by Chris Mullin
Wednesday, 19 May
Soweto, South Africa
Curiously, no one in Soweto rides a bicycle. They either walk or, in the case of the few who can afford to, drive. There is nothing in between. Odd since the bicycle is the obvious form of transport for a poor man. It is by no means all gloom here. Luxury hacienda are going up on the periphery which would not look out of place in the better parts of Sunderland, evidence that at least some of South Africa’s vast wealth is trickling down. We passed the grim-looking hostels for Zulu migrant workers, once the source of a good deal of Apartheid-era violence, but now living in harmony with their neighbours. Someone pointed out Winnie Mandela’s fortified condominium and the street where Nelson Mandela once lived and where Archbishop Tutu still has a modest house. Where else can you find a street which houses two Nobel Prize winners?
Friday, 21 May
Hotel Tivoli, Beira, Mozambique
We drove 30 miles north of the city to a village where a bunch of local high-school kids were educating Aids orphans. Lovely little people, some in rags, some with swollen bellies; traumatised, hungry, sitting under trees being taught to read and write. Some had been living wild, stealing sugar cane until a local boy intervened and persuaded three South African women from the nearby sugar plant to get involved. The women looked for all the world like spoiled Afrikaner housewives, which just goes to show that one should never judge by appearances. ‘Within two weeks of coming here my values had totally changed,’ remarked one of the women. ‘I wish I could show this scene to my nieces. All they care about is what clothes they are wearing and when they can go to the beach house.’
Saturday, 22 May
Beira
After breakfast, a short walk around the city centre. The most striking thing about Beira is the almost complete absence of the state, local or national. Streets littered with rotting garbage, drains blocked with domestic waste and from dark recesses an odour of (human) excreta; grey, grim multi-storey flats, a legacy from the long-departed Portuguese, dominating the city centre, the upper storeys no longer reached by electricity or water. Pondering all this, I suddenly found myself losing sympathy. Do they really need foreigners to pick up the litter for them? Surely there must be something they could do for themselves? What about a few pence per rubbish bag to the all-too-ubiquitous street children to pick it up?
Maputo airport
While awaiting our flight to Johannesburg we found ourselves caught up in the arrival of no less a figure than the prime minister of São Tomé for tomorrow’s summit of the New Partnership for African Development (NEPAD). He received the full treatment: 100 metres of red carpet, a military band, a guard of honour, a choir of singing schoolchildren and the inevitable fleet of top of the range limos to whisk him away to his, no doubt five-star, hotel. Helpfully the limos all bore NEPAD number plates. The highest I saw was NEPAD 137. This is the organisation which is supposed to be leading Africa away from government by corrupt, self-serving elites into the sunlit uplands of democracy, transparency, accountability. Let us pray that there is more to NEPAD than luxury limos.
Thursday, 27 May
This afternoon I took the Dalai Lama to see Jack. I received him at the Members’ Entrance and escorted him through Westminster Hall and along the Library Corridor to Jack’s room. They didn’t really engage.
HH talked too much and Jack, who was on unfamiliar ground, confined himself to a handful of anodyne questions. At one point he inquired about the current population of Lhasa and HH replied that it was around 200,000. I could see Jack thinking, ‘Is that all?’ HH’s command of English has scarcely changed since we first met 30 years ago. He still lapses occasionally into Tibetan and waits for Tenzin Geyche to supply the missing words. There were a couple of nice moments. One, at the beginning, when HH on seeing Jack said, ‘I know your face from TV – Iraq.’ The other when HH remarked that the BJP in India was ‘the party of the rich’ to which Jack (to the bemusement of HH and the amusement of everyone else) interjected, ‘Like New Labour.’
As usual HH exuded optimism and good humour. As I showed him to his car, he remarked that the new railway which the Chinese are building across the Qinghai plateau could bring 30 million Chinese to Tibet. ‘Tibetans must have more children,’ I said.
He replied with a chuckle, ‘Yes – and less monks.’
Saturday, 29 May
The Holmes, St Boswells
Latest additions to Mrs Dale’s menagerie include half a dozen donkeys (a sign at the end of the drive proclaims that The Holmes is now a donkey sanctuary), a llama and a female pig named Matilda, who is supposed to be mating with Jasper but who thus far has shown no interest. Mrs Dale asked me to keep an eye out for signs of activity.
Monday, 8 June
Awoke to hear Hilary Benn, in Sudan, being quizzed by John Humphrys, who was doing his best to link the catastrophe in Darfur to Iraq, implying it was all our fault; at one point he alleged that a million people had died (whereas in fact the death toll so far is a few thousand, although it may well rise sharply unless large-scale help arrives soon). Hilary dealt with him calmly, patiently addressing each point and resisting the temptation to go for the smug Humphrys’ throat. I am not sure I could have displayed such restraint.
‘Iraq looks more hopeful than at any time recently,’ opined Jack at the ministerial lunch in the India Office Council Chamber. The basis for his optimism, which is not widely shared, seems to be the progress at the UN on a resolution legitimising the transfer of sovereignty. ‘By the end of the year,’ Jack continued, ‘we should be in a position to turn round and say to the Lib Dems: “What would you do, if Saddam was still there?”’ In the absence of any Lib Dems he looked at me when making this point. I kept my mouth firmly shut.
Wednesday, 10 June
Up early to prepare for a Westminster Hall debate on Darfur, a catastrophe entirely man-made. As so often, there is a tightrope to be walked. The only thing that stops us forthrightly condemning the evil, rotten regime which has perpetrated the slaughter is the fact that we need the co-operation of the Sudanese rulers to get aid to the afflicted; and also to preserve the painstakingly negotiated recent agreement between north and south; finally, we want their help delivering up Joseph Kony and his Lord’s Resistance Army, which from the safety of bases in southern Sudan has laid waste to northern Uganda. Whatever we do in Darfur thousands, perhaps tens of thousands, are going to die.
Thursday, 11 June
Making good use of an unexpected gap in the diary I mowed the lawn at Brixton Road and then walked around to the polling station to cast my vote for The People’s Ken, who (shades of Cultural Revolution China) has now been miraculously transformed, in the New Labour pantheon, from ‘a renegade, traitor and scab’ to ‘a hero of the people’ – our only hope of salvaging something from what are otherwise expected to be catastrophic local election results.
And then to the office only to find a great flap going on. Jack – at the behest of Ed Owen – had asked why no minister was available to respond to Michael Ancram on the Today programme this morning on an item about a visiting Zimbabwean. Apparently, there was a message from Today late last night, but Bharat had been unable to get hold of me. He did in fact leave a message on my answerphone at the flat which I received when I returned at about 1 a.m. I simply took the view that the Today programme bid did not merit a response (which, as it turned out, was also the view of the press office) and went to bed. So, once again, Minister Mullin is in the proverbial. I have quietly asked Bharat to get the office pager out of the cupboard where it has resided since I assumed office.
Monday, 14 June
To a packed meeting of the parliamentary party where one might have expected some sort of post-mortem following our disastrous showing in the local and Euro elections in which The People’s Ken was re-elected in London but we lost control in seven or eight cities, including Newcastle, where the Lib Dems swept all before them. Two stout policemen were posted by the door to prevent eavesdropping
. A throng of hacks lurked in the hope of spilled blood. Instead an unnatural calm prevailed. The Man rose to the usual loud acclaim. As ever he spoke brilliantly, apparently unshaken by the drubbing we have just received. His message: hold our nerve, ‘park’ Iraq in a different place, deal with other problems such as asylum, draw some clear dividing lines between ourselves and the Tories and then make the electorate ‘a good forward offer’ (another one for the New Labour lexicon; how long before it enters the vocabulary of every Blair Babe?). No nastiness from the floor. No mention (save for a gentle side-swipe from Paul Flynn) of regime change. Several people actually remarked how well we had done in their area. Even as the snow falls and the troops are deserting we march steadily on towards Moscow, whistling a happy tune.
‘I was interested to hear how well we’d done,’ remarked Robin Cook acidly, later. Bryan Davies said, ‘They’re in denial. They can’t read the writing on the wall. No leader would have got away with that 20 years ago.’
Tuesday, 15 June
A sudden outburst from Jack at this morning’s pre-Questions conference regarding the inadequacy of the draft replies. It was prompted by a long essay which he was expected to read out in response to a question about India.‘How many times have I made clear that answers should be no longer than 50 words and that they should address the questions? The Foreign Office has been answering questions for 220 years. We ought to be able to get it right by now.’ He went on at some length. ‘Crap’ and the f-word featured repeatedly. ‘If necessary, I’ll make the directors draft the answers personally. Why should ministers have to spend time redrafting this f-ing crap?’ Later, a minute was circulated repeating the point, minus the purple passages.
Wednesday, 16 June
Liz Symons reported in ill again, as she is prone to do, so I was asked to receive a delegation of Guantanamo Bay relatives in her place.
Actually, it was a put-up job organised by Vanessa and Corin Redgrave
who, of course, have their own agenda. They came accompanied by some good and serious people, including Frank Judd, the Bishop of Oxford, Jim McKeith, Rabbi David Goldberg; plus Sarah Ludford, a venomous Lib Dem peer who was so worked up that she could hardly bring herself to look at me. I was given a Line to Take. The one we have been chanting for months. With every day that passes it sounds less credible. It also demonstrates beyond peradventure our utter lack of influence with our supposed closest ally. Poor Mr Begg had got it into his head that Tony Blair had only to say the word and his son would be returned; nothing I said could persuade him otherwise. Guantanamo was a moral issue, said the bishop. Why couldn’t we speak out? Why indeed? If ever there was an issue where we need – for the sake of our credibility – to put some clear blue water between us and the Americans, this is it. That is Liz Symons’s view and for all I know it is Jack’s, too. Vanessa, fizzing with Trotskyist outrage, provided the only light relief. ‘I don’t believe a word said by anyone from the British government.’
‘But Vanessa,’ I smiled sweetly, ‘that’s been your position for at least the last 30 years.’
When they were gone I penned a note to Jack saying that, if nothing happened soon, we should speak out. We won’t, of course. The Man simply wouldn’t allow it.
The Terrace, House of Commons
What better place to dine on a warm summer’s evening, after a hard day’s governing? A cool breeze from the river, a heron flying east briefly spotlighted by the dying sun; the three Victorian pavilions of St Thomas’s Hospital and the water tower, aglow. Only one small, dark thought clouds my mind as I sit here. What is to prevent some agent of al-Qaida standing on Westminster Bridge or on the far (but not so far) side of the river and raking the terrace with automatic gunfire?
Thursday, 17 June
In the absence of Liz Symons I was dispatched at 15 minutes’ notice to conference room A of the Cabinet Office for a meeting of the Ad Hoc Ministerial Group on the Rehabilitation of Iraq. Geoff Hoon in the chair. The cast included Patricia Hewitt, Hilary Benn, Attorney General Peter Goldsmith, the Chief of the Defence Staff and the Permanent Secretary at the Ministry of Defence, Sir Kevin Tebbit, just back from Baghdad. Pessimism was the prevailing sentiment. Someone said, ‘It’s going to get worse before it gets better.’ The enemy are growing more sophisticated by the day. ‘They have learned in a year what it took the IRA 30 years.’
Afterwards a brief exchange with Peter Goldsmith, who has been negotiating with the Americans about Guantanamo. ‘Outrageous’ was the word he used.
Monday, 21 June
The Residence, Kinshasa
The Congo: a vast, chaotic, misgoverned, dysfunctional morass; its rulers historically preoccupied with looting rather than governing. The armed forces: bloated, parasitic, disloyal and generally useless, except in so far as they threaten the lives and welfare of the much put-upon civilian population. Although rich in mineral wealth and blessed with some of the world’s most fertile agricultural land, most Congolese are among the poorest people in Africa.
My mission, to persuade all parties (including the meddling Rwandans) to stop squabbling and concentrate on making a success of the peace process. The Americans have also sent an envoy.
Ambassador Jim Atkinson showed us to our rooms, indicating the windowless hallway outside. ‘If there is any shooting, this is the best place to shelter.’ His point was not entirely academic. The most recent outburst of gunfire was on Sunday. The wall of his living room is scarred by a large bullet hole and underneath a bronze plaque which reads,‘A present from Brazzaville, 21 December, 1998’.
Tuesday, 22 June
Called on Vice-President Bemba (large, bombastic, rich), who delivered a long tirade on the wickedness of the Rwandans, at one point he seemed to be threatening war (unwise: the Congolese would be soundly thrashed). Like every self-respecting warlord Bemba has his own bodyguards, a motley collection of lounging soldiers, including a handful of Uruguayans provided by the UN. And parked by the river, an M18 helicopter, ready to whisk him to safety in the event of an emergency. The abiding image: a pick-up truck, parked at an angle across the road, machine gun mounted on the back pointing vaguely in the direction of Brazzaville, the custodian flat out, asleep on the floor, his legs resting at 45 degrees on the base of the machine gun. He was still comatose when we emerged from Bemba’s office an hour later. Bharat wanted to take a photograph, but I cautioned against.
Soldiers in the Congo have a tendency to over-react.
Wednesday, 23 June
A wasted morning, loitering on His Excellency’s verandah, awaiting the call that President Kabila is ready to receive us. HE, chain-smoking, remarkably laidback. ‘Don’t worry, this is how it is in the Congo; it always works out in the end.’ But we do worry. Our time is short. We have other business to attend to, all on hold until we hear from the President. Meanwhile HE, on his mobile, has rung the President’s office; something he should have done three hours ago. As I feared, we are now being invited to meet Kabila at 13.00, which we can’t because we have ten people coming to lunch. After some hard bargaining, a time of 14.40 is agreed upon.
Joseph Kabila became president three years ago because someone shot his father. He was aged just 29. The learning curve has been steep.
In his pictures Kabila junior looks a little like Baby Doc Duvalier. In the flesh, however, he is a small, unassuming man in an olive green safari suit. He enters unannounced through a side door and takes his seat without fanfare. He is wearing an expensive watch which he takes off and balances on the arm of his chair. His opening words are ‘You
wanted to see me?’ He does not seem overjoyed; a little weary even.
Gradually he warms up, insisting that he is committed to making a success of the transitional government and that he is anxious to avoid war with Rwanda.
Unlike his father (who had a penchant for the firing squad) Kabila II does not inspire fear, or even respect (one of his officials slept throughout our meeting). One could easily feel sorry for him, rattling arou
nd in that great, ugly palace by the river, not knowing who to trust. Odds are it will end badly. You can’t become president of a place like the Congo in your twenties and expect to die peacefully in bed.
Thursday, 24 June
Up early for our flight, in a small private jet, to Rwanda, via Mbuji Mayi and Bukavu (the scene of recent fighting).
‘There are no altruistic Congolese,’ opines HE as we are driven to the airport. ‘You only have to look at what the rulers have done to their people in the last 40 years.’ He goes on, ‘A mandate. That’s the only way. The international community is wasting its time on a halfhearted effort. They should either take over and do it properly or get out. The Congolese would sort it out among themselves. Another strong man would emerge, like Mobutu. He’d make himself very rich, but some of it would trickle down, order would be restored and people would be able to get on with their lives.’
‘Are you going to put that in your valedictory telegram?’
‘No.’
Kigali, Rwanda
Just time for a shower and a change of clothes before being taken to see President Kagame. Tall, thin, youthful, softly spoken, calm, he gives the impression that – unlike poor Kabila – he is firmly in charge. My mission, to dissuade him from any rash action in the Congo, whatever the provocations (and they are considerable). The problem is that the Rwandans, and who can blame them, have absolutely no confidence in the UN. Presently there are an estimated 12,000 unrepentant génocidaires sitting over the border in Congo, making occasional raids. The Rwandans, very reasonably, want to know why the Congolese and MONUC (the largest UN mission) have so far proved incapable of dealing with them and, in the absence of effective international intervention, they are threatening to do the job themselves.