient and isolated island past. It's great to be working in London one of the passengers told me while we were stranded in Iceland. But when I have children, I'll go home. They need to grow up with the sea always in view and with the wind in their hair.
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And with that advice from the Faroe Islands and Tim Ecot, we've reached the end of another edition. Two programmes next week on Thursday and Saturday. I do hope you'll join us. Goodbye.