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From Our Own Correspondent
The Knot Comes to the Comb
00:28:00
Correspondents' stories: in this edition Maria Margaronis on the keenly-awaited Greek...
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Thank you for downloading the latest edition of BBC Radios from our own correspondent, the best in news and current affairs storytelling. It's introduced by Kate Ady.
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Hello. Today, change is in the air, and we're not sure what it means for the repulsive gnome in Chile who can kill with a look. But we do know what they're saying about the possibility of a Syriza victory in Greece, and political earthquake is one of the milder terms being used. Change is also coming to the peach, plum and nectarine orchards of South Africa as the government pushes ahead with plans for black run farms and as a new government promises change in Haiti, we find out what it was like being the sole representative of the world's press, surrounded by confusion, smoke, fear and a river of traumatised people. You won't find the word Grexit in any dictionary, but but it's a term we're hearing more and more of as Greeks prepare to go to the polls in their snap election. Grexit, of course, refers to a Greek exit from the eurozone, a distinct possibility if the far left Syriza party comes out on top in Sunday's general election. The Economist Intelligence Unit, among others, says a Syriza victory would send shock waves through the EU and further afield as well. But Maria Margaronis says many Greeks believe the time has come to change the political shape of their country.
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The man in the metro station outside the Greek parliament was tall and burly, grey haired, with a face like a thundercloud. He held a pair of dented aluminium saucepans and wore a huge Greek flag draped over his hunched shoulders. His left eye was puffed up in a yellow and purple bruise. There'd been a fight with an Albanian about a dog, he said. He was a lorry driver, unemployed now for three years, living on loans from his mother. He'd come from Corinth on the early bus to protest against the government. Not just the government, but all the politicians, thieves and crooks and liars who'd cheated the people for years, pillaged the pension funds, siphoned off the money to their Swiss bank accounts and the pots and pans. I asked in my brightest reporter's voice, did you bring them to bang? Yes, he growled, and to throw at their heads when they come out. That was back in the summer of 2011. Now Greece is about to go to the polls for the third time in three years and look set to elect the most radical left wing government in its history. It feels like a watershed moment, the end at least of the beginning. A lot has happened since those early demonstrations in Syntagma Square, before the crisis and the cuts had turned politics inside out and polarized the nation. Back then, you could walk from the top end of the square full of Greek flags and drums to the bottom with its bright tents and direct democracy forum, and not know you were crossing a deep fault line in history. In the months that followed, Corinth became a stronghold of the Neo Nazi party. Golden Dawn. It's possible that my lorry driver was drawn into their web, but most people took a different path when their lives ran aground. Capitan Spiros has the gruff voice and leathery face of an old salt. He's short a handful of teeth and wears a woollen cap indoors as he checks the soup and washes pots in his small ship shaped kitch. He used to be a captain on cargo ships and tankers, but then he opened a restaurant which went belly up and found himself on the street with just an anorak and some underwear and socks in a plastic bag. I met him a few months ago at the charity Glimacke, where he was cooking for 80 people every day, destitute Greeks and migrants rubbing along together. He slept in a cabin on the roof surrounded by herbs and plants, but otherwise, he said, he barely left his galley. He didn't want anyone coming in and messing up his things. If I sat about in the hostel all day, I'd go mad, he explained. So I help, and that rests my mind. Still, he misses the sea, which was the best ship he ever sailed in. The ship, he said, depends on the people in her. Capitan Spiros reminded me of my own seafaring relatives, men whose tenderness was wrapped in layers of stolid patience. The crisis has stripped lives like his down to the bone. Holding my breath before the vote on Sunday, I'm haunted by some of the people I met as the country was unravelling. The sweet faced young woman driving her father's cab who was waiting for the uprising so she could take up arms. The golden dawn activist in jackboots who softened when he spoke about his life before as a promising marble carver. One thing that hasn't changed since the summer of 2011 is the edge of angry despair or desperate anger in people's voices. I heard it the other week from a school caretaker laid off in government cuts. I'm 53, she said. My husband's out of work and both my kids are students. I'm getting €360amonth in unemployment and that runs out in three months then what? Greeks long ago lost faith in their old political elites. They bought us off all these years, people say. They lulled us to sleep and we kept voting for them. The Young Left party Syriza has made itself the vessel for discontent and dreams. Though most people are wary now of politicians, promises. Elections are the heartbreak hotels of political desire. But whatever happens at the polls and afterwards, this is a moment of hope as well as trepidation. The knot, as we say in Greece, has finally reached the comb, and history may be about to take a different tackle.
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And that's Maria Marghoronis it seems the world is slowly waking up to the scale of the crisis in northeast Nigeria. For the last five years, the jihadist group Boko Haram has been causing havoc there and a military campaign has failed to prevent huge tracts of the region being captured. The recent attack on the town of Baga was one of the worst ever, with hundreds of civilians killed. More than 200 schoolgirls abducted from Chibok nine months ago are still missing, and the concerns stretch way beyond Nigeria's borders, with dozens of men, women and children kidnapped last weekend In Cameroon, Will Ross has been finding out about some of the problems the Nigerian Army's encountered in its fight against Boko Haram.
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Imagine me and you are fighting, the soldier told me. We both have guns, but while you're wearing a bullet proof vest, I'm carrying an umbrella. It was his way of explaining that the fight against Boko Haram is is being undermined because the jihadists are often far better equipped than the soldiers. Abeona is 40 years old and has been in the Nigerian army since he was 17, or I should say had been because along with more than 200 others, he was dismissed last week for disobeying orders. He was accused of fleeing rather than fighting, but says it was a tactical withdrawal. He survived several battles. In fact, he sounds quite fearless and wants to tell me about serious problems he encountered in the military. I've committed no crime, why should I be scared? Abeona said. I don't carry a gun or knife. My only weapon is my mouth. We've heard many reports of Boko Haram attacks where soldiers ended up running away with the civilians. Traumatized parents separated from their children during the chaos have described to me how they saw troops pulling off their uniforms and fleeing. This was a rare chance to hear from the soldiers themselves. It was 10:30 at night, said Abeona, remembering one battle in Borno State. Suddenly we saw Boko Haram very close to our trenches. Those of us with Machine guns started firing and I can tell you that was a bad day for Boko Haram. We killed more than 80 of them. After the night long battle, his soldiers were low on ammunition, but when they urgently called for more supplies, each soldier was given just 10 rounds. Not surprisingly, the next encounter was disastrous. Two days later Boko Haram were back, he tells me. This time they had about 24 four wheel drive vehicles, some with anti aircraft guns mounted on them. Outgunned and with colleagues being shot dead around him, Abiona says they retreated and spent the next 11 hours on the run as the jihadists pursued them through the bush. There were other problems. He tells me about the armored vehicles that were in such poor mechanical condition they would just produce smoke and wouldn't move. During another encounter with the enemy in Adamaua State, I'm told there were military vehicles that ran out of fuel. What did you do? I ask. We had to abandon them and walk. You can't carry them on your head, was his blunt reply. Boko Haram seized the vehicles. Then in the battle for a place called Bazaar, he says their guns proved no match for the jihadists firepower and so they again beat a hasty retreat. They overpowered us and many died. Our mortars and rocket propelled grenades wouldn't even explode they were so old, says Ibrahim, another dismissed soldier who was in Basa. He adds, because of the corruption in the nation, it makes everything run down. The soldiers say they've learnt that better equipment has recently been supplied to the troops. But overall it seems the security situation is getting worse. Just over 18 months ago I watched President Goodluck Jonathan address the nation on TV as he declared a state of emergency in the north east of Nigeria and promised a massive military operation against the jihadists. Within a few weeks I was bouncing along sandy tracks with the Nigerian military who were keen to show me some success. We reached the just liberated village of Marte, close to Lake Chad, along with a couple of other remote settlements. It had been briefly held by Boko Haram. I met people who were mightily relieved that the black and white jihadist flags were no longer flying and were hopeful that schools would soon reopen. Back then it looked like Boko Haram might never hold territory again. This week I managed to get through on the phone to one of the people I'd met there. Where are you? I asked Abba. We're all in my duggery city. There's not a single person left in Marte now. We all ran away with nothing but the clothes. We were wearing. He said his village is back in the hands of Boko Haram. But as a sign of just how disastrous the military campaign has been, huge swathes of northeast Nigeria are now in the hands of the jihadists. Some may call the soldiers I met cowards. Others will say they were poorly equipped and badly let down. I just thank God I'm alive, ibrahim tells me, adding, but I pray for our colleagues who died. We couldn't carry their corpses away. May their souls rest in peace.
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And that was Will Ross in Nigeria. Now there aren't many places in the world better for growing fruit and vegetables than South Africa's Cape Province, but farms there are having to change with the times. Traditionally, much of the country's agriculture has been in the hands of white farmers. But the government in Pretoria is trying to change this. It says at least 30% should be black controlled. It's a controversial policy. Some say the pace of change hasn't been fast enough. Others question its racial motives. But down on the farm, the land reform attracts praise, too. And Susie Emmett, just back from South Africa, says there's no shortage of optimism there about the future of farming.
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Bouncing and rolling like ruby red ball bearings, thousands of just picked nectarines are tipped from a large wooden box. Peter Wolfhart, stone fruit farmer extraordinaire with cheeks as rosy as the fruits, leans in over his harvest on the conveyor belt. With great tenderness, he picks out just one of the jostling fruits and gives it the farmer's close inspection. Last year a freak hailstorm destroyed 75% of the crop, he says. Can't tell you how good it feels to have a harvest this year. Peter and his father, mother, sister and wife have everything tied up in their trees. They're leaders in their field, pioneering highly productive systems using a very light environmental touch. But picking from their regiments of peach, plum and nectarine orchards that march up and down this fruit valley suddenly stops. Grey rain Heavy clouds have rolled in over the steep granite mountains that guard this paradise of productivity. Fruit can't be picked if it's wet. Maybe there are other clouds over the valley. Land reform as part of South Africa's National Development Plan, the municipality wants 22,000 acres of black run fruit farms in the area. And I'm right behind it, says Peter. I can't drive past the black owned housing near my farm without wanting change for the better. The target was 30% completed by now, but only 5% has happened. People get frustrated, but I won't give up on training new farmers. Peter's not the only farmer I meet who wants good agricultural practice and its power to do good for South Africa. Tom Turner once got his kicks and livelihood from dangling from a helicopter to shoot sedatives at game as large as elephants, ready for relocation to other parks and ranches. Now he gets his fix from diversifying the family farm business, the community just over there. He points from his land below the majestic Bontebok mountain bridge that has one of the highest rates of fetal alcohol syndrome in the world. He pauses to allow that fact's impact on young lives and potential to sink in. But on the farm since I've been back, I've been building a great team of black farm workers and managers who take their job so seriously and want a future on this land. It's a farming future with a difference. Keeping rare game such as the shy bontebok antelope for agritourism and other game for gourmet meats. Tom jumps down from his tractor with a bucket of waste fruit. He hops clutching a handbell over a wire perimeter fence. Bell ringing, he yodels through the trees. I listen. From the undergrowth trots a large, hairy wild boar, followed by a litter of striped, nervously grunting piglets. These pests that used to ravage the farm's vines are now an asset. I was in a restaurant in Paris and saw wild boar on the menu for eye watering prices, Tom remembers. I rang dad. We can make money from those pesky boar. We have to diversify from the old style of farming and we have to have the community with us. To see another example of farming with people in mind, go deep into the sprawling township of Guguletu, just a short drive outside shiny Cape Town, where every bit of spare land seems covered by the orderly mosaic of tin shacks. Into the playground of a graffiti laden tenement secondary school. And wow, what a view. A fenced plot, a few hundred metres square, bursting with produce. Cabbages and kale, carrots and spinach, peas and potatoes. Urban farmer Simbogili Satyabi pauses from his labours. He's one of 5,000 city growers who've been helped to take up agriculture. I have food, I have money. But best of all, I have. And he pats his chest with more than a little pride. The pick of the crop is leaving the plot. I follow it to the warehouse where it joins a river of township produce delivered to a work line of sorters who pick out and pack the food 400 pre ordered veg boxes. Money from sales flows back to the farmers who grow it. Christina Kaba is in the midst of it. She wears a polka dot head wrap and a large white pinafore over her sturdy frame. Pausing from carrot bunching, she answers my questions. Yes, agriculture, good for the young, gives this she rubs her fingertips together as a symbol for money and gives money for smartphones that make them feel modern. She taps on a vegetable as if it's a phone agriculture gives. I agree with her. Whether fruits for foreigners, fancy meats for the elite, or fantastic fresh vegetables, good South African agriculture is certainly giving farming a chance to do good.
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Susie Emmett A new government was sworn in in the Haitian capital, Port au Prince, on Monday. The ceremony follows weeks of bitter protests against the country' Michel Marty. The demonstrators blame him for the country's long running political turmoil and say he should step down. But Mr. Marti, once a popular singer known as Sweet Mickey, says his new administration will enable him to steer the country towards fresh elections. This week's swearing in ceremony took place at the site of the old national palace, which was destroyed in an earthquake five years ago. Richard Fleming has been in Port au Prince meeting people who were caught up in the devastating events of that day.
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On the day before the fifth anniversary of Haiti's horrific earthquake, the photojournalist Daniel Morell sits at a battered plywood table in a cinder block yard off the Boulevard Jean Jacques Dessalines in Port au Prince, surrounded by stacks of photos. This is a bitterly poor district of dusty winding alleys and tin roofed shacks, an inner city favela, really. Down the block. In the middle of the street, a large burning pile of tires spews a thick PA pulsating cloud of acrid black smoke into the hot Caribbean sky, indicating that anti government demonstrations, which have been growing in intensity since October, recently passed this way. Haiti is in the middle of yet another political crisis, but in the tidy courtyard belonging to Atis Resistance, a community collective of artists who make fantastic sculptures out of the discarded metal tires and car parts of their neighborhood. The cinder block walls are lined with clean sheets of plywood painted black. At one end hangs an enormous 3 by 4 meter mural print of two anguished and screaming men carrying a third. On the adjacent wall are dozens of images depicting the hellish chaos in the immediate aftermath of the earthquake. Pancaked buildings, smoke and flames, the distraught cement streaked faces of survivors desperately working to extract friends from the rubble. At 63, Morel, with wild salt and pepper dreadlocks sprouting in multiple directions from his head, is mounting a major photography exhibit in the neighborhood he was in this same courtyard five years ago when the ground started to shake. It was like a wave going up and down, up and down, he said. At first I didn't know what it was. There was a terrifying noise, but at the same time, the earth was moving. In the devastated Grand Rue, Morell was the sole representative of the world's press, surrounded by confusion, smoke, fear and a flowing river of traumatized Haitians. The pictures he took an hour before sunset became the most famous and also notorious of his 30 year career. The next day, they appeared on the covers of newspapers around the globe, but only after they had been stolen off the Internet and distributed without Morell's permission on a walk through downtown Port au Prince. Today, it is hard to see much impact from the vast sums that were donated by people all over the world via flashing banner ads posted on the websites of big NGOs begging for help for Haiti, promoting the urgent need. There are the same reeking garbage, clogged canals and fetid piles of organic refuse, the same lack of basic services that makes life for residents of the Grand Ru and areas like it a brutal, constant struggle for life and dignity. Where is all the money? Morell asked me rhetorically, so often it is spent without including the Haitians who are meant to benefit, and without involving them in questions vital to their own destiny. The way Morell's images were taken from him seems to me a kind of metaphor for the shortcomings of the international aid machine and one reason he put the show on here for the Haitian people, as he puts it. Many of those who came to Morell's opening had never been to a photography exhibition before, and they stood transfixed, pointing out friends and neighbors they recognized in the images, discussing wounds and injuries and reflecting on those they had lost. The courtyard quickly filled with people, and at 4:53, the precise moment of the earthquake, Morell called for a minute of silent remembrance. It was an exercise in historical memory, cathartic rather than mournful. The photos glittered on the wall, and even the gutters of the Grand Roux in front of the entrance had been swept and tidied. I hope my people open their eyes, morel said. Foreigners cannot change their lives. They have to change their own lives. Later, asked how he thought it had gone, he told a story. The other day I was sitting here when I saw a shoeshine man walk in and look at those photos with so much interest. It was like a dream come true, because in Haiti, he's the lowest category of human being. It's the worst work you can do in this society. Can you imagine you have to carry a box? You walk for miles and miles to make $2 or $1. When I saw that guy walk in here, first of all, he knew he had the right to come in here freely and look at those pictures. That guy carried his shoeshine box in here to look. I tell you, seeing that was worth everything I did.
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Richard Fleming in Port au Prince now, many countries have a somewhat ambivalent attitude to their offshore islands. And not just those which cite their most forbidding prisons on them. The island mentality is a subject routinely discussed in Chile. Not surprising when you consider that off this country's long, skinny coastline, there are more than 5,000 islands, some just barren rocks, others accommodating thriving and self sufficient communities. The Chilliwe Archipelago is one of the most distinctive of these island groups and works now going ahead on a construction which promises to tie it more closely to the rest of the country. Lucy Deltroff, who was there recently, wonders if it might just be a bridge too far.
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It's a grey day on Chillaway, but as the rain stops and the mist clears, a pair of black necked swans elegantly glide past, not even giving a glance to the colourful houses on stilts, palafitos as they are called here, which come gradually into view as they swim by. We don't mind the rain, says Benjamin, our guide. We just get on with it, dress accordingly and enjoy our surroundings. He's right, of course. Even Darwin alluded to the bad winter weather in this archipelago two thirds of the way down Chile's long, rugged coastline in his journal, the Voyage of the Beagle. Nevertheless, he enjoyed the unique wildlife and the kindness of the locals. And it was while exploring Chiliway that Darwin witnessed a rare volcanic eruption which increased his understanding of geology. This helped with his later important work on the formation of volcanic atolls and coral reefs. Today, the 30 islands make up a fiercely independent community with its own distinct identity. The older generation still has faith in the magical legends and stories that have been passed down here for many years. There's one about a ghost ship called Caliuche, carrying the souls of wrecked sailors. And then there's Trauco, a repulsive gnome who can kill with just a look, but is irresistible to young virgins. The Jesuits first brought Catholicism to these islands in the 17th century, and I can't help wondering if their religious strictures meant that these fantasies became a great way to shift the blame for unmarried pregnant girls or drunken young men. The many churches Here also result from the missionaries visits. Previously, local building skills had been used mainly in making fishing vessels. So the 160 colourful wood basilicas scattered predominantly along the coastline were constructed with the framework of an upside down boat. Sixteen of them have now achieved UNESCO World Heritage status. Later, houses were made of the local wood with distinctive stucco patterns which are completely different from colonial architecture in the rest of Chile. The capital Castro dates from 1576 and is full of character despite some destruction from an earthquake in 1960 that completely destroyed the port. In the bustling Yonblai market, any fluent Spanish speaker would detect a distinct Gelotte dialect with marked differences in vocabulary, accent and pronunciation. Unlike in other parts of South America, goods are traded in an orderly, controlled way. Gleaming varieties of shellfish tumble over bulging stalls. Fishing is still one of the main occupations. Nearby, the fruit and vegetable stands with their giant garlic cloves are dominated by potatoes. Over 200 local varieties grow here, ranging in colour from mauve to yellow. They are still sold in Almuds 5 kilo bundles, an old unit of measurement left over from the Spanish invasion and no longer used in any other part of the continent. But now change is in the air and not everyone is convinced that it will be a good thing. The government has decided to build a bridge to the mainland, which would be the largest in South America. Two years ago, LAN Airways inaugurated four regional flights a week into the tiny airport near Castro. But the main access to the rest of Chile is still by the romantic 30 minute ferry that leaves from nearby Pagua, south east of Port au Montgomery. The new plans would turn the trip into a boring three minute car ride. There's a big division here, explains Andres Bravari, architect and general manager of a new hotel. We've been told the bridge would let us get to better healthcare on the mainland and the general consensus is yes, we do need that, but instead let's just put a small proportion of that budget into building a modern hospital here. The truth is, we weren't rarely consulted. The health risks were highlighted last year by the case of 35 year old Miriam Marcella Sontana. She was 25 weeks pregnant and suffering from a brain hemorrhage. The small local hospital couldn't treat her adequately, so the decision was made to seek out better medical care. Sadly, the three hour journey to a mainland hospital was just too long for her to survive. Apart from the health benefits, supporters also expect the bridge to boost tourism and and increase investment and business opportunities on the island. Opponents worry about habitat degradation, land and marine pollution and an end to their uniqueness as a community. A new shopping mall in the historical centre of Castro has not had a great reception. Repeated legal disputes have meant it hasn't even opened its doors yet. The bridge could run into problems too, especially if the pessimistic predictions about its effect on the ecosystem turn out to be true.
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Coming across that repulsive and murderous gnome won't help either. And with that from Lucy Daltroff in Chile, we've reached the end of another edition. There'll be more reporters tales from around the world in our program on Saturday morning. Do join us then. Goodbye.