Looking at the spaceship and then back to the people who had built it, I felt so proud of every single one of them, not only for their passion and commitment in a pioneering endeavor but also for their teamwork. I jotted down something one of the Galactic team said, and think it summed up the atmosphere perfectly: “We think of the vehicles as almost our children, which makes us a family, and we are all so proud to see what they grow into.”
The word “family” gets used too often by companies who treat their staff as anything but. I wish more businesses really did run like families. When things are going well, everyone has an even better time celebrating together. When things are tough, you can rally around and help each other get through it. That’s the way we work at Virgin Galactic, and the way we will continue to work. The new SpaceShipTwo is the first vehicle to be manufactured by The Spaceship Company, Virgin Galactic’s wholly owned manufacturing arm, and is the second vehicle of its design ever constructed. It had been a long road. The team had started building the second SpaceShipTwo back in 2012, with each component part undergoing rigorous testing before assembly. Integrated systems verification, followed by ground and flight tests in Mojave and ground and air exercises at its future home in Spaceport America, New Mexico, were all to come. It took quite a long time between the roll out and flight tests beginning, simply because the team wanted to test everything in the most methodical way possible.
On 5 December 2016, I was back in Mojave pre-dawn to see VSS Unity’s fifth flight, and the first time the spaceship had flown on her own. As Virgin Galactic’s mated vehicles flew across the bright blue sky for about an hour, we mingled with the team and their families below, looking up in wonder. VSS Unity then detached and flew solo, gliding serenely to the ground and setting up more exciting tests in the months ahead. In February 2017 I was back for VSS Unity’s third glide flight (we have since completed successful feather flights and are gearing up for powered flights), watching alongside Sam and Professor Brian Cox.
“People ask me, would you fly to space?” he told me, as we looked on at VSS Unity.
“Well, would you?”
“The moment I walked into this hangar and saw that spaceship, I thought: I want to get on that aircraft. So the answer is now yes—100 percent. In that!”
As we watched a pitch-perfect test, Brian became the latest person to be convinced he should join us when commercial flights begin. Hopefully that moment will come very, very soon.
CHAPTER 38
Good Morning, Vietnam, Good-bye, Madiba
It is one of those quirks of life that, despite going on all those Vietnam marches back in the 1960s, it wasn’t until 2015 that I visited the country myself. That September, after a whirlwind trip to Australia and an even swifter day visit to Bangkok to launch Virgin Radio Thailand, we landed tired and jet-lagged in Ho Chi Minh City, or Saigon as it is still mostly known.
Within moments, however, I was wide awake. As we drove through the buzzing city streets, I saw entire families riding on single-seat motorbikes, propaganda posters peeling off the walls and people rushing past the gates of the Independence Palace. We were making our way to a speaking engagement, where I hoped to inspire Vietnam’s rapidly developing young entrepreneurs to think about changing business for good. As we drove into the venue I could see it was going to be a busy event: people lining the streets outside and crowding the car as I got out. But, even so, I still wasn’t prepared for the reaction when I took to the stage—I felt like the fifth Beatle! There was a roar as the Black Eyed Peas “I Got a Feeling” blared out of the speakers and I found myself in front of nearly 10,000 Vietnamese, most of them aged from sixteen to thirty.
As I discussed space travel, mentorship and my own connection to Vietnam, they listened politely but intently, bursting into applause at regular intervals. It felt strange being somewhere that felt so far away when I was young, and now being recognized so strongly: one of the effects of social media is that today I am recognized in most countries in the world. I felt a bit awkward onstage in Vietnam, and wanted to make more of a personal connection with the locals. There was a strong security presence, something I never like, and I felt a little too distant from the audience. I decided to sit on the edge of the stage and answer questions. It wasn’t my greatest idea, as a crush forward started instantly, and I was quickly whisked into a waiting car while hundreds of people lined the streets. As dozens of scooters chased us in the heavy traffic, I high-fived the riders out of the window.
That evening I joined twenty-five of Vietnam’s leading entrepreneurs for a dinner discussion about conservation. Vietnam has become the end point in the fight to save the magnificent rhino. In the past few years, the number of rhinos brutally killed for their horns has risen astronomically. More than 1,200 rhinos were killed in South Africa alone in 2014. The reason? Demand in Vietnam, China and the Middle East. As I sat around a huge table in an opulent Saigon hotel, I learned that many of my well-intentioned fellow diners used rhino horn. Whether as jewelry, or for nonexistent medicinal properties, these sad superstitions and misinformation were leading to the slaughter of a majestic species.
Along with experts from WildAid and other conservation groups, I explained how rhino horn is nothing more than keratin, the same substance from which human hair and nails are made. I bit my nails, elaborating the point as I said: “If you think that rhino horn is a magical substance that can cure disease, you may as well be chewing your toe nails.” As I listened to the entrepreneurs around the table, I realized how much the issue has already become part of a national conversation, and how much embarrassment it has caused for a country of ninety million people that is rapidly entering the global market.
More positively, I learned that younger Vietnamese seem to understand the seriousness of the problem and no longer wish to be associated with these harmful habits. By the end of the evening, several dozen business leaders signed a pledge to never again use rhino horn, and agreed to start a movement to end the use of rhino horn once and for all. Huge progress has happened elsewhere since, and in December 2016 China announced a ban on all ivory trade.
One of the people present at the dinner was a remarkable lady who had lived inside the Củ Chi tunnels during the Vietnam War, and had gone on to become one of Vietnam’s most successful businesspeople. The following morning she joined us for an adventure up the Saigon River by boat, heading up toward Cambodia. Once we were chugging past thick green vegetation into the Vietnamese forests, I thought of Apocalypse Now and Martin Sheen’s journey upstream into the “heart of darkness.” I reminded myself of Củ Chi’s infamous history en route, reading about the site described as “the most bombed, shelled, gassed, defoliated and generally devastated area in the history of warfare.”
As I stepped off the boat, I immediately felt the heat and humidity of the jungle. We were only forty kilometers from Saigon’s center, but the bustle of the city felt thousands of miles away. We made our way into the tunnels, when I heard the rattle of gunfire. Startled, we looked around at each other, only relaxing when our guide explained that an automatic weapon shooting range was now part of the forest.
We ventured further into the tunnels and I learned more about how and where the Vietcong lived and fought deep underground. I was amazed at the intricacy and sophistication of this half-century-old network of tunnels, which cover more than 250 kilometers. I looked at the snares used by the Vietcong to physically and psychologically trap the US soldiers, before we built up to venturing down into the tunnels ourselves. Even though the tunnels had been widened for tourists and lights had been added, I still felt claustrophobic, disoriented and very hot.
As I emerged from the tunnel I tore my shirt off. I’m glad no one seemed to believe that the bare-chested guy walking around the jungle was really Richard Branson. Standing there, cooling down, I thought about how this place had been where so many people had lived day-to-day, as well as fought and died. So much suffering had ha
ppened here, in such terrible conditions, for such futile reasons. By the time we left I had a new level of respect for the bravery of those on all sides who were forced to fight for their lives here. I also had an even more profound belief in the pointlessness of war, and the need to campaign for peace and conflict resolution everywhere on Earth.
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One person who was both badly and sadly missed in this regard was Nelson Mandela. Less than two years earlier, I had woken up with the rest of the world to learn that Madiba had died. On one level, it wasn’t a shock—Madiba had been ill for a long time—but it was a blow all the same. We had lost not only a great man; the world had lost one of its greatest leaders. Madiba had shown us what can be achieved by leading with integrity and empathy and the desire to help others. The act of forgiveness that Madiba gave his own captors who held him in prison for twenty-seven years will be remembered forever.
On a personal level, I had lost someone I looked to as a mentor and considered a friend. More than anything, Madiba had made me and many others smile, laugh and dance again and again. I remember the time he was traveling on one of our planes to New York, and found my young friend Peta-Lynn in the galley. He offered to make her a cup of tea and before long they were in cahoots, swapping stories. I have never known anybody transform rooms the way Madiba did, lighting them up with his humor, his humility and his wisdom. Whether it was asking me to help save South Africa’s health club jobs or helping to create the Elders, unveiling a statue for Steve Biko or campaigning for HIV/AIDS sufferers, he was always working tirelessly for other people. Madiba made time for everyone, and had a magical skill for bringing the best out of people. I loved seeing how he interacted with his wife Graça Machel; their partnership was full of love and understanding and they weren’t afraid to give each other time and space. Everyone could learn from that—I certainly have.
When Graça invited me to Madiba’s funeral in his home village of Qunu, I dropped everything to be there. After landing in South Africa, I drove through the night to get to the funeral. As we entered the village, a breathtaking rainbow appeared on the horizon, which could not have been more appropriate in Madiba’s rainbow nation. The old African adage “You’ve not buried the person until you go to the village” also felt fitting. There had been a government-organized memorial service earlier in the week, which was a worthy commemoration of Madiba’s life, but I’m sure he would have loved a little more dancing and singing!
After getting out of the car in Qunu, we were met by a few local people. I spoke to a delightful five-year-old girl called Jamie, who summed it up perfectly.
“It really makes my heart sore,” she said. “I think I might cry.”
I was soon welling up, too. Before the burial, several of Madiba’s friends gave moving speeches, notably the President of Malawi, Joyce Banda. I wrote down her words: “A leader is someone who falls in love with the people they serve and allows the people to fall in love with them.” I sat next to the delightful Oprah Winfrey and we shared some thoughts on how much comfort and hope Madiba had brought to us all.
After the funeral Madiba’s family gave me the great honor of asking me to join them at the burial itself, which was a very poignant, private, traditional Xhosa ceremony. At one point I panicked when I saw that Madiba’s grandson had fallen right into the grave. As I peered in, about to call out, three men pulled him out unhurt and he dusted off his suit. Then another grandson was pulled out of the grave. I hadn’t realized that it was their tradition to go down onto the coffin and leave something that was a bond between them and the deceased.
It was fitting that the most moving moment came at the very end, from Madiba’s dear friend Archbishop Tutu. Together the two of them have done so much to promote peace and reconciliation in South Africa and everywhere on Earth. As Madiba’s stone was being laid, Arch said: “He does not need a stone for us to remember him; we carry him in our hearts.” Standing next to the grave, I knew this was not the end of Mandela’s journey. The long walk to freedom continues for so many people around the world, and it is through us all that his legacy will prevail. The loss of Madiba hit me hard on my next birthday, which is the same date as his. Every 18 July he would find the time to call and wish me happy birthday. I missed not getting his call that day, just as I missed not getting a call from my father. I still get a lovely note each year from Graça Machel, who continues to do wonderful work in the world, particularly through the Elders.
Madiba, I cannot put into words what you meant to me but thank you for your leadership, inspiration, friendship and the joy you brought into all of our lives. You are, and will be, greatly missed.
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At Madiba’s funeral, one of the things that touched me was how often the Elders were brought up by different people, with many speakers taking solace in how Madiba’s teachings will live on through their work.
When I look back upon my life, I believe and hope one of the most important things I have achieved is the creation of the Elders. The world needs the Elders more than anything right now. Getting that extraordinary group of people together, having them visit places others wouldn’t, such as Russia, Darfur, Somalia, Palestine, North Korea, having them fight to stop conflicts, and succeeding on occasions, speaking out on issues like climate change and universal healthcare, is one of the things I am most proud of.
The Elders have already gone through a number of renditions. Before his death, Mandela led it in its early days with his assuredness and grace; then came Archbishop Tutu in the most wonderfully human, outspoken way. Now we have Kofi Annan, who is more of a diplomat but acutely focused on achieving the end goals. I’ve learned so much from the approaches of all three. Listening to them teaches me how to construct arguments, how to connect with people, how to lead from afar as well as with personal touches.
As advisers we handed over the keys to them once we’d set it up. That was very important to protect their integrity. The advisers can say what they think but all decisions are the Elders’ alone. It can only last hundreds of years if it is completely independent of outside influence. The Elders are always challenging themselves to be more effective and considering how they can make a bigger difference. They are right to question in that way, and it is another thing I have picked up from them—ruthless self-analysis. As I write, the Elders are doing a complete review to see how to make the next ten years even more productive than the last. That’s also what I try to do, every new year and every new decade.
While we as advisers do not interfere in the Elders’ diplomacy, there are times when I feel I simply must speak out as an individual, regardless of the consequences. I have picked up a lot from watching the Elders” unique brand of quiet diplomacy, and know that much of the most effective advocacy goes on behind the scenes, in private, humble formats. The most common is simple written letters. Away from the public eye, I send dozens of private letters each year to politicians and organizations around the globe on issues ranging from LGBTQ rights to climate change, prison reform to drug reform. But sometimes these messages need to go public to have a wider impact. There have been, I hope, a few examples in this book, from the Iraq War to the HIV/AIDS crisis, where I have stuck my head above the parapet. In February 2016, I was honored to join Amnesty International’s Global Council. Salil Shetty, the human rights group’s secretary general, kindly cited my “consistent and very visible” advocacy on social justice issues. I was only too happy to spread their positive message and mobilize more people to stand up for human rights. As I get older, and spend more time focusing on philanthropic ventures, these moments are becoming more frequent.
There have been several times in the past few years when I have believed the business world could step in to help diffuse or improve certain situations. One of these was Ukraine, which has been in turmoil for several years. At Davos in 2014 we held a minute’s silence for those dying on Maidan Nezalezhnosti. Two years later, more than 6,000 people had been k
illed, 1.3 million citizens had been displaced and the economy had nearly been crippled. And, after two years of fighting and international sanctions, many Russian people were suffering, too. The majority of Ukrainians and Russians just wanted to live in peace, and to have the opportunity to find prosperity for their families.
I visited Ukraine twice in 2014, meeting with people such as the Mayor of Kiev Vitali Klitschko and Yulia Marushevska, who had inspired many people with her online activism. I had a strong sense of optimism for and confidence in the country. “There is hope, and it comes in the form of the next generation, and in business,” I wrote afterward. “Young Ukrainians are focusing on the problems that are currently damaging their country and are working for change.” I called for business to help stimulate large-scale investment and encourage cross-border trade: “It’s been proven time and time again that people who do business with one another are less likely to harm each other. Business can help to lift Ukraine out of conflict and set the tone for a prosperous future. And if the international business community encourages trade to flourish, young Ukrainians will be given great confidence to spur much-needed change.”
As the situation worsened, I worked with Advocacy Director Matthias Stausberg and Virgin Unite to assemble a group of sixteen concerned Russian, Ukrainian and international business leaders to speak out together in support of ending the conflict. We published an open letter offering to help: “We as business leaders from Russia, Ukraine and the rest of the world urge our governments to work together to ensure we do not regress into the Cold War misery of the past. We call upon politicians to be bold and brave, so that our nations can end the painful suffering caused by war and once again collaborate for the greater good.”
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While the danger in Ukraine was all too apparent on TV screens, other deeply troubling regions were receiving far less attention. One of these was the Maldives, a paradise archipelago in the Indian Ocean. I had first visited this stunning country in 2011 to attend the Slowlife Symposium, an event where everyone from Daryl Hannah to President Mohamed Nasheed had assembled to discuss the threat of climate change. Joan came along with me and we enjoyed fascinating discussions in an immaculate setting of achingly beautiful sunsets and sun-kissed beaches. I found the people even warmer than the weather, endlessly friendly and fundamentally entrepreneurial.
Finding My Virginity: The New Autobiography Page 39