← From Our Own Correspondent
From Our Own Correspondent
The Sacred Crocodiles
00:28:20
Thomas Fessy flew into The Gambia to ask questions about recent executions.
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You're listening to a download from the BBC.
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This is from our own correspondent.
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You can hear the version of the 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, expelled from the Gambia, our correspondent wonders, what have the authorities got to hide? A final day at work for the man who looked after the sacred crocodiles of Ivory coast, there's an extraordinary moment in a church in the middle of Madrid's hard drugs market. And why does it help a French mayor to be a dab hand with a sledgehammer? Now you can find a sprawl of makeshift dwellings on the edge of many cities, from Mumbai to Manila, Rio to Johannesburg. Places without electricity, running water or proper sewers. But there are also shanty towns in Europe. The biggest, just south of Madrid, is called the Canada Real. For 700 years, this piece of ground has been common land which nobody is allowed to buy, sell or build on. But the poorest people in Spain start started putting up illegal dwellings for themselves there in the 1940s. And today tens of thousands live along the Canada Real, many in conditions you wouldn't expect inside the European Union. And John Laurenson's been finding out that the deeper the Euro crisis bites, the more people move in.
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Arriving at this encampment, neither me nor my interpreter was sure it was such a good idea. And especially my interpreter. It was his car. Not even his car, his sister's car. Around us, a village of tarpaulin and plastic sheeting, advertising hoardings, bits of wood, whatever the inhabitants had been able to find. But the first person we met was Manuel. He came over to greet us, not the least bit embarrassed about not having a shirt on and smiling. The I love you smile that I've come to associate with people who have got religion. He. He definitely got religion. He was, he explained, an evangelist pastor. That large white mobile home next door was his church. The last place I was living was demolished, so I came here, he said. Here we had to build our house ourselves. But I'm a carpenter, he said, giving me the Jesus smile again. We have a saying, necessity makes you smarter than ten lawyers put together. And the economic crisis. There is no crisis for those who have nothing. In another part of the Caada, a man called Aziz showed me round his home. Three spartan rooms, prayer mat, flat screen tv. But there was a snag. Quite a big snag, in fact. At any time a bulldozer might come and smash it to little pieces. The authorities have demolished houses near this one. Of course I am worried, he said. I walk with him up the road to the mosque. A few children playing in the dusty road. The faithful were starting to gather for evening prayers. For a large part, like Aziz, former construction workers during Spain's crazy housing boom, they built some of the hundreds of thousands of Spanish houses that are now standing new, unsold and empty. Aziz, Miloud, Nohreddin, Mohammed, Moroccans, most of them men who hadn't worked since the housing market crash. Houses they'd built plenty out there in the world beyond the Canada real. But nowadays they couldn't afford to live in one. The faithful couldn't all fit inside the mosque. Another hundred or so were outside. I sat just behind them by an olive tree on a bit of wasteland. It was about 11 o'. Clock. The prayers floated out into the late summer night. It was extraordinarily peaceful. If this is the opium of the people, I thought, the people are lucky. Down the other end of the Canada, they use the real stuff. The following day that's where we went, bumping along in a jeep driven by a wiry, black bearded priest called Father Agustin. On the car floor there was a coil of rope and a spring hook. The padre goes potholing in his spare time. At work too, he descends into dark places. His church is in the middle of Madrid's out of town. Open air, hard drugs market. And all day, every day, people shoot up outside the church building. Inside the altar was a Formica table, the crucifix made of bricks cemented to the wall. Agustin's mission is to help the addicts. But do any of them ever come for anything other than material help? I ask. No, he says, they don't. Not at first. But at mass on Sunday, something extraordinary happens. Father Agostin was in the middle of his sermon when a man came in. Short sleeve shirt, needle marks all over his arms. Come back later. Shouted the priest. But the man wanted to stay. After the sermon, Agustin asked him his name. Emilio. And if he wanted to say anything, he did. And this is what he I want to apologize. I suppose you must be a little bit shocked, but anyway, I have my problems, my addictions. I don't consider myself a bad person. But I've lost my faith. I've lost everything. I. I'm very sad because of the things that have happened to me. You were saying about the bread, he continued. I suppose it's not bread for the stomach. It's also bread for this. He pointed to his heart. The tears were streaming down his face. If you don't also eat this bread, this heart starves. In these times, everyone is thinking about money, about the crisis. They're important. But we should all enter a peaceful place, at least for a moment. That's why I came in here. And again, please forgive me. I'm actually the most normal person in the world. That's why I'm ashamed of blaming God when I shouldn't. But it's easy to blame someone else. He looked around at the small congregation. Thank you for letting me in, he said. I was worried you wouldn't.
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And that's John Laurenson in Madrid. The United nations has voiced its concern about what it's calling a deadly anti gay campaign in Iraq. Activists say that in the years since the overthrow of Saddam Hussein, hundreds of gay men and some women have been killed, victims of an ongoing systematic persecution of homosexuals. In some cases, police or army officers have been accused of carrying out the killings. The UN Office in Baghdad believes that Iraq's government is in violation of international law. It's told our correspondent Natalia Antalava that failure to take appropriate action to stop the persecution has made the state complicit in the crimes committed.
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Dr. Ali Dabbar was losing patience. In London, he said firmly, you'd go around topless. Here in Baghdad we have different standards. I tried to point out that going topless in London wasn't exactly acceptable either. But the spokesman for the Iraqi government wasn't listening. He was visibly irritated that our interview wasn't just about the protection of minorities in Iraq, but specifically about the persecution of of gays. I told Dr. Dabar that we've discovered that the Iraqi police and army were involved in widespread arrests and killings of gays. He denied it. It's not even an issue, he said. How many gays are there in Iraq? Maybe 10, 20? I only know one gay in Najaf who had some problems, and that was many years ago. But we've spoken to 17, I said, and they're all terrified of the police. All of them have had friends or partners killed. These people need to respect our culture and our tradition, Dr. Dabagh replied. They need to change. That's like telling a black person to stop being black. I protested again. No, he said firmly. Being black is natural. This is behavior. Across the hot, dusty city of Baghdad and a world away from the white sofas and golden chandeliers of Ali Dabar's Green Zone residents, Alu, Nancy and Ahmed sat under a noisy fan in their stuffy room. All three have received death threats. Alu and Nancy from the police. Ahmed from his own family, which is ashamed of him. Their tiny new home is Baghdad's only safe house for gays. The local group running it is taking serious risks. Other shelters have been raided by the police and shut down in the past. I first covered the persecution of gays in Iraq back in 2009, when human rights Watch said that dozens, perhaps hundreds, were being tortured and killed. Their report included examples of torture. One way to kill, it said, was to glue shut a victim's anus and force feed him laxatives. Mutilated bodies of gay men were often discovered in rubbish dumps. And yet, at the time, some Western journalists met gay men in Baghdad cafes. Some even filmed them walking down the streets. You would never even think of doing it now. It's just not safe. Many gays have their names posted on hit lists that appear regularly around Baghdad. Every neighborhood gets its own list with names and addresses of local residents believed to be gay. This drives their already hidden community further underground and further into panic. Each time, one young man said, it brings more arrests and killings. The government wants to exterminate us is an allegation I heard over and again. It's impossible to prove it, but one former policeman said he had been ordered to arrest gays. They're an easy enemy, he told me. Getting rid of gays resonates with the conservative public. It's a popular stand to take, he said. Islamic conservatism is sometimes blamed for this persecution, but the accusation doesn't really stand up. Look at the rest of the Middle East. In Lebanon, radical Shiite group Hezbollah has shown some tolerance towards gays. In Iran, homosexuality is illegal and often punished. And yet there is an underground gay scene. Even in what is arguably the Middle East's most conservative state, Saudi Arabia, there has not been persecution on this scale. Some believe the killings are a reaction to the fundamental clash between two forces which Saddam Hussein kept bottled up and which were unleashed by the US led occupation. The American role in Iraq gave liberal minded Iraqis a great expectation of freedom. People thought they had a choice and a right to assert their identity. This often voiced expectation became a major irritant for the radical parties that the very same power the United States helped to put in charge of the new Iraq. This confused post occupation identity plays a major role in the brutal killings, which is why the persecution of gays, one civil rights activist explained, is part of the real battle for the future of Iraq. Having gone through all the bloodshed and hardship Will Iraq emerge as a place where differences are respected? Or will it be a country where everyone is forced to fit into an identity crafted by its conservative ruling elite? Ali Dabagh, the government spokesman, answered this question. Values of the society, he told me, are much more important than values of an individual.
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Natalia Antalava in Baghdad. The Gambia is one of Africa's smallest countries, and unlike many of its West African neighbours, it has enjoyed long periods of stability since independence. But stability has not translated into prosperity. The country's president, Yahya Jameh, has hopes of finding oil, but until then, the main earners are peanut exports and tourism. Our West Africa correspondent, Thoma Fessey, flew in the other day and he wanted to ask questions not about the economy, but about a string of executions which have taken place there, the first in 27 years. But while the tourists may be welcome, nosy correspondents, it seems, aren't. Thomas was detained and then ordered out of the country.
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I was checking out of a lovely large hotel right on the ocean when the two middle aged tourists stormed into reception. They were upset that the fishermen they'd booked hadn't turned up. It had been raining heavily and the fishermen, I thought, had probably assumed that they'd rather stay indoors while they were wondering if they'd ever get out in a boat. I was in my room watching the rain bucket down while constantly checking my phone. I was hoping to get a call from the authorities saying I could stay on in the Gambia, but perhaps I was being naive. I was dealing with the other face of this country, but one that Most of the 50,000 British tourists who come here each year don't get to see. I had arrived at the airport less than 48 hours earlier. I had the correct visa, but was held there for more than five hours and was only released after the British High Commission stepped in. It was told I had to take the next flight back to my base in Senegal, which meant my stay at the lodge was only a brief one. I was sent to the Gambia after nine prisoners were executed there. The president, Yahya Jameh, had said earlier he was determined to clear up death row. Today There are another 38 prisoners there, wondering what their fate will be. These were the first executions in the Gambia since 1985. Amnesty International had described the state as abolitionist in practice, but President Jammeh's reputation of being an unpredictable ruler was once again confirmed at the end of last year. In a rare interview with the BBC, he replied to allegations of human rights violations quite bluntly. A number of local journalists, activists or opposition Members had been arrested, mysteriously murdered, or had simply disappeared. When my colleague asked him about these cases, the president pointed out that there were people in jail sentenced to death who were still alive. So he said he was hardly likely to have killed people who hadn't been condemned under the law. Do you think I want to earn a one way ticket to hell? He asked. The death penalty is certainly legal under the constitution of the Gambia, but one can argue that proper legal procedures were not observed before or after the executions. The bodies of the nine weren't even handed back to their families. Nobody understands why Yahya Jammeh suddenly decided to implement the death penalty. I was hoping I could meet him in person so he could explain. During the brief period I was in his country, the president, who describes himself as a countryman, was apparently spending time on his village farm. Did he know I was in the capital, Benjul, and being expelled? Of course he knows. Diplomats and others told me he has people everywhere, undercover agents who tell him everything. I was warned ahead of my trip that I would probably be spied on while reporting there was. But in the end I was prevented from doing any work. What was the government so worried about? I wondered. It did eventually confirm the executions had taken place, but only after news of them had begun to leak out. It said the prisoners were killed by firing squads. President Jameh, who said he would rule the Gambia for one billion years if Allah said so, is known to be keen on receiving spiritual guidance from his medium. There are persistent rumors, not discounted by foreign diplomats, that these executions have a lot to do with the president's belief in the supernatural and in traditional juju practices, and that the prisoners were not in fact shot dead, but killed by lethal injection. Of course, the Gambia is a rumor mill. Many of the rumors are fueled by the online reports of opposition members in exile. But if the executions really were carried out according to the rule book, then why weren't the bodies handed over to the families? Meanwhile, those still on death throw their families and human rights groups have no idea if more executions are to be carried out. I first saw that British couple the day before their planned fishing trip. I was still hunkered down over my phone, hoping to hear the authorities had, after all, decided to let me in. The man and woman were in the hotel bar, happily chatting away over gin and tonics. It didn't look like they were discussing the country's grim human rights record, but our Gambian experiences were obviously very different. The constant rain had disrupted their holiday. To me, it simply added another detail to the image of a tropical country closed to journalists. That, I reflected, usually means there are nasty things to hide.
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Thoma Fessi Back now in Dakar, Senegal, there are some jobs that seem considerably less desirable than others. And although there were probably perks, caring for the sacred crocodiles of Ivory coast doesn't sound like an ideal form of employment. A man called Diko Tokai held the post for more than 30 years. He presided over an artificial lake filled with enormous crocodiles in the jungle capital, Yamasukro, which was created by the late President Felix Uffoue Boigny. But now there's a job vacancy. Mr. Tokai is no longer the official carer. John James has been telling us about his last day at work.
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For close to four decades, Diko Tokai, originally from neighbouring Mali, was in charge of feeding Ivory Coast's sacred crocodiles. He knew them all by name and they responded to his call. Capitain, chef de cabinet, commandant, authoritarian names for these were the guardians of Ivory Coast's founding father, Felix Hufoud Buagne, who governed for 33 years and shared Dycault's nickname, Le Vieux. The Vieux Dicot carried out his dangerous work for years. But the best he could offer his family was a simple one story home around a crowded courtyard, his boss, President Hufwet Banyi, lived in rather grander style. He turned his ancestral land into a vast presidential palace, dubbed the Versailles of Africa. In 1983, the small hometown became the capital in the jungle with a seven story convention center, one of the world's most impressive churches. Imagine Rome's St. Peter's surrounded by a tropical swamp and a world class golf course. In 1994, President Hufud Buanye was buried inside the palace grounds, guarded by an artificial lake and the city's sacred crocodiles. A good friend of mine says that on the day of Hufweb's funeral, he saw with his own eyes a man screaming. Hoofwetti is dead. Why should I live? Before throwing himself in the lake where the crocodiles had him for dinner. The palace isn't open to visitors, but the lake is something of a tourist attraction. At exactly five o' clock, they head to the waters in front of the imposing palace gates for feeding time. This was Dicko's moment in the limelight. The crocodiles, and there are at least a dozen, get around 30 kilos of meat a day and other treats. Most days, visitors pay Dicko and his assistants for the privilege of watching a live chicken being thrown to the waiting reptiles. I've Been there myself. Microphone primed for that dying squawk and crunch of bone and feathers. The poor things rarely last more than a few seconds. The evening feeding frenzy is at once intriguing and horrifying. The Nobel Prize winning author, V. S Naipaul was captivated by the ritual which formed a central part of his essay the Crocodiles of Yamasukro, published in 1984. These sacred beasts made him wonder if Africa could ever be modern. Hufoud Buanye, still president at the time, was on the one hand, a head of state who'd studied medicine, served as a government minister in France, and now ruled what was then considered one of Africa's most successful modern countries. On the other hand, he was a tribal chief living in a giant palace protected by sacred crocodiles, who, the rumors said, required sacrifices. The crocodile feeding was, according to Naipaul, a public ceremony of kingship. The crocodiles, it was said, could warn the president of trouble with a simple move of the head. Crocodiles have a mythic role for Ivory Coast's largest ethnic group, the Baulei, who live around Yamasukro. The ethnic group of Houfouitbanye fled from what is now Ghana three centuries ago and to cross a river. The river God told the queen to sacrifice her only child. When this was done, the tribe was able to cross the river on the backs of hippos and crocodiles who lined up to form a bridge. A Baule proverb says, when in the middle of a river, do not insult the crocodile. Diko didn't insult the crocodiles. Instead, he had a reputation as their dedicated master and carer. Many said they could communicate with each other. Dikko made a regular show of pulling the giant monsters by their tails, posing for photographs next to a carpet of carnivores. Diko's final day at work was during the Muslim festival at the end of the Ramadan fast. Like many other ivory Muslims that day, he was wearing the long flowing bubul and with his rusty machete in one hand, he could have been a Jedi knight from the Star wars films. For once, Dicko wasn't quite as sure footed as in the days when Houfoudbany was alive. As he skipped over the last crocodile on his way to the barrier, the reptile caught hold of his robe. Not something he hadn't dealt with before. But as he swung his machete, he lost balance and fell to the ground. One of the biggest crocodiles, Chef de cabinet, was nearby to make sure he didn't stay on the ground for long. This being modern Africa, at least two people were filming at the time. They captured the crowd's chilling screams. By several accounts, though, Diko didn't cry out as the crocodile took him out into the middle of the lake. His family took part in a funeral last week, though none of his remains have been recovered. The governor of Yamasukra, Augustin Tiam, an urbane intellectual related to Hufort Bunye, summed up the shock many Ivorians felt. Perhaps there's a message behind this, he said. We need perhaps to consult the spirits now. Paul wouldn't be surprised.
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And that was John James, now London's mayor. Boris Johnson may be surfing a wave of post Olympics bonhomie, but outside the capital, mayors tend to maintain a lower profile. They might play an important ceremonial role, but the public doesn't expect much from them, and often you wouldn't recognize the mayor if he or she passed you in the street. But across the Channel, the mayor is a pivotal part of community life in the big cities and in the smallest villages. Cathy Flower lives in the eastern Pyrenees and has been discovering what some of France's 36,500 mayors do all day and why government attempts to cut their numbers seem doomed to failure.
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If you need to talk to the mayor, you can go to his office in the Mairie in Morias or get up early and pop down to the local bar, where he downs a few strong black coffees before starting work. On Sunday mornings. You can catch up with him inside the ancient church, where his deep, rumbling voice can be heard slightly behind the others, joining in with a plain song. Or in the stifling heat of a summer evening, you might find him slowly circling the square with a village dance group as they perform the stately Catalan dance called the Sardane. Born locally, Andre Bourdonnais speaks French and Catalan, knows everyone, and everyone knows him. After qualifying as a doctor, he practiced in the prosperous Mediterranean city of Bezier. But 35 years later, he came back determined to breathe life into yet another Pyrenean village at risk of slow death. A mayor is elected for six years, and in that time can really make a difference. Our mayor had ambitious plans to replace crumbling tenements, support local shops and improve the antiquated water supply system. Heated public meetings in Catalan and French followed, with some older residents opposed to any change in a village which most rarely leave. But the mayor won, and work has at last started on demolishing ugly, dilapidated buildings which have lain empty for years. The mayor himself wielded the sledgehammer which struck the first blow. The Mairie embodies both the power of central government and grassroots democracy, and is based on the communes of 1789. Many of the fine old buildings dwarf the few remaining houses around them. 80% of the communes now have fewer than a thousand residents. They run on a shoestring. When the town hall in Maurice had to be replaced, money was eventually found for a new one more suitable for the 21st century. But moving into the new premises threatened to cost a fortune. So the Mairie devised an ingenious solution. Leaflets went to every household, asking for volunteers to form a human chain from the old building to the new, with refreshments on offer. When it was done, the whole village turned out to help, and box files, faded aerial photos, battered desks, computers and a coffee percolator were passed up the cobbled street, across the main road and into the new building, followed by free food and a guided tour. The reception desk in the Mairie is always busy. The unflappable receptionist notes down the death of a family member, murmurs sympathy and opens a book of condolences for neighbours to sign. Babies wriggle in the mother's arms as their names are entered in the register and couples applying for a civil partnership or marriage license shyly accept congratulations. Sylvia, the policeman and the retained firefighters are based there, as is Martine, another elected councillor who can offer help to families in trouble. She's lived in the village most of her life, knows who really needs help and who is frankly, just pushing their luck. The place also functions as a tourist information office. Exhausted cyclists following in the tire tracks of the Tour de France stagger into the lobby and are directed to the municipal campsite, also run by the Mairie, there's seemingly no limit to what's expected of a mayor in St. Martin de Fournouillers, a remote village high up in the Pyrenees, the meandering old streets have never had names. Until now, that didn't matter, as the Postman knew every one of the 56 inhabitants. However, when the people of St. Martin started shopping online, van drivers couldn't deliver the parcels to the non existent addresses and and took to dumping them all at the Mairie. Undaunted, the mayor, Jacques Paris came up with 10 beautiful street names, such as Almond Tree street and Alleyway of the Olives, and ordered them to be engraved on terracotta plaques. Problem solved. In 1992, the French government cautiously suggested that smaller communes should team up with larger ones to save money. But nothing much changed. Sadly, after five years of battling to get new ideas accepted and find the funding to pay for them. Our mayor has decided not to stand again. That's the bad news. However, a possible candidate is already waiting in the wings. Sandrine, a feisty 30something mother of two who worked in Paris before returning home to run the village shop. She too would bring fresh ideas and a deep love for her hometown. Let's hope if she does run for election, that she can also wield a sledge hammer.
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Cathy Flower on the many skills required by a French mayor. That's it. We're here with a brand new edition at half past eleven on Saturday morning. Do join us. Goodbye.