← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
Seaside Disappointment
00:28:05
Jeremy Bowen in Beirut says the Middle East is certainly changing. But the dominoes as...
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- [00:00]
Kate Adie
You're listening to a download from the BBC. This is from our own correspondent. Introduced by Kate Ady today, how to
- [00:09]
Narrator/Presenter
swindle billions from the Nigerian government. A step by step guide from a man who knows how the fraudsters did it. We go aloft with an American eccentric patrolling the skies over the wide open spaces of Arizona's borderland. Politics, human rights, Jedward, aubergines on wheels. Tonight's Eurovision in Baku is not going to be dull, but disappointment there is at a seaside tasting of one of Italy's most celebrated delicacies. But first, the sight of all those smiles in the polling station queues in Egypt this week showed that some, at least, of the shoots planted in the Arab Spring last year have begun to flower. And there's been a degree of admittedly cautious optimism surrounding the talks in Baghdad about Iran's nuclear program. The region clearly would prefer that this particular argument doesn't explode into a dispute with far wider implications. But around the Middle east, there remain many concerns, not least about Syria. This morning. Activists there have been calling on the United nations to do more to protect civilians. They're saying about 90 people were killed by government forces in the town of Hula yesterday. And the effects of the violence are increasingly being felt in neighbouring Lebanon, from where Jeremy Bowen has sent us this assessment.
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Jeremy Bowen
In Beirut, the jacaranda trees are in blossom, their perfumed purple flowers swaying in the breeze off the Mediterranean. It should be a perfect time. They're having a long weekend to celebrate the 12th anniversary of Israel's withdrawal from the zone it occupied in the south. It's early summer and for secular Lebanese, that means the beach, the pool and the worship of the God of the suntan. My hotel used to be pleasantly scruffy, with an old fashioned oblong pool that was excellent for doing lengths. It's been renovated and now the pool's been turned into a place to pose with a swim in bar where you can wallow to check out whichever sex you find most interesting or do a watery dance to the music pumping out of the speakers. Surgeons and silicone, not nature, shaped some of the flesh on display. It's trendy and one of the places to go in a city where for some people with a bit of money, it's image matters more than almost anything else. For those who don't want to lose themselves in Beirut's hedonism or can't afford it, identity generally means a lot more than the show. Lebanon is a patchwork of 18 officially recognized sects, and this last week, the fault lines between Them have been flexing in a way that makes the Lebanese, with their history of civil war Fox feel deeply uncomfortable. Hanging out at the pool might help the fortunate few put it out of their minds. But not far away, people have died violently in sectarian incidents that bring back bad memories. It's 20 years since Beirut stopped being the Middle East's most war torn city. In many ways, it's a huge success story. But those difficult sectarian fault lines won't go away. And its next door to Syria, which is sinking fast into its own civil war. Lebanon and Syria have deep, complex connections, and it was always a matter of time before the tension and violence leaked over the border in this direction. The challenge now is for the leaders of Lebanon's jumpy communities to stop it getting worse. I've come to Beirut from Egypt, where they were having a proper presidential election, the kind where the voters don't know the outcome in advance. One evening this week in Cairo, I was in the gym on the running machine, watching the news on Al Arabiya, one of the Arabic satellite channels. It struck me as I puffed along that the message coming from the big screen had none of the optimism that would have been there last spring. The process of change, the emergence of a new Middle east, has turned out to be long and hard. A year ago, violence was already happening, but it was possible to hope that it was temporary. Libya's civil war is over, but Syria's killing now looks much more like part of the landscape. And the Lebanese are getting very nervous. The bulletin I was watching led with a suicide bombing in yemen that killed 96 soldiers. The pictures showed hundreds of uniformed men surging away from the site of the explosion, where scores of unmoving bodies were piled up together. I know that particular place in Sanaa, the Yemeni capital. It's a wide, straight parade ground that's used as part of a highway. Most of the time, the aggressive and ambitious local affiliate of Al Qaeda said they did it. They're the same people who've got worryingly close to blowing up airliners with bombs hidden in underwear. The attack in Sana', a, well away from Al Qaeda's strongholds in Yemen, is a heavy blow for the new government. And so the Arabia News went on. Families weeping over the shrouded bodies of dead children. Graphics framed by barbed wire. Not everything was unrelentingly terrible in Baghdad. Negotiations between Iran and the world's big powers about its nuclear program might eventually lead to a deal that takes some of the steam out of what could become a global crisis. And of course the Egyptians are having their presidential election. Not perfect democracy yet, but going in the right direction. It seems to have re energized Egyptians who are getting very pessimistic about the future. Their country still has huge problems, but they've had a reminder this week that it really was changed by the revolution. For a short time last year, it looked as if the drama in the Middle east might be over by the summer. The dominoes seemed to be tumbling like they did in Europe in 1989. Irreversible change is happening, but it's clear now that the road ahead is long and hard and it will be years, not months, before the Arabs and their neighbors get to the end of it.
- [06:06]
Narrator/Presenter
Jeremy Bowen in the Lebanese capital Beirut, Nigeria's justice minister has promised to get to the bottom of a fuel subsidy scandal which is said to have cost the government almost 5 billion pounds. A parliamentary report said that a subsidy program designed to keep petrol prices low had been sabotaged by massive corruption as well as gross mismanagement. It heavily criticised Nigeria's state oil company, nnpc, and called for it to be restructured. The scandal has been front page news in Nigeria, which as well as being Africa's most populous nation, is also one of the world's biggest oil producers. Will Ross, who's in Abuja, says many Nigerians are wondering whether those responsible for the fraud will ever be brought before the courts.
- [06:53]
Kate Adie
The man on the motorbike approaches a roadblock where there are three well armed policemen. He waves some money in the air and the officers are transfixed staring at this bare faced bribe. Nobody notices the large black object with a fuse sticking out of the top on the back of the bike. Yes, a bomb. It even has B O M B written across it. If this sounds like a cartoon, then that's because it is titled All Eyes on the Note. This is the work of Mai Kasukwo, who captures topical slices of Nigerian life with a few strokes of his brush. Unsurprisingly, many of his cartoons are about corruption. It happens all over the world, but here it's a bit more in your face. I've just met a politician who's helped uncover a massive swindle which over the last three years has cost the country about a quarter of its entire annual budget. You must have made a few enemies, I suggested to Farouk Lawan at his office in Nigeria's green domed National Assembly. Yes, a lot of powerful ones. We've had death threats, he told me. People telling us we were not going to Live long enough to even present the report.
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Johnny Diamond
But we're still here.
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Kate Adie
The 205 pages that resulted from the investigation into the fuel importing racket contain figures so large my calculator simply can't cope as I try to convert to pounds or dollars. As I leave the lawmaker's office outside, a crowd of people are waiting to see him. A man asks for my number as he's writing a book about Mr. Lawan and wants to include the interview. It's going to be called Mr. Integrity in the House, he tells me. Oh, he's doing a good job then, is he? I ask. Oh yes, he's a fine legislator, one of the best. It's almost comical the way politicians and the so called big men are lauded here. Good morning. Honourable greetings, your excellency and my favourite so far, which I heard outside a plash hotel. Distinguished, how are you, sir? At which point, out of the car window a distinguished hand protruded, offering a little cash to the praisinger. Now back to the fuel scandal. I wanted to know exactly how the treasury had been looted on such a fantastic scale. I met Dr. Udenta. Udenta. They must have been short of names in my village, he joked as he introduced himself. Part activist, part politician and a fierce critic of the government, he doesn't pull his punches. This nation is constructed on a grand scale of fraud and corruption, he told me. Ok, so I'm a crooked businessman, I replied, and I want to get very rich out of fuel. What should I do? First of all, are you well connected in government? Do you know the head of the state fuel company? If so, make your case to them. Now tell me what do you want to import? Petrol or kerosene? Petrol, I suggested. He nodded. Ok, let's go for say, one million litres a day. The role play bounced along, with the doctor getting more and more animated as he explained how my million litres a day would only exist on paper. Now are you prepared to play the game? He asked. If so, then we'll get the foreign exchange documents sorted out and the offshore bank account. Just to be clear then. So I'll be paid for importing 1 million litres of fuel, but I won't actually deliver anything? Not a drop. That's it. And now you must be kicking yourself that you only went for 1 million litres and not 5 because it's so easy, he said. Of course you'll only get 20% of the money because the loot is shared. But you're comfortable with it because what the hell, you didn't spend a penny. And that's one way in which the unaccountable state fuel company is said to have helped a few fat cats get even fatter. The scam has caused a lot of anger and there are calls for heads to roll. But if you're wondering whether any of the looters will be locked up, it's worth having a look at another of Mike Asukwo's cartoons. Your Excellency, you're under arrest, says a worried official from Nigeria's anti corruption agency. She's produced a pair of handcuffs that are not exactly a tight fit. Being the size of huge hula hoops, he can easily slip his hands out and walk free. To yet more greetings of your Excellency, honourable or even distinguished.
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Narrator/Presenter
And that was Will Ross in the Nigerian capital Abuja, next to the United States. And even for a rough and tumble border state like Arizona, it's been a tough couple of years. Two years ago the state passed a law that targeted immigrants who are there illegally. Now there's a new bill demanding that everybody carry identification papers and show them to police on demand. Critics of the legislation inside the state and across the country say it's being used to target Hispanics. Boycotts were launched of Arizona. Now the matter has been taken to the United States Supreme Court, which is considering whether Arizona has gone too far, trespassing into federal territory. Arizona has the largest number of illegal crossings of any American state. The border winds through miles of empty desert and and it's hard to police. But it isn't just members of the official U.S. border Patrol who are trying to hold back this tide of immigrants. As Johnny Diamond's been finding out, dust,
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Johnny Diamond
lots of it in big clouds, drifted in the wake of the huge 4x4 as it made its way towards Glenn Spencer's land. Don't bring one of those little cars, he had warned. It won't make it up here. So the big car, more of a small truck really, bounced and rumbled along the unpaved road that led up to Arizona's borderlands. The air still has some cool in it in the morning this time of year in Arizona, though, the day promised much heat. The early light has a delicacy to it that is swiftly lost as the temperature climbs and a heat haze lies heavy on the land. The earth is dry grey brown all around, but there's still a fair amount of green about so the mesquite holds the water well. Disturbed by the vibrations of the oncoming car, a long necked bird trotted primly across the road and out of the way, up a winding road and onto a plateau. The car crunched to a halt amongst a cluster of buildings. A caravan sat patiently. A car waited for a driver that would never come, its bonnet open. Lush grass grew through its engine block. Maybe it was the wrong place. Aside from two sleek and well kept horses, there were no signs of life. A couple of hundred yards away, a brown metal barrier, maybe five metres high marked the line between America and Mexico. Only the horses stirred. Then Glenn appeared. To some he is a patriot. To others, an obsessive. He might be called a whack job. Here he is without doubt an American eccentric, but he is deadly serious. Serious enough to have left his wife and his home in California and ended up in this lonely perch right at the end of America. Blue grey eyes looked out from underneath a cap decorated with a Marine Corps camouflage design. A grey camouflage shirt hung over a comfortable belly. Legs emerged from a pair of shorts. Glenn is nearly 75, but moves with an almost boyish energy and enthusiasm. Out by the brown metal border, he and his team have built a sign, a solid blue frame, maybe two metres in height, onto which had been placed in what look like silver letters the words Secure the border. The U.S. border Patrol has been trying to do that for decades. Not far away at their base in Nogales A, a town split between Mexico and the us, they showed off their hardware. A car park with hundreds of vehicles. A warehouse with row after row of black dust covered quad bikes. There are helicopters, remote cameras, fingerprint scanners, night vision goggles, dog teams, horses, X ray trucks. All of it dedicated in part to turning back the tide of humanity that sought to move from south to north in search of a better life. The U.S. border Patrol's budget has trebled in the last 10 years, a result of the political pressure to do something about the border. And then there are groups like Glenn's. He monitors the border from the air with a homemade remote control aircraft feeding back pictures. And from the ground with sensors his team have built. Every now and then, Glenn pilots his four seater Cessna to look at the border, the fence from the air. A pencil thin brown line that rises and falls with the peaks and troughs of the hard land. Columns of rising air knock the little plane as the day warms up. The cool edge of the morning has long gone. Everywhere reeks of heat. As the clock moves past midday, he flies over a new U.S. border Patrol post. Grey buildings and grey car parks spick and span against the desert and the scrub 40 million that cost, he says. For that, I could have secured the border. He turns the plane towards home. All around Arizona leeches away into the distance, entirely flat until interrupted by sudden mountains. A good general picks his battlefield, said Glenn, explaining why he'd come to the state. Arizona is the battlefield. But like some generals of old, he may be fighting the last war. The flow of immigrants coming over the border has slowed. Tighter security, a falling birth rate in Mexico and the weak US Economy have all played a part. And so has the Arizona law that targets illegal immigrants. But Glenn won't stop now. This is what he does, day in, day out. He landed the little plane, slipped it neatly into the hangar and drove off, his big car disappearing into the heat haze of the Arizona day.
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Narrator/Presenter
Johnny diamond in Arizona. Final gargling must be going on in the Esseri capital Baku, this morning ahead of tonight's Eurovision Song Contest. There, the authorities hope the songfest will win them international plaudits for their modern energy rich, mainly Muslim state. But others there believe the occasion should highlight their claims that the government jails opponents, persecutes journalists and suppresses free speech. As reporters gathered there earlier in the week, hundreds of young Azeris took to the streets in a rare protest about those alleged human rights violations. Steve Rosenberg says it's all providing a spicier than usual backdrop to Eurovision.
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Steve Rosenberg
There can't be anyone in Baku who doesn't know that the Eurovision Song Contest has come to town. Everywhere you look there are signs declaring Light your fire, this year's competition slogan. You can see them on advertising hoardings on the sides of buildings and also on the 1000 London cabs that Baku has bought to make it feel more like a European city. By the way, Baku's taxis aren't black, they've all been repainted purple, which has earned them the nickname aubergines on wheels. Turn on local tv, switch on the radio and you're bombarded by boom bang a bang style Euro songs in a variety of tongues. Even for a long time Eurovision fan like myself, it's a bit freaky. So was the poster in the window of a woman's laundry shop I noticed yesterday. It read, as a gift, we offer all our customers a 70% discount on the occasion of the Eurovision Song Contest. Suddenly I had visions of crowds of excited ladies queuing up to buy cheap knickers so they could throw them at the United Kingdom's entrance. Engelbert Humperdig. Yes, even at the age of 76, the king of romance still gets underwear chucked at him by his adoring fans. He said so this week at one of the pre contest press conferences. I still can't quite believe that a global megastar like Engelbert is taking part in a contest like Eurovision. After all, this is the man who sold 150 million records around the world. He shared the stage with Elvis Presley. He's even got his own star on the Hollywood Walk of Fame. And yet now Mr. Humperdinck has picked up the poison chalice of Eurovision. Among his competitors in Baku are the mischievous Jedwood twins from Ireland and six singing grannies from Russia. Yes, there's never been a Eurovision Song Contest quite like this one before. Those singing pensioners are amazing, though sadly they will never get to share a stage with Elvis. But I wouldn't rule out six more stars on the Walk of Fame in Baku. Whenever the Buranava Babushkas appear in public, they're surrounded by journalists or mobbed by fans. They're clearly the grooviest grannies in town. And their disco dance Eurovision Song Party for everybody is tipped to do very well. It's already set a new record. Granny Natasha is nearly 77 and that makes her the oldest singer in the history of the Eurovision Song Contest. But it's not just the participants that are making this Eurovision Song Contest stand out. It's the politics too. In the run up to the competition, international human rights groups have been accusing the authorities in Azerbaijan of trampling democracy, stifling freedom of speech and of locking up political opponents. The government here maintains those criticisms are unfair and has accused the west of a smear campaign. This week, police broke up an anti government protest outside the Esseri television station, which is broadcasting Eurovision. Demonstrators there had been chanting freedom to political prisoners. The police detained more than 30 people. And there was another protest this week. Around 100 activists simply walked around Baku to avoid being arrested. They carried no placards, they didn't chant slogans, but but they wore T shirts bearing the words Sing for Democracy. I spoke to one of the organizers of the protest walk, Rasool. He told me he wanted all the singers at the Eurovision Song Contest to speak out up on stage against human rights violations in Azerbaijan. The Swedish singer Laureen, one of the favorites to win this year's Eurovision, has already had a meeting with local human rights activists, much to the annoyance of the Azeri authorities. And the arguments don't end there. Azerbaijan is locked in a war of words with one of its neighbours, Iran. Clerics there have said it's inappropriate for a Muslim country like Azerbaijan to host an event like the Eurovision Song Contest. After a spiralling war of words this week, Iran recalled its ambassador from Baku. As for another neighbour, Armenia, well, it pulled out of the contest weeks ago, claiming security fears. With so much politics swirling around, it's easy to forget there's a song contest going on.
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Narrator/Presenter
Steve Rosenberg in Baku, and I gather his money's on the Russian grannies. Now. You'd think the chance to sample some of the great cuisines of the world might be one of the perks of the globe. Trotting correspondent but of course, it often doesn't turn out quite like that. There are many disappointments along the way. Perhaps you recall a famished Brian Baron being told, just as he was poised to tuck into a caviar banquet in the Gobi Desert, that a dust storm threatened his helicopter pilot insisted they took off before even a mouthful was touched. Well, no such disasters appeared to stand in the way of Danny Mitzman when she was invited to Italy's Adriatic coast to taste a celebrated regional delicacy. But sadly, all did not go according to plan.
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Danny Mitzman
My friends often say I've got such a cushy job, I can't possibly call it work. And they're right. Take my most recent assignment, interviewing the mussel diving fishermen in the enchanting coastal resort of Porto Nuovo, just south of the city of Ancona. It's the cleanest and most beautiful bay on the entire Adriatic Riviera. Yes, I confess going there did feel a bit like being on holiday. Porto Novo's famous for its rare wild mussels, known by the dialect word mosholi. Their name distinguishes them from kotze, ordinary mussels cultivated in nets throughout the Mediterranean. Instead, mosholi are hand collected by half a dozen die hard local fishermen. From May to October, they dive daily with a rope basket and what looks like a little gardening fork used to carefully detach the largest mussels growing spontaneously on the reef. Mosholi are said to have unique organoleptic qualities, affecting your senses in unimagined ways. They're considered the white truffle of all mussels, and Italians come from far and wide to sample them. Since 2004, they've been on the Slow Food Movement's list of traditional protected foods. And with a limit on the quantity harvested, you can only find them on menus in this very bay. So what could possibly spoil a day out with four charming fishermen who offer you an espresso on the beach, take you on a delightful boat trip to see the mussel covered reef, and then invite you for lunch at a local restaurant where the speciality is, of course, mosholi. One word. Sinusitis. I arrived in Porto Nova that morning with absolutely no sense of taste or smell. I had hoped the sea air would clear out my nasal passages. But as we walked through the fish shop next door to the boat sheds, my heart sank. I could smell nothing. My fisherman had booked a table with a gorgeous bay view at Portonovo's oldest restaurant, Emilia, run by Marisina and her daughter Federica. It was opened by Marisina's mother in 1929, initiating the transformation of Porto Novo into the gastronomic resort it is today. Marisina proudly shows me walls full of photos, her husband presenting baskets of moscholi to not one, but two popes, and then she points out another with a youthful image of a face I instantly recognize. That was taken in 1988. She grins. I was sworn to secrecy to keep the paparazzi away, and I didn't tell a soul, not even the staff. It was the police who blew it when they said they were cordoning off the road because Prince Charles was coming here for dinner. Federica laughs indulgently and tells me she and her mother would love me to taste their treasured mausoli. She lets me peek into the kitchen, where the chefs are preparing an array of mouth watering recipes. I inhale deeply, smell nothing, and feel miserable. I'm not expecting sympathy, but anyone who's a foodie like me will recognize this situation as acutely tragicomic. Just imagine the first dish, simple steamed mosholi in all their unadulterated glory, served with a sprinkling of parsley, olive oil and lemon juice. They sit in their gleaming shells, pouting seductively. I put one in my mouth. It's exquisitely succulent, but as for its spectacular organoleptic qualities, all I get is salt. If they'd given me a marshmallow simmered in sea water, it would probably have tasted the same. Then comes a huge platter of masholilli au gratin. I stare at them, painfully aware of how heavenly they must taste, imagining the deep, delicate hint of garlic blended with the breadcrumbs and parsley, and the way the topping would complement the juicy flesh below. My disabled palate is infuriatingly indifferent. Next comes Emilia's piece de resistance, spaghetti AI moscioli, with its rich sauce of chopped mussels, tomato and onion. By now my taste buds are weeping tears of frustration. It's like eating in black and white when you know that everything on your plate is in glorious Technicolor. Of course, the most mortifying bit of all this was the fact that I had to spend the entire meal pretending I could taste everything and feeling an absolute fraud as I complimented Federica and Marisina on how delicious each dish was. As I did so, I made a silent vow to return to Porto Novo as soon as my sinuses are clear. And I will order exactly the same dishes, savoring every nuance of those elusive flavors because I'm convinced that Portonovo's Moscoli really are something special. And I'm sure there's one member of the royal family who'd definitely agree.
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Narrator/Presenter
And with Danny Metzman plotting a return to the seaside lunch table, we've reached the end of another edition, suddenly feeling rather hungry. Two editions next week, on both Thursday and Saturday mornings to join us. Goodbye.