by Chris Mullin
Sunday, 18 February
American and British planes have bombed alleged missile systems on the outskirts of Baghdad; civilian casualties are reported. George W. Bush has wasted no time before getting down to some serious killing. Needless to say our spokesmen are on the airwaves within the hour, echoing the American line. It is so humiliating. We are the Bulgaria of Western Europe. Except that Bulgaria is now independent. No one else seems impressed. The legality is questionable and there is no evidence of an increased threat. We are in a pit and the only strategy seems to be to keep digging.
Monday, 19 February
Through Mowbray Park to the station at the usual hour, pulling my little wheelie-bag behind me. Only this time I am going not to London, but Kazakhstan and Kyrgyzstan. At Amsterdam I meet up with Sanjib and an official. We are flying, business class, to Alma Aty. The expense is unbelievable – £3,600 a head. How can this possibly be justified for what will be little more than a day and a half’s activity? The futility of it all nags at me throughout the long flight. We land at 3 a.m. local time. A small reception committee from the embassy and the Kazakh foreign ministry awaits. VIPs we may be, but (as Ngoc used to say) there are procedures to proceed. Independent the Kazakhs may be, but the bureaucracy is Soviet. The customs form asks, among other things, if we are importing any ‘poisonous, virulent or drastic substances’. Eventually, procedures proceeded, we are whisked away in the embassy Range Rover through wide, empty streets to the foreigners’ palace.
Tuesday, 20 February
Regent Hotel, Alma Aty, Kazakhstan
Richard Lewington, the Ambassador, appears at breakfast. A pleasant, down-to-earth man in his mid-fifties with a classless accent which reminds me (if I close my eyes) of John Major. A Russian speaker, he started diplomatic life in Ulan Bator and has spent much of his career in the Soviet Union and central Asia. Kazakhstan is the size of Western Europe with a population of 15 million scattered around the limitless steppe. ‘The question,’ says the Ambassador, ‘is which of the central Asian republics will turn outwards and which will turn in on themselves and implode.’ Kazakhstan, still firmly a command economy, has oil and gas so it stands a better chance than most, at least until the fuel runs out.
Alma Aty has no centre. The public buildings are giant concrete monsters with no hint of concession to the local culture. The housing, a mixture of Soviet-style barrack blocks giving way eventually to more-traditional wooden cottages, each with its own vegetable patch surrounded by a crude stockade. The streets, a series of potholed, tree-lined, dual-carriageways, are wide enough to accommodate tanks two abreast (a requirement that no doubt featured in the original specifications). Not a bicycle in sight. We set off for Kyrgyzstan, a drive of 120 miles or so. There has been a light dusting of snow during the night but the road is passable.
The countryside is flat and mainly empty. Somewhere, invisible in the grey mist to our left, there are mountains, or so the Ambassador assures me. For the most part the landscape is featureless, barren, grey.
At intervals we splash through mean, muddy villages. Once or twice we pass a horseman, now and then a flock of sheep or cattle, even a couple of shabby yurts, but mainly the land is empty and uncultivated. A few miles short of the frontier we halt for tea at a truck stop.
We are the only customers. Our Russian drivers contemptuously remain outside in their vehicles. The inside is bare boards and a few plastic garden seats. A tap on a sink in the corner is running, unattended. A frumpish young Kazakh woman emerges. She is polite but does not seem overjoyed to see us, although the Ambassador assures us he is a regular customer. He hands over some photos he took on his last visit and she leafs through them without enthusiasm. Tea is served in bowls with a few bits of bread. We drink up and leave. The tap is still running.
At the frontier most vehicles pass through unmolested, but we are stopped. A soldier disappears with our passports. He is gone a long time. While waiting we are harassed by a ragged boy with a twisted, club hand, sore and cracked. One of the drivers gives him a few coins, but he persists. We have no money, or at any rate none that would be of use to him. Eventually Sanjib comes up with a plastic biro which seems to satisfy him. He disappears, clutching it to his chest with his bad hand. The soldier reappears with our passports and waves us on.
We are now in Kyrgyzstan.
1. Minister Mullin (left) and colleagues emerging from Number 10 on the day of their appointment. ‘The others were over the moon. I was sunk in gloom. A woman from the Press Association chased us up Downing Street, asking how we felt. I couldn’t bring myself to reply.’
2. Deputy Prime Minister, John Prescott: ‘beneath that volcanic exterior, lurks a decent human being’.
3. September 1999: pro hunt supporters demonstrating outside the Labour Party conference: ‘They carried placards naming the constituencies from which they came. More or less a list of the safest Tory seats in the country. I came away greatly encouraged.’
4. Autumn 2000: Lorry drivers, protesting at fuel prices, attempted to bring the country to a standstill. Strangely, there were no arrests for driving at 5mph down the A1.
5. The family Mullin, pictured in September 2003. CM, Ngoc, Sarah and Emma (in front).
6. With my two best friends – on the terrace of the House of Commons.
7. July 2002: The parliamentary committee, which met the prime minister weekly, in the garden at Number 10. Front, l to r: Paul Boateng, Hilary Armstrong, John Prescott, Tony Blair, Jean Corston, Chris Mullin, Liz Symons.
Back, l to r, David Triesman, Andrew Mackinlay, Charles Clarke, Doug Hoyle, Helen Jackson, Ann Clwyd, Tony Lloyd, Gordon Prentice, Alan Haworth.
8. With David Dimbleby on Question Time in Torquay: ‘A long way to go to be murdered in front of several million people.’
9. On the ministerial bicycle – in Hanoi.
10. With President Akaev of Kyrgyzstan in February 2001. ‘I may be a small fish back home, but I am big in Bishkek.’
11. Addressing sixth formers at a St Aidan’s school, Sunderland.
12. Assorted movers and shakers from the Sunderland South Labour Party. My agent, Kevin Marquis, is at the back, fifth from left.
13. On the river Wear with the local canoe club, preparing to assert their right to paddle through Lord Lambton’s estate.
14. I was showing a group of youngsters from Thornhill School around Parliament when we came across The Man and Jack Straw about to set off for Washington.
15. February 15, 2003: anti war protesters stage the biggest demonstration ever held in the UK: ‘Let no one say that politics is dead or that New Labour has failed to mobilise the young and idealistic.’
16. Tony Benn comes to stay – and nearly sets fire to the house (see entry for May 29, 2002).
Bishkek, the capital, is a run-down version of Alma Aty. The main impression is of overwhelming greyness. Row upon row of crumbling barrack-like apartments, wide tree-lined avenues and bigger potholes. Unlike their neighbours, the Kyrgyzis lack oil and gas. All they have is water, agriculture and a goldmine run by Canadians. The country is 93 per cent mountains (not that we can see any today). Most of the industry collapsed when the Soviet Union disintegrated. Bishkek is a tired city. Maintenance, never a strong point in the Soviet empire, is a forgotten concept. The tiredness shows in the crumbling infrastructure, the half-finished buildings and in the pinched faces of the older folk, picking their way through the puddles and potholes, reminiscent of Hanoi in the early eighties, except that Hanoi with its French architecture, lakes and temples has an elegance that Bishkek lacks.
Wednesday, 21 February
Bishkek, Kyrgyzstan
Awoke to bright sunshine, illuminating a range of snowy mountains.
A complete contrast with yesterday. Suddenly Bishkek is alive. At breakfast the Ambassador talks temptingly of an overland trip he is planning to Ulan Bator at the end of June, more than 2,000 miles across the great grassland. He is unsure whether the Russians will let him cross the 50-
mile gap between the north-east corner of Kazakhstan and the western tip of Mongolia, but says he is sure to be admitted if accompanied by a member of Her Majesty’s Government. Would I care to join him? You bet. Glen, the agricultural adviser, was talking last night about the 16-hour drive through the Tien Shan mountains to Osh, where he is based. Gradually my travel taste buds are being reawakened. For now, however, it is all a fantasy. There is work to be done. Today I have appointments with the Prime Minister, the Foreign Minister and the President – and various other engagements sandwiched in between. All day I will be racing back and forth across town in a car with diplomatic plates and the official flag flying. This is how it must be for The Man every day. At home I may be a small fish, but I am big in Bishkek.
We are driven to the White House, a monstrous, Soviet-era confection of glass, concrete and marble. By the entrance a gaggle of demonstrators with placards are protesting at the arrest and secret trial of an opposition leader, Mr Kulov. Should we be cheered by this evidence of nascent democracy or depressed that it was found necessary to put poor Kulov away during an election campaign? Everyone seems to agree that he is a rogue, but by treating him as they have, the Kyrgyzis have turned him into a martyr. Our line is that we have chosen to work with the Kyrgyzis because (a) they are poor and (b) in contrast to their neighbours they have chosen the path of democracy and economic liberalism. To be sure, there are some hopeful signs: they have abolished the death penalty; there are, so far as we know, no political prisoners apart from Kulov; they have drastically slimmed their top-heavy administration and are planning to decentralise power to the regions; and they are moving towards a market economy. But have we been taken for a ride? Have the cunning Kyrgyzis done just enough to entice Western aid while at the same time, just below the surface, business continues much as usual? Corruption is rife. The recent presidential election was rigged (although the incumbent would probably have won anyway). The media, while not exactly state-controlled, is not exactly free either. The jury, as they say, is still out. My job is to make clear that our goodwill is not unconditional. It requires clear evidence of progress.
After a wait of 20 minutes, we are ushered into a vast conference hall on an upper floor containing the largest table I have ever seen. By and by two or three men emerge from a door in the far corner. They move along our side of the table shaking hands. Mr Tanayev, the most senior, has the demeanour of an undertaker – grey and grim; his tie is black. Gradually, it emerges that the Prime Minister will not be coming. He has, it seems, been summoned at the last minute by Parliament to discuss the budget. Instead Mr Tanayev, his deputy, has been landed with the task of receiving us and he seems none too pleased about it. Apparatchik is written all over him in large letters.
He relies on his brief, even for the standard pleasantries, and speaks for nearly 40 minutes before I am permitted to utter a word (shades of JP). As his speech wears on, the journalists and television cameras that attended the start of the meeting begin to drift away. When, at last, my turn comes, there are none left to record my message. (Perhaps this is a cunning ploy on his part? On second thoughts, no. There is no sign that Mr Tanayev’s political skills extend so far.) After the usual pleasantries, I record my disappointment at the conduct of the recent elections. Mr Tanayev listens impassively, but makes no comment.
Lunch with the ministers of Foreign Affairs, Agriculture and Health is a complete contrast. These are jovial, self-confident men whose eyes sparkle, who make self-deprecating jokes and seem genuinely to enjoy themselves. They also seem to appreciate the interest that Britain is taking in their country. At the end I am presented with a magnificent cloak and high white hat, the Kyrgyzis’ national dress (I know two small people who will enjoy dressing up in this).
The President, too, turns out to be a pleasant surprise. I am received this time not in the gargantuan conference room, but in a small audience chamber dominated by two huge canvases – one depicting an encampment of yurts by moonlight; the other, jagged mountains. The President and I, our interpreters behind, are seated side by side in two large armchairs. Our officials sit to each side and in front a battery of television cameras and photographers, flashing away. As I say, I am big in Bishkek (although back home I doubt this encounter will qualify for a single paragraph, even in the Sunderland Echo). After five minutes of banter the cameras disappear and we get down to business. President Akaev, a small, bald man with intense dark eyes and a ready smile, is an academic by profession. The only one of the Central Asian leaders not to have been a big communist.
He speaks softly and without notes, exuding modesty and goodwill. He is also well briefed – referring even to our recent White Paper (Clare will be pleased). A man appears with a tray of drinks. I take mine. Before taking his, however, the President hands one to my interpreter and one for his. A nice touch. This man is no selfish tyrant. My turn comes. He fixes me with his brown eyes, apparently taking in every word. As lightly as possible, I repeat my points about our disappointment with the conduct of the election. He does not take offence, nodding appreciatively. Lessons will be learned, he says. Preparations are underway for the first ever local elections later this year (already people are voicing doubts about them). I make this point, too, and he repeats his assurance that lessons will be learned.
Our meeting lasts for more than an hour. ‘He liked you,’ the Ambassador said afterwards. I liked him, too. As we part, the President presents me with a signed copy of his book, The Transition Economy through the Eyes of a Physicist. Not a big seller, even in Bishkek, but better-written than the average DFID speech. I come away, as others have before me, charmed. Surely this decent man can’t have been responsible for whatever unpleasantness occurred during the election? Outside a couple of journalists are loitering. I repeat my message about democracy, but I feel a bit of a cad. ‘We have to justify this aid to our taxpayers,’ I hear myself saying. I could be good at this.
Later, someone says, ‘We’ve all been conned by Akaev’s charm.’
But is it as simple as that, I wonder? Perhaps it is beyond the wit of anyone to rescue so impoverished a state from the grip of the Stalin system.
We come back to earth with a bump. After seeing Akaev, I am taken to the local psychiatric hospital, which has seen many better days. In a land where even surgeons are lucky to earn US$20 a month, mental illness is not a high priority. We are harangued for an hour by the director, an exhausted man who does not attempt to conceal his despair and frustration. ‘A revolution is an interesting thing,’ he says, ‘but I wish I had not lived to see it.’
Thursday, 22 February
Up at 5.30 a.m. in anticipation of a plane at eight, but word arrives that it has been delayed first by one and then by three hours. I take a walk into town, alone. We are at the crossroads of Asia and the streets are thronged with human beings of every conceivable size, shape, colour and nationality – from pale, round-eyed, sophisticated Europeans to ruddy, moon-faced, slit-eyed Mongols and everything in between. Many of the Europeans would not look out of place in the streets of London. I do not stand out from the crowd. No one gives me a second glance, not even when I penetrate the backstreets and the shabby, barrack-like housing where most people live. In the little playgrounds between the housing blocks, the seats are missing from the children’s swings. I did not see one that was intact. Two or three streets inland I came across three or four luxurious villas in the process of construction, mocking the poverty and dereliction around them.
Someone is making money. But how? The entire infrastructure is collapsing. Who is going to rebuild it when it falls, as inevitably it will?
Already concrete cladding is falling from some of the monstrous public buildings on the main boulevard.
The Ambassador comes with us to the airport. He says, ‘Although it is heresy to say this, most of these people were better off as part of the Soviet Union.’ And, as if to underline his point, statues of Lenin can still be seen around the city, unmolested. ‘I feel so sorry for t
hem,’ the Ambassador goes on. ‘They have no heroes.’ Gorbachev, he says, is detested. Will they succeed in establishing a market economy? ‘I don’t know,’ he says. ‘It is touch and go.’
At the airport there is more procedure to proceed. The old order are still very definitely in control here. Sanjib makes a minor error filling in his customs form. ‘Twenty pounds, no problem,’ beams the moon-faced customs man. To my fury Sanjib pays up before I can stop him. As we depart, the moon-faced customs officer is chatting up the Ambassador. He has a sister who wants a visa to London. ‘Twenty pounds, no problem,’ beams the Ambassador and the man falls about laughing. This is Mexico, not East Germany.
We fly west for two hours, over an empty, ochre wasteland, stopping briefly at Baku on the Caspian Sea. The sea, too, is empty save for a few rusting oil rigs. Then west again, over the barren, snowy mountains of Georgia and back across Europe. At Heathrow my Private Secretary, Christine, awaits with a bag of paperwork to keep me occupied on the plane to Newcastle.
Thursday, 1 March
London
Doom and gloom everywhere. Foot and mouth is spreading. The media is full of pictures of huge, smoking funeral pyres.
Friday, 2 March
Sunderland
Surprise, surprise. Chris Woodhead, the former chief inspector of schools, turned out to be a Tory after all. Just in time for the election, he has commenced a series of articles in the Daily Telegraph laying into New Labour in general and David Blunkett in particular in the wildest terms. In a nutshell we are accused of betrayal for failing to smash the comprehensive system. Grudgingly, he acknowledges the success of the numeracy and literacy strategy, but insolently attributes this mainly to the Tories. His most obvious omission is any mention of the Tory social policies which gave rise to growth of the huge underclass who have made teaching such a difficult job in the first place. There is a large grain of truth in what he has to say about New Labour’s love of initiatives, and the resulting bureaucratic overload, but it is lost in the intemperance of his general assault.
