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From Our Own Correspondent
The Jihadi Vegetable Patch
00:28:12
Correspondents' despatches from around the world. In this edition: Thomas Fessy Mali...
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You're listening to a download from the BBC. This is from our own correspondent.
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You can hear the version of the
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programme we make for the BBC World Service by visiting our site at BBConline. But here's the latest edition broadcast on BBC Radio 4 and introduced by Kate Ady.
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Today, tomatoes and onions seized. The French Foreign Legion liberates a jihadi vegetable patch in Mali. It's official the Angolan capital, Luanda, is the most expensive city on earth. No consolation to its people, most of whom live in extreme poverty. What's the point of the Swiss army? Mums there wonder why their sons still have to do national service. And deep gloom in Italy, as a sporting way of life, with its roots back in Roman times, comes to an end. British troops have arrived in Mali. They are part of an EU force which will help train local soldiers who are fighting Islamic militants. The Defence Secretary, Philip Hammond, insists they won't be involved in combat operations. The training they'll be doing there, he says, will help to restore order, as well as denying terrorists a safe haven. French soldiers remain at the sharp end of this operation in the north of the country. Thomafe's been out in the Sahara Desert looking for insurgents with the French Foreign Legion.
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The helicopter flew with its lights off in the dead of night. When we finally landed, we could feel the sharp rocks under our boots, but still couldn't see anything. It felt like we were cut off from the rest of the world. Later, the first light of dawn revealed the vastness of a rocky desert, with mountain crests and sandy lines cutting through the landscape like human veins. I don't think I have ever felt that small, that insignificant. As the sun rose, soldiers appeared, one after the other in their beige uniforms, ready to march through yet another day in this hostile wilderness. These men were from the French Foreign Legion, a force which uniquely draws its soldiers from many nationalities. Traditionally, it is prepared to draw a veil over a candidate's background or criminal record. But today, many Eastern Europeans or South Americans join up simply because they can earn a lot more money than they would with their own country's militaries. We've just left planet Earth and we're now on Mars. A legionnaire of Romanian origin shouted. We were climbing a steep hill over jagged and slippery rocks at the time. From the top, we hoped to get a view of the whole valley below. With flak jacket on, helmet, rucksack, TV and radio equipment, enough food for the day and six litres of water, we were carrying more than 30 kilos in weight. The soldiers each carried twice that at 9 o' clock we had been walking for three hours and it was over 40 degrees Celsius. By midday, the temperature was up to 60. The heat waves were actually visible in the air and as Corporal Philip, an Australian, put it to a bit of wind feels like someone aiming a blow dryer right into your face. These soldiers were searching the desert for jihadi fighters. They had discovered plenty of their hideouts already. In sum, established near the rare wells in this dry and arid landscape, militants had grown their own vegetable gardens. The soldiers loved it. Fresh tomatoes and onions, delicacies after days of military rations. And that wasn't all. One legionnaire pointed towards his boots. Mine was so destroyed by the rocks that I was happy to find the enemies. He said he swapped his boots for new ones and was joking about wearing jihadi shoes. We didn't run into a firefight during the two days we spent marching with the legion, but we did find explosives and other items left behind by the jihadis. We had seen the remains of suicide bombers in the northern town of Gao. Now we were looking at the sort of explosive belts they used. A French demining engineer explained that they were very sophisticated, with detonators made of copper, apparently hard for metal detectors to spot. There were also drums filled with nitrates for making bombs. The French brew them all up. Before we moved on, we entered a dry, sandy river bed which led to a long stretch of flat desert. We had to reach a hill on the far side, and the officer in charge, Captain Clement, was worried we would be too exposed out in the open. We won't be able to take cover if anything happens, he said. But there was no other way. We had to do it in one go, and fast. As we started to sprint, the captain explained one of his men had been shot and wounded by a sniper a few weeks before. Eventually, we reached the top of the hill. On the far side of that flat stretch of desert, we all fell to the ground. The rocks we lay on felt like burning coals. But we were so exhausted, standing up was simply not an option. My mouth and throat were dry. It was painful to swallow. We marched nearly all that day under the boiling sun. When darkness eventually fell, the temperature in this landscape of extremes rapidly dropped to freezing point. Exhausted, we lay our sleeping bags on the desert floor, climbed in and went to sleep under the stars. The legionnaires had been chasing jihadi fighters on foot for weeks. They had lost track of time. For them, this was just another day in Mali's far north, or rather on the planet Mars.
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And that's Thoma Fessi. Now memories of national service in Britain may be fading. The call up, after all, was abolished here more than 50 years ago. And right across Europe, conscription is becoming a thing of the past. But there is one small country still clinging fiercely to it. Switzerland, despite its strict neutrality, demands obligatory military service from all its young men, not just when 19 or 20, but at regular intervals in their later years, too. Imogen Foulkes says it's a tradition some Swiss are beginning to question. And the latest challenge to it has come from an unexpected source.
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It's that time of year again. The trains are full of fresh faced young men in uniform, sporting rather hasty haircuts. Every spring, over 7,000 Swiss men begin their first 21 weeks of obligatory military service. Despite its strict neutrality, the army is an institution many Swiss can simply not imagine being without. It may never fight in wars, but it is regarded as a pillar of Swiss society, sometimes affectionately called the place where boys become men, or even the great national uniter, where rich bankers sons bunk down with farmers, where the German, French and Italian speakers learn to communicate with one another. Military service has been a rite of passage for young Swiss men for over a century and a half. At 19, they are all required when that little letter from high command flutters through the mailbox to turn up for obligatory recruit school, followed by regular stints in the army for over a decade. But nowadays, some Swiss suspect their army, which costs more than 3 billion pounds a year, is something of an expensive anachronism. It was all very well to mobilize every able bodied man to protect the borders during the Second World War. But many ask, what has the army actually done since then? Worryingly for Switzerland's Defence Minister, who has said he intends to make his army the best in the world, the scepticism seems strongest among the recruits themselves. A recent Defence Department study found that barely 40% of soldiers actually believed in the army. Not so long ago, I joined new recruits as they began their first 21 weeks, shivering in sub zero temperatures as he struggled with his assault rifle. Fabian, a university student whose rather long hair was escaping from under his army cap, told me he valued the friends he was making in the army. But when I asked him if he could imagine firing that gun for real, he looked blank. What, you mean like in a war? He asked. Gosh, no, I certainly hope not. Meanwhile, Mark, who gloomily confessed to missing his family in the mountains, was even blunter. No, no, he said, I'd just throw the gun down and run away. That, presumably, is not Quite the spirit the army wants to instil in its new recruits. And in the wake of that disappointing study, the Defence Department has admitted it must offer more justifiable challenges for incoming soldiers. And indeed, the 7,000 recruits are facing a new challenge, though perhaps not the one the generals had in mind. It's an insidious invasion force which attacks at night. It's quiet, almost invisible. It slips stealthily away by day, leaving the troops exhausted, uncomfortable and demotivated. So what is this secret weapon? The answer? Bedbugs. It all started in one room at the 5th Infantry Division. Just a few days after arrival, the recruits woke up scratching an itch that was clearly caused by something more serious than a restless night under a rough Swiss army blanket. And despite immediate disinfection, manoeuvres by a crack vermin extermination squad, the bedbugs are spreading, seizing new rooms in the barracks by the day. A terse statement on the Defence Department's website admits to the problem, but reassuringly notes that all affected troops have been moved to new locations, hopefully not carrying the enemy with them. But I wonder if this little problem might not turn into a more existential one for Switzerland's armed forces. Swiss mothers know their sons will have to do military service one day. Some feel proud to see them in uniform. Others worry about the risks or the interruption of their studies. But most, by and large, accept it. But I fear the invasion of the bedbugs. Indeed, even just one bed bug might be too much for the famously hygiene conscious Swiss matriarchs. When the troops return home, I predict a run on disinfectants, sprays and insecticides and bonfires of uniforms in the gardens? Another referendum on the future of conscription in Switzerland is due in the next year or two. Could it be that an institution that has held its own through decades of strict neutrality, that has survived even the end of the Cold War, will be defeated by the humble bedbug? One thing is for sure, when the bed bugs are finally routed, Switzerland's army may not be the most motivated, but it will certainly be the cleanest.
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Imogen folks in Bern now. Recent figures released in Angola showing inflation has soared beyond 9% won't have surprised many of its citizens. The capital, Luanda, already enjoys the dubious accolade of being the most expensive city on earth. And this is a country where the majority of the population is extremely poor. Money is being spent there, however, and much of it is Chinese. Jonathan Fryer's been finding out that while the locals don't have a lot of spending money. They do have some amazing landmarks to look at.
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Rearing up like a giant space rocket, the Agostino Neto mausoleum dominates the skyline of Luanda's upmarket Liberty Park. On the opposite hillside, half completed, stands the vast new National Assembly, a bright pink wedding cake of a building from which MPs will in future be able to meditate on the legacy of Marxist Angola's founding father. Neto's remains are said to be buried somewhere inside the mausoleum. But when I gain entry and inquire where exactly, I am greeted with embarrassed silence by the Chinese custodian, who's clearly not used to receiving visitors. As yet, it's not been open to the general public. Neto died of cancer in Moscow in 1979, just short of his 57th birthday, and his body was embalmed and returned to Angola. The idea was that he'd be laid out for public inspection, like the Soviet Union's Lenin and China's Chairman Mao, for the benefit of posterity. But during the long years of Angola's civil war, something went horribly wrong, presumably with the refrigeration. Rumour has it that his body was later cremated and his ashes secreted in the bowels of the mausoleum that was begun with Brazilian assistance before being abandoned until the Chinese stepped in to lend a hand. I met Agostino NETTO Once, almost 40 years ago, when I was a trainee foreign correspondent in Brussels. My then boss, very much of the old Fleet street school with its casual prejudices, one day said cheerily, jonathan, you're interested in Africa. There's this jungle bunny in town who says he's going to overthrow the Portuguese in Angola. Fat chance. So I went to interview Neto in a dingy NGO office. He had the aura of a world weary, small town doctor, which is exactly what he was. But he was also a poet and as such became the spokesman of the Angolan liberation movement. Barely 18 months later, Neto had the last laugh. The Portuguese were out and he was in power in Luanda. But the civil war would continue for decades. In the late 1960s, I'd been to Luanda as a student when Salazar's military dictatorship in Lisbon had the harebrained idea of making the Angolan city the new capital of the Portuguese empire. Imposing edifices were constructed along the city's fine waterfront. When I returned years later, at the height of the civil war, Luanda had become a shadow of its former self, its litter strewn streets crammed with refugees. This was not a city in which to walk around after dark. Today the place is once again transformed. The waterfront corniche has become a six lane highway along which four by fours cruise on their way to nearby beaches. The old Portuguese fortress of San Miguel up on the cliff top is bustling with Chinese labourers, turning it into a state of the art military museum which will entertain foreign tourists when they start to arrive. Down below, yet more Chinese are busy restoring the iron building, a delicate structure designed by Gustav Eiffel which somehow ended up here. I asked the Chinese guardian of the Agostino NATO mausoleum how many of his compatriots are in Angola? Maybe half a million, he replied dreamily, before realizing he was perhaps releasing a state secret and muttering, I've no idea. I was hurriedly directed to a display hall where vast murals of a kind I'd not seen since the height of China's Cultural Revolution depict Agostino Neto leading crowds of flag waving peasants and workers, their faces all set in grim determination. I wondered what the mild little doctor I met in Brussels would have made of this. Have you seen the toilets? My local companion squealed was the first time she'd been allowed inside, and it was clear from the pristine nature of the carpets that few others had been offered the opportunity. Quick as a flash, she was photographing the immaculate lose with her mobile phone. She'd never seen anything like them. The Chinese caretaker ushered us on to visit the carpentry room, the ceramics room and the metal works room. The original idea had been that the mausoleum should also serve as a cultural centre where people would be able to learn handicrafts. But clearly none of the equipment had ever been used, and I wondered if it ever would be.
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Jonathan Fryer in Luanda, Angola Italy's been the centre of much attention recently. The new Pope has been generating headlines around the world. Italian politics have also been the subject of of much comment, even if correspondents have not been entirely surprised by the country's inability to form a new government. But these stories have perhaps diverted attention from the fact that Italy remains mired in severe economic difficulties. It's deep in debt, stuck in its longest recession in 20 years. With unemployment at a record high, the squeeze is being felt by families up and down the land. And Alan Johnston tells us it's even touched a corner of sporting life sometimes.
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Journeys across Rome take me past the Circus Maximus, what was in ancient times the city's chariot racing arena. All its stone seating is long gone. Today its grandstands are just grassy slopes that sweep down to a gravel track. It's not much more than a bit of green space in the heart of the city. A place to kick a ball about or for joggers to go wheezing through the summer heat. But just imagine what it must have been like back in the first century. On race days, the chariots were summoned to the start by trumpets. And then they'd be off. Pounding hooves, whirring, wheels rising dust, the crowd roaring and drivers straining at the reins as they lashed their horses into dangerous turns. The only place where you might have found just the faintest echo of all that in Rome nowadays is out on the edge of the city at a place called Tordivale. It's been a harness racing or trotting track, a place of pace and grace, where horses would go striding at speed round a huge oval circuit. Trailing behind them, the flimsiest little carriages, modern chariots just big enough for a driver to perch on and crack a whip. And out at the track, they would tell you proudly that their sport has its roots even further back than those Roman race days at the Circus Maximus, that its origins lay with the charioteers of ancient Greece. And for decades, trotting flourished at Tor d'. Valle. Horses would be flown in from abroad for the biggest races. And for the most important, there'd be a million euros in prize money. But no more. I'd come to Torde Valais on what was supposed to be the day of its last race. The track was closing. It's been overwhelmed, finished, by the economic troubles that have brought much of horse racing in Italy to its knees. Betting is the sport's lifeblood, and right now, Italians are actually gambling more than ever. But the way they bet has been transformed over the past decade. A liberalisation of gaming regulations has allowed punters to put money on sports and lotteries of all kinds. And the cash has just drained away from the horses. And so that day at the track, I was watching a whole sporting way of life come to an end. In the utter gloom, even the very last races had had to be cancelled. The deeply disgruntled workforce didn't have the heart to stage them. Of course, trotting was far from the biggest game in town. It had endured years of decline, but to the drivers and the stable boys, the track was everything. A man called Fabio sat in the grandstand, surrounded by empty seats. He'd worked at Torda Valle for more than 20 years, but now, like dozens of others, he was bracing himself for unemployment. He'd known the track since he was a boy and he said it was like a world of its own in that grandstand he'd watch people gamble away everything they had and then carry on gambling. And he'd seen others get rich. And I met a trainer called Roberto walking a horse down a road to the stables. He was a big, strong man in his 50s, but his voice broke as he talked of how his life had been steeped in the track. Horses, he said, had been his passion. He and his father and his grandfather before him had trained some fine ones, and there was a time when, if you could win a derby, there was enough prize money for a trainer to sort out a good part of his life. But now, he said, it was a struggle to feed the horses. The best of them, the fastest of them, will survive the closure of Tordevalle. They'll be sent to other places to race. But some of the animals may have to be put down. Better that perhaps, than let them end up in the harsh world of the illegal trotting scene run by mafiosi on the country roads in the south of Italy. For an hour or two, the horses were brought out to be exercised and they went fizzing round the track, snorting and stamping, harnesses rattling and drivers shouting. For a while there were echoes of better days at Torde Valle, but eventually the horses were led back to their stalls, steam rising from their backs in the soft, wintry sunlight. And gradually a silence and a deep sadness settled on the lanes between the stables.
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Alan Johnston in Rome, the Germans have been among those getting the blame for the latest crisis in Euroland. And what's new about that, you might say. They weren't the only ones, of course. The problems in Cyprus have been linked with dodgy Russian cash, irresponsible Cypriot bankers, and, of course, high handed bureaucrats in Brussels. The Germans, though, were accused of imposing impossibly tough demands on one of the EU's smaller, less prosperous members. Stephen Evans, who's in Berlin, says the Germans might have a reputation for businesslike efficiency, but they don't always get it right.
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On the outskirts of Berlin, there's a bright, shining example of how national stereotypes don't always correspond with reality. Literally, bright and shining. Berlin's new airport was meant to open a year ago. Now nobody quite knows when it will open, certainly not this year. With the invitations already sent out, the opening was postponed and postponed again, and then again. Not the way it's meant to be, of course. But the real embarrassment is that they can't turn the lights at the terminal off. As the airport's beleaguered technical director told the local media, we haven't progressed far enough with our lighting system to control it. There is a similar story in Hamburg, where a new concert hall was meant to rise on the docks, towering above an old warehouse in shimmering glass and steel. It would be the blurb, said a beckoning lighthouse. Sad to say, though, what's rising fastest there is the cost. It's the same story with a futuristic railway station in Stuttgart. So it's not any special efficiency which marks the economy hereout. Germans can cock things up just like the rest of us. The secret of German economic success lies somewhere else, and I think I found it in a small, quiet town nestling in a wooded valley near the Czech border. Mark Neukirchen, picturesque with its cobbled streets and a church bell which tolled, it seemed to me interminably, is an unlikely manufacturing hub. Today there are 113 makers of musical instruments there. 113. In the 1900s, they made 80% of the musical instruments bought in Europe and the United States. Today's musical instrument makers are are descended from a group which fled from persecution in neighboring Bohemia nearly 400 years ago. They brought and imparted through their children, even to the present day, a set of attitudes. Meticulousness, knowing your market, acquiring the right skills, knowing what you do and doing it well. Take Vogt Brass, a company which makes trombones. Jurgen Vogt learned to play the trombone at the age of 10 and then how to make a trombone from his uncle. At the age of 14, he expanded the business from a workshop at home to a factory on the outskirts of town, where he remains dirtying his hands on the lathe and testing trombones. But his daughter Kirsten now runs the business, supervising and travelling the world to sell. She told me instrument making was in her blood. She just grew up with it at home, learning by watching and then doing just like her father did. And so many in the town have the zither maker on Albertstrasse or the maker of bows for violins on the same street. Some of these manufacturers are are the world leaders in their particular field. Worth a fortune, though you wouldn't know it when they shuffle round town as craftsmen in a family of craftsmen. It is the unflashy way of the place and the way of Germany. Virtually every town I go to has a small industrial estate, usually with a small manufacturer recognized as one of the best in its particular field in the world. Instrument makers in Mark Neukirchen, the little company in southern Germany which makes the glue that goes into a good chunk of the world's credit cards or the maker of high quality envelopes that people buy for special occasions, or the maker of climbing nets for playgrounds, or the maker of globes. And when I nose around, as I do, I wonder why it's so different from my own hometown in South Wales. We've got an industrial estate there too, but it has supermarkets and car repair shops. The snag is that the German way is easier to describe than to recreate. Kirsten, who runs the family trombone firm, says her company expanded steadily step by step. It innovates, but from what it knows, it builds on tradition rather than throwing it out. It competes with Chinese mass production by offering tailor made instruments adapted for individual needs. Will her children then take over and become the 10th generation? She told me, if you want to do this job, you must love it. If you don't love this job, you can't do it. And if one of my children loves this job, they can do it. Love the job and get it right is her philosophy. And the prosperity will follow.
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Stephen Evans in Berlin blowing the trumpet, or rather the trombone, for German ingenuity. And that's it.