← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Nov 4, 2010
00:28:04
An undercover exploration of the glittering new capital city built by Burma's generals...
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Hi there.
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You've downloaded the BBC Radio programme from our own correspondent.
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We make two versions and if you'd
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like to hear our World Service programme,
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you'll find it on the BBC iplayer. This, though, is the edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4.
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It's presented by Kate Ady.
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Today, three princesses prepare to do battle with the generals as Burma holds its first general election in 20 years. We join some of the 6 million Chinese workers who have 10 days to find out all about their fellow citizens, learn why the death of a former president has left Argentina shrouded in uncertainty. And in the forests of the Czech Republic, we discover a whole new ball game. It leaves our correspondent a little stunned. Burma holds its first general election in two decades this weekend, but many observers are already denouncing it as a sham. The last poll, in 1990, was won by the pro democracy leader Aung San Suu Kyi, but the country's military rulers never allowed her to take power. She spent much of the past 20 years in jail or under house arrest. Sue Lloyd Roberts says that while few expect the vote to be judged free or fair, some believe that, however flawed, it could be the start of a process of much needed change.
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To be sent to cover the Burmese elections as an undercover reporter can be challenging. You can't exactly get your camera out and start filming an election rally if you're caught working as a journalist illegally in Burma, they arrest you, strip search you for any hidden material and deport you. An experience I have already had there and would not relish going through again. Which might explain why, on one of my first afternoons in the former capital Rangoon, I found myself taking afternoon tea in the safety of an elegant drawing room in the presence of three ladies in their 60s or contemporaries of Aung San Suu Kyi, the country's iconic democracy leader who remains under house arrest. The ladies are all standing as candidates for the Democratic Party. Like Aung San SUU Kyi, the daughter of the man celebrated for winning Burma's independence from the British in 1948. They are blue blooded. Their fathers all served as prime ministers during the country's brief 14 years of democracy before the military took over in 1962. Aung San Suu Kyi has called for people to boycott these elections because she claims they'll achieve nothing. However people vote, the constitution guarantees that the military remain in charge. So how can the ladies betray their old friend? Oh, I'm sure she understands why I'm standing, says Chu Chu Kuanen, with the certainty of one who might have pulled the pigtail of the Nobel laureate when they were at school together over a half century ago. The youngest of the three ladies, Neye Ba Sui, who looks uncannily like Aung San SUU Kyi, goes on to explain that the elections are at least a step towards parliamentary democracy. If people like us don't participate, she says, then the generals and their cronies will just stay in power for another 100 years. As we chat about the rigours of campaigning while sipping tea in white porcelain cups and nibble on cakes from Mandalay with golden forks, you could be forgiven for thinking that these three princesses, which is what people call them here in Rangoon, are simply playing at politics. That would be far from the truth. All of these elegant women, dressed in the close fitting embroidered shirts and long skirts, beloved of their generation, have been imprisoned for their pro democracy activities. Choo Choo for five years, Neye for three. If the ladies win, then they'll have to forego their comfortable homes and make their way to the new parliament building in the country's new capital, Naypyidaw. No one knows why the government of one of the poorest countries in the world spent billions of dollars in building a new capital. On a malarial plane in the middle of nowhere. Choo Choo claims it's because they're afraid of their own people. The capital is a hideaway for guilty generals, she told me. It is an astonishing sight. My producer and I arrived at night and in a country starved of electricity. The illuminated giant golden pagoda, eight lane highways and government buildings light up the sky. The new city is built in zones one for government ministries, one for the General's palaces and one for hotels. We approached a hotel with caution, but were greeted with delight and enthusiasm. Staff in a hotel in a city which discourages visitors, get bored, and hotel guests were an unusual and welcome sight. We were shown to rooms luxurious in the extreme. After breakfast the next day, we asked Reception to organize a taxi so that we could look at their beautiful new city. A very smart driver turned up who, like most well educated Burmese, spoke a smattering of English. One of us sat in the front to engage his attention, while the other sat behind to take the pictures which are forbidden in Naypydor. Pictures of the new government buildings. What did you do before there was Naypy door? I asked. I was 30 years in the army. Our driver responded. We quickly hid the camera. Then he added, and you know how they thank me. My pension is so small that I have to work as a taxi driver and indicating the huge and expensively built buildings we were passing at the time. They've allocated all the land to themselves. When I applied for a plot to build a home, they told me there's none available. They've built a city and they forgot about the people. And so we got our pictures without difficulty of the huge new parliament building, designed in a style which can only be described as over ornate, Oriental, Gothic. If they win seats to the Parliament in the election this weekend, I don't think the three princesses will approve.
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Let's sue Lloyd Roberts. Now, where on earth would you start if you wanted to carry out a detailed census of China's enormous population? Well, the answer might employ 6 million people to do the work for you. And even then it won't be easy. There are 1.4 billion Chinese thereabouts and more than half of them share just nine family names, so it's going to be tough. But our man in Beijing, Damian Grammaticus, says the newly appointed census workers have only been given 10 days to complete the job.
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10 o' clock on Monday morning and a knock at Mr. Yuan's door. The 63 year old opened up. And so began the mammoth task of counting every single one of China's people. All across this vast country, from its western deserts to its high Himalayan mountains, from its subtropical south to the massive industrial cities lining its giant river deltas, teams of census workers are now knocking on every door, recording every individual. Mr. Yuan sat at his dining table, politely answering all the questions put to him. He was born in 1937, worked as a teacher, has one daughter and one grandchild. They all share the same apartment for just this one family. The census form took half an hour to complete. Also being recorded are people's levels of education, their sources of income, their ethnic background. But some questions are not being asked, like people's religion or how much they earn. Many in China have seen revolution, war, purges, crackdowns and labor camps. The census takers believe that if they delve too deeply, then Chinese people, suspicious of giving the state too much information about their private affairs, would refuse to cooperate. For China's government, the census is also part propaganda exercise. As foreign media we were only allowed to follow the census takers to Mr. Yuan's apartment and and one other. Both were in a clean new housing development in northwestern Beijing. Outside, children played in a schoolyard full of colorful new slides and swings. Inside Mr. Yuan's flat, 26 floors up, tropical fish swam lazily in a giant fish tank. A huge flat screen television stood in the living room Beijing stretched far into the distance. Mr. Yuan's family are clearly beneficiaries of China's economic boom. It's a boom that's being driven by China's massive pool of cheap workers. In the past two decades, perhaps 200 million migrant labourers have left the countryside, pouring into the cities, looking for work on construction sites in factories, offices and homes. Another 300 million will follow in the next two decades. The pace and scale of China's urbanization exceed those of any other society in human history. Keeping track of this vast movement of people is perhaps the most important part of the census. And it matters because migration is an extremely sensitive issue in China. The migrant workers don't have permanent residence rights in the cities. Their access to free health care and education is restricted unless they return to their villages. They are second class citizens in the vast urban sprawls they're building. But for the first time they're going to be counted where they work. So we'll get a clear picture of the way China is changing and it may spur the government to give China's workers greater freedoms to move and live where they like. On Beijing's western edge, we found teams of laborers welding the steel bars that will form the foundations of yet another block of flats. 35 year old Mr. Liu from Sichuan in the south, sweat dripping from his brow, said he was delighted. China needs to know how many people live in its cities, he said, adding we should be given official residence here. Without it, the police cause problems for us. Another group the government wants to count in the census is the extra children born in defiance of the one child policy. In his home in Beijing, David. He entertained us by playing piano duets with his 12 year old daughter Lu Ran. Playing on the floor with a toy police car was his 18 month old son, Yiran. Yiran doesn't officially exist. He has no legal papers in China, which means no right to attend a free state school or even to travel by plane. His mother, who worked for a state owned company, was sacked from her job for having a second child. The fine they'd have to pay to register him is £20,000. But there's a discount if the family come forward during the census. We can't afford the penalty, says his father, David, but I guess we will have to register him one day or he will have problems for the rest of his life. In a few days, the census takers will finish counting China. Then the stories of Mr. Yuan the homeowner, Mr. Liu, the labourer and the he family will combine to Give us a new picture of this nation, of the vast changes happening here, and the way they're shaping a billion separate lives.
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Damian Grammaticus. The Argentine president, Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, has resumed her official duties after the death from a heart attack last week of the country's former president, her husband, Nestor Kirchner. In a speech to the nation, she described the man who many thought would regain the presidency in elections next year as a fighting companion, a life companion. Daniel Schweimler in Buenos Aires tells us that even out of office, Nestor Kirchner exerted huge influence behind the scenes, and his death has left a vacuum in Argentine life.
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It's common small talk in Argentina. When somebody asks how you are to reply, everything's peaceful. Luckily, with an almost exaggerated tinge of relief in the voice. And perhaps that's not surprising when you consider that in recent years the country has suffered a brutal military dictatorship, a short war over the disputed Falkland Islands, and at least two major economic disasters. So maybe they are entitled to relish and be thankful for the last few years of relative stability and prosperity. But the sudden death last week of the former president, Nester Kirchner, has cast a pall of uncertainty over Argentina. Not only was he the former president, he was also the husband of the current president, Cristina Fernandez de Kirchner, and quite probably would have been the next president following elections scheduled for late next year. He was credited by many for helping to pull Argentina out of its last economic crisis at the end of 2001, when the country defaulted on its huge foreign debt. Thousands of people lost their savings, and a large part of the population was plunged below the poverty line. Mr. And Mrs. Kirchner operated as a team, and it was never clear just what degree of power and influence each of them wielded. Did the governing Peronist party and the mighty trade union movement support because he asked them to? How many of her key ministers were appointed on his recommendation? Her enemies and even some of her friends alleged that she was merely a convenient puppet placed in power to allow Nesta to circumvent electoral laws that limited his time in office. She is now under pressure to emerge from her husband's shadow and show that she is her own woman. Even out of office, he exerted a huge influence as head of the governing Peronist party and leader of the South American regional grouping unasaw. So those who loved him and those who loathed him, and there are plenty in both camps, are struggling to come to terms with life without Nestechner and are Wondering who or what will fill the void he's left in the country's political life. Rivals from his own party and from the opposition, trade union bosses and leaders of industry have been meeting, negotiating, maneuvering behind closed doors to assess just where the death leaves them and, and how they might benefit from it. So, paying my paper bill, picking up the vegetables, talking to friends, the only topic of conversation has been and continues to be where Argentina goes from here. Life, of course, must go on. And President Christina Kirch's period of mourning was a short one. She's already embroiled this week in the nitty gritty of political life. Meeting bankers, receiving the credentials of several new ambassadors to Buenos Aires, then flying off for a visit to the Far East. The last time the death of the President's spouse had this kind of impact in Argentina was in 1952, when the young and glamorous Evita Peron succumbed to cancer. Juan Domingo Peron was never quite the same afterwards and was ousted in a military coup three years later. His own death, after he returned to the presidency in 1974, also brought huge crowds onto the streets. Peron left in his charge his third wife, Isabelle, who wasn't up to the job. The country fell into chaos, from which emerged a brutal military dictatorship that tortured and killed tens of thousands of its own people. The memory of that nightmare is still fresh in the minds of many Argentines, although while those comparisons are made, it's also being pointed out that Argentina is today a very different country in a very different world. As with the deaths of Evita and Juan Peron, tens of thousands queued up in the streets to pay their last respects as Nester Kirchner's coffin lay in the Presidential palace, then crowded round his cortege as it inched its way to the city airport and then on to his final resting place, the modest cemetery in the town of Rio Gajegos, in the far south of the country where he grew up. Nestor Kirchner hardly ever gave interviews, but I saw him speak on a number of occasions. He didn't seem to care much about his appearance or his lack of charisma. He had a slight speech impediment, and with hindsight we now know that he paid little attention to his health. But he was passionate about his politics, an old fashioned politician in a world where many modern leaders seem to attach great importance to how they look. Christina Kirchner gave a tearful address to the nation, saying she was suffering the greatest pain of her life, but promising to honour her husband in what remains of her time in office. It was a short speech, disappointing for those who were expecting more. One magazine headline read, the end of the man who invented an era. Mrs. Kirchner, while still grieving, may build on that era. Or she may invent a whole new one of her own, so that Argentines can keep saying, everything's peaceful.
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Luckily, Daniel Schweimler the Indonesian province of Papua has long had a difficult relationship with the central government. It's at the eastern end of the vast Indonesian archipelago, closer to Australia than it is to the capital, Jakarta. For decades, a low level separatist insurgency has been bubbling there, and foreign journalists have only rarely been permitted to visit Papua. But our Rachel Harvey was recently allowed in on condition that she travelled with a government minder. People there, she says, are tense and worried about the future.
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Yousak Pake is a small man with big hair and even bigger ambitions. When he smiles, his wide mouth appears to take over his entire face. As we sat down under the shade of a palm tree to record a television interview, he insisted on taking his dreadlocks out of the hair tie that was struggling to hold them back. One shake of the magnificent mane and another big grin and he was ready. But when Jusak frowns, his whole being changes. His dark skin seems a shade darker, his full beard more noticeable as his heavy chin juts forward, he's transformed into the revolutionary political activist he says he is. I met Jusak at a Catholic seminary in the town of Abipura. The seminary sits on a hill surrounded by other hills, a vista of lush green rainforest leading down to the crystal blue waters of the Pacific Ocean. Papua is one of the most beautiful and resource rich places in Indonesia, but few Westerners get the chance to see it. The region was incorporated into Indonesia after a controversial vote by a thousand hand picked Papuans in 1962. Its status has been contested by local activists ever since. Officially called the act of Free Choice, the decision to join Indonesia is often disparagingly referred to by many local Papuans as the act of no Choice. A low level separatist insurgency fought by poorly armed rebels based in the remote highlands still rumbles on. USAC is a senior official with the West Papua Liberation Movement. He'd come to the seminary for a meeting called by local leaders to try to thrash out a coherent plan for Papua's future. The region was granted special autonomy status in 2001, giving locally elected Papuans a degree of control over their own affairs and a generous budget. It was widely seen as an attempt by the central government in Jakarta to stave off calls for full independence. But it doesn't seem to have worked. Implementation has been patchy. Autonomy has failed to deliver the empowerment and prosperity Papuans demand. Autonomy was forced upon us, usak told me, though some Papuans have benefited from it because of their positions. He added, his face distorting into a picture of distaste. Not everyone feels quite as strongly as Usak. He was imprisoned for taking part in a pro independence rally in 2004 and and only released in July. But the frustration, the sense of victimhood, is widely shared. Papuans don't look like other Indonesians. They're Melanesian rather than Asian. They have darker skins and heavier features. Papuans often complain of racism, and because of years of inward migration from other islands in the Indonesian archipelago, they're rapidly becoming a minority in their own land. Papua is also one of the most heavily militarized parts of Indonesia. There have been repeated claims of abuses committed by the police and soldiers. The government says such behaviour will not be tolerated in Indonesia, a young and developing democracy. But claims that abuses are continuing were given credence by the emergence of a video recently posted on the Internet, which apparently shows soldiers torturing suspected Papuan separatists. The government says the perpetrators will be brought to justice, but the graphic images have rekindled simmering anger and raised fears of possible unrest. On one drive back to the provincial capital, Jayapura, after a day's filming, I counted 15 army and police trucks traveling in the opposite direction. Our local Papuan fixer, John, sent me a text message on my mobile phone to make sure I'd noticed he didn't want to say anything out loud because of the government minder we'd been obliged to bring with us from Jakarta. Tio's presence on the trip was a non negotiable precondition. So we had a cameraman, producer, driver, local fixer, government minder and myself all squeezed into one large car. John, instinctively suspicious of Tio, would frequently send text messages to the producer and me, testing my very rusty Indonesian language skills. Meanwhile, Tio the minder was regularly sending messages back to his bosses in Jakarta. It was all a bit surreal. About a hundred people packed the church hall from all over Papua. Usak turned up late. He sat scowling through much of the discussion. The debate was long and passionate, but didn't seem to reach any conclusion about how or even whether to start a new dialogue with the authorities. Usak clearly thought it was all a bit pointless. Until Papua sits at the table as an equal, independent state, he said. There's no point in talking to Jakarta, but everybody knows the central government won't countenance any talk of separation, I replied. Usak smiled. It may take time, but we keep fighting, he said, before shaking my hand warmly and trudging back down the hill.
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Rachel Harvey In Indonesia, there may still be a year and a half to go, but even now there's little doubt the London Olympics will be one of the biggest sporting occasions the country's ever seen. Billions of people around the world will tune in to see the huge array of activities hotly contested by thousands of finely tuned athletes. But there are some sports you won't be seeing at the London Olympics. Mike Wendling's travelled to the Czech Republic to try his hand, or rather his foot, at one altogether less universal sport.
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What's the name of this sport? Again? Those words spoken by one of our teammates minutes before the first match did not exactly inspire confidence. For the record, the sport is called Naheball in English football, tennis. Two teams, three players each play over a low net, kicking or heading a football until it goes out or can't be returned. For 20 years, the village of Misling in rural Bohemia, about an hour south of Prague, has been holding a local tournament. And for 20 years local teams have been battling for bragging rights. But this time around, inspired by a half Czech friend about to get married, a group of us went on a somewhat unconventional stag or bachelor party, ready to challenge the Czechs at their own game. Our base was the groom's family home, perched on a hill in front of the lush forest behind the village. We arrived the day before the tournament began. Some training was in order. We made our way down the dusty path, past barking dogs to the village green, where the mayor and a few friendly tournament organizers helped string up the nets. You might think that Najibal would combine the strength and stamina of football with the speed and grace of tennis, and perhaps at its highest levels, it does. But our first attempts at the game were sputtering efforts. Much of the evening was spent determining the rules, trying to control headers and volleys, and fishing the ball out of the nearby river. Still, old skills were brushed off and basic strategy was discussed. Should we choose a 1:2 formation or a 2:1? With a sense of mildly nervous anticipation, we set off back into the woods in search of a local bar. Naheball was invented in the 1920s in the old Czechoslovakia. Apparently a Prague football squad started kicking a ball over a rope. History doesn't recount why they got bored with their original game. Unlike the English, who have exported games like football and cricket only to see other countries excel at them, the Czechs have not made a huge amount of headway in spreading their sport worldwide. There is a ruling body which includes a seemingly random collection of eight countries, including Macedonia, Argentina and Northern Cyprus. But I got the feeling that the real game is local and recreational, like five a side football in England, or like softball in America. The morning following our training session, as we prepared for group stage battle, a ripple went through our contingent as our hosts translated the rules, among them a fine of 200 Karunas, nearly seven pounds for booting the ball into the river. So now, not only might our performance prove embarrassing, it could cost us money. Still, we charged out onto the pitch. In the first match, the opposing team smashed through our defenses and. And a block shot smashed through my sunglasses. It was over in a matter of minutes, leaving us bruised and slightly stunned. Time for some refreshment. Greasy fried Kobasa sausages and cold Czech beer. At the bar, I started chatting to a local competitor. I saw your team playing out there, he said. I fished for a compliment, some encouragement, or any hint whatsoever that this Nahibal veteran might have seen some untapped talent out there on the pitch. How'd we do? I asked. Hmm, he replied. You lost. And mostly we kept on losing, although we did get better, and as a result, the tournament got slightly more fun. In fact, one of our two sides managed to win a game, sparing us a total whitewash. My own team showed brief, brilliant flashes of ability, but we were overcome by the deadly consistent local sides. One last point caromed off our ace striker's knee. I made a mad dash to prevent it from ending up in the river, diving at the last second, to no avail. As the sun went down over the pitches, we lined up a few more beers and a few more sausages, and a band started to play a few traditional Czech tunes. The day's feats were picked over, highlights were discussed, and the villagers were eager to chat. After several more drinks, our fine for kicking the ball into the river was forgiven, or perhaps forgotten. We promised to come back next year having practiced a bit more, and we consoled ourselves with the thought that, as the game isn't well known back in Britain, we were probably ranked near the Premier League of Najibal teams. Who knows? It might yet catch on. You might see groups of young men awkwardly kicking a ball in the tennis court, desperately trying to keep it away from a nearby stream.
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Mike Wendling there, a dab hand with the beer and sausages. Rather less effective with a sport called knuckleball. And that's it for now. Thanks for joining us. Goodbye.