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From Our Own Correspondent
Return of the Gendarme of Africa
00:28:02
Correspondents' news and views from around the globe: Hugh Schofield is in Paris as on...
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Hello from the. From our own correspondence studios at Broadcasting
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House in London, you've downloaded the latest
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edition of the programme broadcast on BBC Radio 4. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today, the French troops doing battle with rebels in Mali. Has France once again become the gendarme of Africa? It's a month since Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez has been seen in public. His people are now speculating about life without him. From Sweden, we hear about the souls of trees and the unique smell of reindeer. And then there's the roller skating holy man who impressed the ladies. In 19th century New England, French troops have been engaged in a ground battle against Islamist militants in Mali. Armoured French columns have been massing outside the town of Diabole. Meanwhile, Nigerian soldiers who will be part of a joint West African force against the militants, are expected to arrive in the West African country later. Later this week, President Francois Hollande says France will pull its forces out once Mali has returned to being stable and safe. Hugh Schofield in Paris says it all goes to show history is full of ironies.
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For as long as I've been covering French news, which is more than 20 years now, there's been a constant refrain that it's time to move away from the old idea of what they call here La France Afrique. La France Afrique was the network of interests that France left behind in Africa when it pulled out as a colonial power. At its best, it was a benign attempt to extend the benefits of trade and development and keep French speaking Africa part of France's cultural sphere. At its worst, it was a rotten system that served established interests in France as well as in African states, with at its heart a devil's bargain. You stay tame and send us your minerals and when we need it, under the counter cash and in return, from time to time, we'll send in French troops to save your presidential mightiness from the mob. As I said, for the last 20 years it's been the cry of every government that this system was immoral and outdated and had to come to an end. Jacques Chirac was a dyed in the wool Gaullist and La France Afrique was, in its essence a Gaullist enterprise. But even Chirac paid lip service to the notion that times had changed. President Sarkozy, a would be iconoclast, went further and explicitly set out to rewrite the contract. He scaled back French troop contingents in Africa and in a famous speech gave deep and the continent when he basically said it was time Africans started doing things for themselves. Sarkozy being Sarkozy the message came out all wrong and tactless, but the direction of his thought was sound that the old cosy contacts with France were holding Africa back. And now we have Francois Hollande, who as a good socialist has drunk deeply of the anti colonialist potion and genuinely feels embarrassed about much of France's past involvement on the continent. Why only a couple of weeks ago he was in Algeria and and actually got applauded by the Algerian parliament for coming as close as any French leader ever has to saying sorry for taking the place over in 1830. So yes, now we have a socialist leader. A man who's promised to keep downsizing the military commitment in Africa. A man who's made it a point of honor that France will not anymore be regarded as the gendarme of Africa as it was for so many years. And what is he doing, this harbinger of change, this paragon of post colonial international egalite? Well, what he's been doing this week is sending soldiers back in to Africa. To do what? To help a not especially democratic regime in Mali single handedly. Because yes, allies from West Africa are going to help, but let's be honest, they're not there yet. And even when they are, who knows if they'll be any good single handedly taking on an Islamist rebel army in territories once occupied by romantic white capied officers from the Foreign Legion operating out of Beau Geste mud brick fortresses. And I'm afraid, though he'll hate to admit it very much, being once again the policeman, or why not, the gendarme of this benighted, impoverished corner of the world. And the kicker of the tale is throughout the momentous events of the last few days, with France in effect walking back into its former backyard, the one it gave back to its rightful owners 50 years ago. Remember, no one, or barely anyone has said, don't do it. No one has said, this is neo colonialism in the garb of the politically acceptable. No one has said, you French, any excuse and you're back in your old haunts protecting your special friends. As far as I can see, just about everyone is behind the French on this one. The Americans, the Europeans, the Africans, even the Algerians. Of course none of them is actually doing very much with the honourable exception of the UK and its C17 transport plane that broke down on day one. But they're all cheering from the sidelines and broadly saying, thank goodness one of us still has forces pre positioned in Africa and a good knowledge of the terrain and the experience and the backbone to put one in the eye for Acme, Mujow, Ansaruddin and the rest of the Sahel's Islamo narco terrorists. All of which simply goes to show that history is full of ironies. Where a few years ago the very notion of France sending in troops to fight a war in a former colony would have provoked howls of contempt, not least from the French left. Today, with the rise of Islamism and the threat we all face, the rules have been rewritten for honorable reasons. Modern France wants to get away from la France Afrique. For honourable reasons. Modern France finds itself going back in. The world has changed.
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And that's Hugh Scofield in Paris. The latest on the health of Venezuelan President Hugo Chavez suggests he's responding to cancer treatment in hospital in Cuba, but is still suffering from a serious lung infection. Mr. Chavez hasn't been seen in public for a month now, prompting speculation he's close to death. His inauguration, due to have been held in the capital Caracas last week, had to be postponed. Meanwhile, there's much speculation about who'll take control of the country if he's unable to return to presidential duties. Will Grant says some Venezuelans are determined the socialist revolution he inspired will survive even if he's not around.
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Caracas is unlike any other city in Latin America. It's hard to explain the chaotic, concrete mayhem that is the capital of this oil rich nation, hard to describe how its gridlocked traffic sits beneath an untouched, lush, green national park. It's difficult to portray its rampant inflation and nonsensical black market currency, or its constant, brutal urban violence, or the polarising effect of President Chavez above all else. For the past 14 years, Venezuela has been characterized by Hugo Chavez as we made our way through the airport. His was the first face I saw on arriving back on Venezuelan soil, just as it had been the last image I'd seen when I left my posting in Venezuela in December 2010. A huge poster of El Comandante overlooks the arrivals lounge, proclaiming that the revolution is moving forward. Yet something was different. The picture of Mr. Chavis was quite recent. The toothy grin was the same, the clenched left fist raised aloft. But now he looked bloated in the jowls and cheeks, a consequence perhaps of the repeated rounds of chemotherapy he's been through in Cuba. Suddenly it struck me as we drove up into Caracas from the coast. This would be the first time I'd experience Venezuela without Hugo Chavez. I first arrived in 2007 to help cover the controversial switch off of an opposition television channel. I ended up staying for 26 months and developing the kind of love hate relationship you can only experience in cities and countries which truly take you somewhere new. Caracas and Venezuela had certainly done that. Chavez had been the constant during that time. The omnipotent power at the top of the Bolivarian Revolution, deciding its direction, shaping its future, controlling its destiny. Famed for his hours long speeches, he could whip up the faithful into a fervor, offering hope to his supporters while enraging his opponents. Whatever you thought of Mr. Chavez, you simply couldn't ignore him. And now, suddenly, he wasn't here. I'd been in Cuba when he arrived for the operation from which he's still recovering. That was two weeks before Christmas and he hasn't been publicly seen or heard from since. This is a man who loves the limelight, and there's no way he'd miss his inauguration unless he was simply too ill to attend. It seems his formidable stamina is being tested to its limits by the cancer. But we don't know for sure how poorly he is, nor even what kind of cancer he's suffering from. The Cuban medical team treating him is well versed in keeping its patients health a state secret. Mr. Chavez has worked for 14 years without a break, his supporters say. And one of them, Leni Beatrice, has been trying to rationalise his absence. I'm imagining that he's on holiday, taking off all that time that he's owed, she said as she took us around the streets of her staunchly pro Chavez neighbourhood called San Agustin. We'll be here supporting him and waiting for him to get better. We, the Chavistas, the revolutionaries, are more united now than ever. But he isn't on holiday. He hadn't sent a message of support from Havana, nor thanks to his concerned followers back home. And no one who spoke on the day of his inauguration dared to venture when he'd be coming back to Caracas, or if he was coming back, nor whether he'd be able to return to work, even if he did walk back through the doors of the Presidential palace, Miraflores, the uncertainty is unsettling for both his friends and his foes. Neither side has a handle on what will happen next, and the opposition are lost at sea over how best to tackle this unprecedented situation. But Chavez's followers remain committed. I met Javier Garcia, who says he will vote for Chavez for as long as he lives. And should Mr. Chavez go first, Javier will vote for his successor. Little wonder when you consider how his life has changed since the socialist leader took office. Once a drug addict living on the Streets of a shanty town. He got clean through a state run social programme, now has a government job and a shiny new apartment, all courtesy of the Bolivarian Revolution. His cropped hair and broken front tooth are all that remain of the thug life behind him. Javier began to weep when I asked him about life without Hugo Chavez. The revolution has to be like this building, he said, wiping away the tears with his sleeve. Earthquake proof. This is a strong tremor, but it won't fall down.
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Will Grant in Caracas. The far north of Scandinavia is known as the last wilderness in Europe. Its forests, mountains and lakes are home to the Sami people, reindeer herders who moved north as the last ice age melted. Until recent decades, they lived as nomads, fishing, fur trapping and herding their animals. But their traditional way of life been eroded by a variety of cultural and environmental threats. These include oil exploration, mining, logging, climate change and commercial development. But as Joe Fidgeon's been finding out in northern Sweden's Lapland, the Sami are still nomads, at least in their own minds.
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When you live in a tent in the wilderness, you make your own entertainment. A rope was all Karin had to play with as a little girl. The memory makes her giggle. We would try to lasso each other or catch trees or reindeer horns at night. There were stories. They'd lay twigs and reindeer furs on top of the snow inside the tent and curl up round the fire. The adults would tell old tales about bears and ghosts and children heard crying in the woods. Karin seems to glow. I love the smell of wood smoke, she says. There's a special connection around that fire that you don't find anywhere else. The family was rootless, always on the move. In summer, the herd would lead them to Norway. In the winter, back to Sweden. Karin has one baby sister buried in each country. On occasion, the men would slaughter a reindeer and the women and girls would prepare the skins. They'd put them in the icy rivers and check them every day for a week or two until the hair had fallen out. Then Karin's mother sewed them into clothes. Nothing keeps out the cold and the wet like reindeer skin. It was colder back then, says Karin. It could be minus 30 for weeks at a stretch. It was a mild minus 10, the week I spent with Asami. On the first day, my equipment froze and I was shivering so hard I couldn't hold the microphone straight. On the second day, I put on all the clothes I'd brought with me and waddled into a corral where Hurdas had rounded up a couple of Thousand reindeer who' summered in the Norwegian mountains. The furze and birch trees had put on their white winter coats and the lakes were freezing over. So the time had come to head south to where the reindeer could still sniff out lichen under the snow. But first they had to be divided up into family groups. The herders stood very still in their royal blue costumes, in a gray swirl of mist and galloping reindeer. When they identified one of their own animals from the tiny cuts in their ears, they would casually lasso it as if it were child's play and haul it in by the antlers as it shook and bucked. To avoid the stampede, I lumbered over to a tree. There I found a short, round cheeked woman with a no nonsense fringe thrusting out of her beanie. She was beaming. Her name was Irene and she'd grown up with reindeer but couldn't become a herder herself because in her family that was a man's job. But I always come to the corral for this, she told me. I have to breathe the same air as the reindeer. It fills me. Outside the gate of the corral, a scarlet patch in the snow pulled me up short. In this monochrome landscape, the colour was shocking. A few meters away lay the carcass meat and skin and bone, the Sami survival kit for more than a thousand years. A little more than a century ago, a massive deposit of iron ore was discovered under a mountain and everything changed. Until then, Southerners had been interested only in imposing taxes and Christianity. The Sami were told in no uncertain terms that, contrary to their beliefs, the trees did not have souls and their music was an incitement to the devil. They were considered backward and referred to pejoratively as laps, thought to mean the people who wear rags, but now dirt poor. Sweden as it was then, had riches underground. A mining company built a town, roads and a railway. And with commerce came civilization. Nomadic children were brought into the Swedish education system. Karin still cries when she thinks of her time in boarding school. Her teachers spoke only Swedish, a foreign tongue. We couldn't take care of our language, she tells me. I never learned to write it. She uprooted, spent 20 years in Stockholm, then succumbed to homesickness and came back. Reindeer skin has a unique smell, she explains. It draws me to it. She set up a business fashioning clothes in Sami style. On the table is a pair of trousers she's made for her son who stayed in the capital and works in information technology. The top third is leather, the legs fur and the cuff Sami blue. She strokes the skin as she tells me how handsome her son looks when he wears them. You have to know how to wear the costume. It changes you. She straightens her back, thrusts out her chin. You're proud of your culture and you look proud. There's a blue shine to the snow this arctic afternoon. A column of smoke rises from the mine. One day the iron ore will run out and the wilderness will take back this land. But as long as the reindeer stay, the Sami will too, and the trees will grow back their souls.
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Joe Figion in northern Sweden. Now, who was it who exported the Indian practices of yoga and meditation to the wider world? One of those who sparked the fascination for Eastern spirituality was the 19th century Hindu monk, Swami Vivekananda. The 150th anniversary of his birth is currently being celebrated in India, where he's something of a national hero. His ideas are said to have inspired Gandhi and the movement for Indian independence. Even today, Vivekananda is the must, must have accessory for ambitious Indian politicians. The chief Minister of Gujarat had a life size cardboard cutout of the Wandering Monk at his election rallies. Here in the West, Vivekananda is largely forgotten, but one of our correspondents, Emily Buchanan, has been looking into her family's links with him in the United States.
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The crunch of car tyres on gravel, the heavy smell of an imminent thunderstorm, swaying elm trees, random childhood memories of my grandmother's house, Ridgely in upstate New York. I also dimly remember casual references to a swami. That was Swami's sofa, the end room. That's where the swami used to sleep. I'd collect fallen branches from a huge fir tree for the Alsatian dog to chew. It was known as Prophet Swami's Pine. Then there were those fading sepia photographs of Victorian ladies in hats and long dresses standing next to a striking young Indian with a turban and large expressive eyes. None of it meant much to me back then in the 1970s. It's only recently I've realized that this swami was in fact one of India's most influential spiritual teachers, the first to package Eastern philosophy for the West. My family had invited him to stay in this house and helped him publicize his work. Swami Vivekananda was a Bengali intellectual and chief disciple of the Hindu mystic Ramakrishna. His talent was in distilling complex ancient texts down to a simple message that all religions are equal and God is inside everyone. He first shot to stardom at the World Parliament of Religions in Chicago. He called for tolerance and the end of religious fanaticism. By a strange coincidence, the date was 9 11, 1893. After his first words, sisters and brothers of America, there was a standing ovation. Women fell over each other to get a closer look at this handsome Hindu monk with ochre robes and turban, who spoke flawless English in a deep, authoritative voice. He became hugely in demand. People flocked to his lectures, to those used to the Judeo Christian view of an external God. His ideas on yoga and meditation were exciting and new. In between long lecture tours round America, Vivekananda used to rest at Ridgely, then owned by my great grandparents. A hundred years later, the house has passed to the followers of his Vedanta teaching. When I went back there, I was surprised to find it had changed remarkably little. Except the home, in which I used to romp around and throw beanbags, is now treated as a holy place of pilgrimage, where devotees tiptoe in respect. Volunteers dig the vegetable patch and mend the crumbling pipes, working to preserve the beautiful old clapboard house. To them, it isn't just a property, but a shrine to a holy man. A steady stream of quiet, thoughtful people arrive for lectures on the Veda and chanting sessions. It's all very understated and peaceful, a slice of India being nurtured in the heart of New England. One Indian couple from New Jersey said they came to feel Vivekananda's presence, perhaps hoping a residue of the great man's holiness would rub off. They even touched me on the arm, as if being a descendant of the family who helped him somehow made me special too. In charge of the retreat centre is a dynamic California nun from the Ramakrishna order called Pravrajika Gita Prana. She showed me around. His bed's been shipped to India, but this room is where he slept, this dining room is where he ate, she told me as we wandered through the house. It was a place he could just be himself. He used to roller skate down the corridor and he loved ice cream. She pointed at the prophet's pine that grew from a seedling taken from a tree in Maine. She said Swami Vivekananda used to hold his torques under it. The tiny sapling was planted by your great great aunt Josephine MacLeod. JoJo, as Vivekananda called her, had become one of his lifelong friends and supporters. She went as far as embarking on her own 19th century hippie trail, travelling with him and other disciples to India. I noticed a photograph of her with the swami in a remote part of Kashmir. It was almost unheard of in those days for white ladies and Indians to travel together. Many thousands have since followed her to seek spiritual enlightenment in India. Hundreds of gurus and swamis, some holier than others, have lured them there. But to Josephine, her penniless wandering monk was incorruptible. A true mystic in India today, Vivekananda is revered as a saint. In the west, he's virtually unknown. But then Geeta Prana told me he wouldn't have minded. He didn't want to be worshipped slavishly or remembered for all eternity. He just wanted people to discover the prophet, Buddha or Christ inside themselves.
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And that's Emily Buchanan. Now, it doesn't take much of an Internet search to discover that the world is full of crazy museums. The United States has many of them. There's a Burger museum. That's a surprise. A shoe museum, and others dedicated to subjects varying from hair to nuts. There's one, needless to say, devoted to the lavatory. Now, the Lithuanian capital, Vilnius, has much to see. When the weather's fine, there are national parks to enjoy, rivers, mountains and spectacular shorelines. At this time of year, though, with temperatures below zero, the visitor might prefer to concentrate on indoor attractions. Which is why our James Luckhurst found himself chilling at the Lithuania Road Museum.
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It's very cold in Vilnius. I've just finished an interview at the Ministry of Transport. I button up my coat and head back to meet the police officer who's kindly acting as my driver. I stamp my feet on the icy pavement to encourage circulation and curse the smart city shoes I arrived in. I wish I had paid a little more attention to the weather forecast. We have a few hours before my next meeting with the chief of traffic police, so Rutis, the police officer, suggests a visit to a roadside checkpoint. I make a feeble excuse about the cold, and so our plans change. We will now call in at a local museum, and it turns out to be the most bizarre museum I've ever visited. The curator is a Mr. Stepan Kawikius, a retired road engineer. He opened the place in 1995 as a joyful celebration of roads and road building and specifically to mark the 25th anniversary of the opening of the motorway between vilnius and Kaunas. Mr. Stepanjevicius is immediately concerned at helping me thaw out. He insists, through the translation skills of his assistant, that we will have refreshments before the guided tour begins. And if I'm lucky, he might find some more appropriate footwear for me to try. He disappears, returning a few moments later with an enormous vodka bottle that's about half full of a cloudy, sinister looking liquid Homemade apple brandy. This is an awkward situation, the sort you read about without ever expecting to be actually in it, even if it might help thaw my feet. I really don't want the brandy, but I don't want to offend. My health is toasted, so I bring the glass to my lips, suppressing the urge to choke as I catch a sniff of the fumes. There's just no way I'll manage to swallow a whole glass of the stuff. Come on, I say. Show me the museum and perhaps we'll have a drink afterwards. Mr. Stepan Gavicius grins, finishes his brandy, then downs my shot as well, before taking me on the tour. The first room is full of stuffed animals. I'm told they've all been removed from the motorway at some time or other. I spot foxes, lynx, wolves, rabbits, and a large carp. How did that find its way onto the road? I ask. I didn't see any signs warning drivers of fish on the carriageway. No, apparently the carp came from a lake that was drained when they built the road. Mr. Stepankovikius leads me through room after room, pointing out reconstructions of Roman road building tools, intricate wooden models of Lithuanian road intersections, and every little boy's idea of heaven. Halls full of diggers, snow ploughers, bulldozers, suction, excavators, graders, shovelers, vibratory compactors, trenchers and soil stabilisers. You name it, he's got it. What's special about this? He asks me through his interpreter, pointing to what appears to be a road leveller. I don't know, I reply. There's no engine, is there? He points out. I get the impression that the translator chose to leave out the words, you nincompoop, from the explanation. Moments later he stands between two asphalt pavers, one American, the other Soviet. Which one do you think is better? Again, I don't know. Without speaking, he moves on to a giant rotor snowplow. How far do you think this can blow snow? Five, maybe 10 metres, I reply hesitantly. Thirty, he snaps, making for a shiny red tracked grinder at the end of the hall. What's the most important invention known to man? He asks. This time I think I know. The wheel, I say. Close, he replies. It's second to alcohol, but yes, it is important. So why doesn't this machine have wheels? Rutis, the policeman, politely points to his watch and we quicken our pace into the last hall. I sit in the back of a big black Volga limousine that was used by the kgb. Then I admire a beautifully renovated little Moskvich car. I think they were banned in the UK for safety reasons, Mr. S beams. I promised you some new shoes, he says. So these are Cempes. Try them. Apparently the clog like cempes were the preferred footwear of the ancient stone crushers, worn to protect feet from falling rock while they were busy making the roads. As I shake his hand and prepare to jump into Ruitus car for the journey back to Vilnius, he tells me he would like to visit the UK one day and to spend some time looking at our road museum. If he comes then I will be ready with a good many probing questions that will surely test his knowledge of road engineering. I can't promise him much in the way of apple brandy though.
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James Luckhurst now both warmed and informed about Lithuanian transport affairs and bringing this edition to the End of the road. I'll be here on Saturday morning with more from correspondents near and far. Do join us. Goodbye.