A View From The Foothills

by Chris Mullin

  In the afternoon, accompanied by Indian officers from the UN force, we were taken to Zalambessa on the border. The Eritreans, who initially took the Ethiopians by surprise, occupied the town without a fight and, when eventually forced to evacuate, dynamited every building in the town – schools, churches, everything. Today, four years later, the people are still living in the ruins. A sobering sight. No wonder the Ethiopians are not inclined to settle. If I run into Isaias again, or any of his henchmen, I shall ask who gave the order to destroy the town and why.

  Sunday, 18 January

  Adigrat

  Breakfast with the Bishop, a pleasant, lean young man who had spent time in Liverpool and Dublin. He took us to the roof and showed us (oh wonder of wonders) his walled garden, full of vegetables and fruit trees. The sun shines ten months of the year and at this height (7,000 feet above sea-level) it never gets too hot. Given water, anything will grow. In Wukro, further south, we called on Father Kevin, an Irish priest who has been 37 years in Tigray and has made the desert bloom. It rains for only a month or two a year so he has constructed an underground reservoir into which all his gutters and drainpipes flow, preserving every available drop of water. He runs a little agricultural school, teaching the locals to grow fruit and vegetables to supplement their meagre diet of bread and, occasionally, meat. Cattle, a symbol of status, are rarely killed for meat and sold only when the rains fail and famine threatens. At which point, of course, the price collapses because everyone is trying to sell at once. In the meantime the cattle are laying waste to the land, gobbling up every available piece of vegetation. Goats are worse, they eat the roots as well. As a result animals fare better than the humans. Everywhere there are handsome, sleek, bow-horned cattle shepherded by emaciated children with stick-like limbs. Everything grows in Father Kevin’s garden. Mangoes, coffee, bananas, oranges … We departed laden with gifts of cheese and honey.

  Mekele

  Twenty years ago this was the epicentre of the famine; the place where tens of thousands of dying, skeletal peasants converged in search of help. Today it is a modern, sophisticated provincial town of wide avenues, watched over by a grotesque monument to the revolution, a reminder that Albania was once the model for the Tigray People’s Liberation Front. We were treated to a whistlestop tour of the university followed by lunch with members of the provincial government. The discussion was all about the border. They were adamant that there could be no surrender. Ethiopia had been cheated. To concede would bring not peace, but another war and even the fall of the government. Better to await the fall of Isaias.

  Monday, 19 January

  The Residence, Addis, 11 p.m.

  Can any British embassy enjoy a grander setting? An Edwardian villa, wreathed in purple bougainvillea, in an 87-acre walled compound, a gift from the Emperor in 1896. A hundred servants, horses, giant tortoises, a miniature golf course, woodland, a vegetable garden. The entire embassy is housed within the estate, in villas scattered discreetly around the compound. And yet, so I am assured (and I have no reason to disbelieve), this place is extremely cost-effective, due to the cheapness of the labour and the absence of rents.

  I am sitting on the terrace wall in the fresh, cool, insect-free air.

  The climate here is so perfect that flowers bloom for ten months of the year. The herbaceous border is crammed with French marigolds and rich blue delphiniums (in January, for goodness’ sake). The only sounds, chirping crickets, a distant barking dog and singing from a church beyond the compound wall. Tomorrow is the feast of the Epiphany, the holiest day in the Ethiopian calendar when the sacred tabots will be taken from their sanctuaries and paraded through the streets. Already, as we drove back this evening, small groups of the faithful, lighted candles in hand, were assembling at vantage points. Any moment now HE’s Range Rover will appear to convey us to the airport and the spell will be broken.

  Tuesday, 20 January

  London

  The papers are as depressing as ever: ’1.6 million gypsies ready to flood in’, rages the Express; ‘Blair hit by student fury’ (Mail); ‘Hutton: 48 per cent think Blair lied’ (Guardian). The only good news is that Conrad Black has been forced to sell the Telegraph to the Barclay brothers, one of whom is hinting that they may even back Labour come the election. A fat chance, but it would be enough if they’d just order their hacks to stop telling lies about us.

  Wednesday, 21 January

  To the parliamentary party, where there was discussion about the next Queen’s Speech. Ann Cryer said we needed a managed immigration policy, based on ability to find jobs; not on finding a wife or husband with a British passport, which is putting enormous pressure on young Asians. Jon Owen Jones told a story about an Algerian who had brought three people into the country by marrying and divorcing three times on top of which one of his former wives had remarried, bringing in a fourth Algerian. It was all a scam, he said, and time we put a stop to it. Amen to that. Despite the hoo-ha over asylum, we’ve barely touched the rackets that surround arranged marriages. What mugs we are. The trouble is that we are terrified of the huge cry of ‘racism’ that would go up the moment anyone breathed a word on the subject. There is the added difficulty that at least 20 Labour seats, including Jack’s, depend on Asian votes.

  Friday, 23 January

  Sunderland

  Among the bumf, a string of demands from the party High Command demanding to know what I am proposing to contribute to The Big Conversation, New Labour’s latest pointless wheeze. Big Conversation, my foot. The very name invites derision. I propose to do nothing, unless forced at gunpoint, in line with my policy of minimising pointless activity.

  Sunday, 25 January

  Dad is in hospital after a fall and in poor shape; he’s also got problems with his remaining eye and can hardly see. Despite promises, social services have failed to come up with help for Mum to live at home and so she’s been sent temporarily to a care home. Mum is losing her short-term memory, although for the most part still compos mentis. The children and I had a long talk with her by phone in the evening.

  ‘I don’t know what I’m doing here,’ she kept saying. ‘I was told it was only for one night.’ She also seemed to think that Dad was at home when in fact he is in Broomfield Hospital. Poor Mum.

  Monday, 26 January

  The Foreign Office

  A big pow-wow in my room to discuss what can be done about the Lord’s Resistance Army in Uganda. Hilary Benn came over from DFID, Liz Lloyd from Number 10, Adam Wood, Our Man in Kampala and a host of officials from various departments, including the SIS. When I first raised the subject six months ago nobody wanted to know, but now (as a result of the conversation with The Man on the plane home from Abuja) he has raised his little finger and the entire machine has suddenly sprung to life. The consensus was that Museveni can’t hope to defeat the LRA militarily and so a way has to be found to open a dialogue with a view to offering their leaders safe passage; all very distasteful, considering the horrible atrocities they have committed. Afterwards, however, Adam Wood and the man from SIS stayed behind and told me confidentially that there was a chance – just a chance – that the Sudanese could be persuaded to lift the LRA leadership and hand them over. Now that would be a great prize.

  Tuesday, 27 January

  At the morning meeting in Jack’s office, our whip Jim Murphy brandished the front page of the Independent, helpfully taken up with mugshots of the top-up fees insurgents. ‘It’s worse than this,’ said Jim. The whips have been putting it about that the government is 20 votes down. Nobody believes them, but it is on a knife edge. Jack urged us to stay around the House after Questions and do some ‘gentle cuddling’. At 10.40 Tom put his head round my door and said that Nick Brown, one of the leaders of the uprising, had declared that he would be voting with the government, after all. By the time we had finished Foreign Office Questions virtually the entire Cabinet had squeezed onto the front bench to hear Charles Clarke open the debate. ‘What caused Nick Brown to back down?’ I wh
ispered.

  ‘Presumably he realised that he was going to lose,’ said Charles.

  By lunch the word was that the government would win narrowly and in the event that’s what happened, but it was a cliffhanger. I was standing by the door of the Aye Lobby as the last loyalist trickled out. Jim Fitzpatrick, our teller, was looking grim. I noticed he had 305 written on his notepad while, through the closed door of the other lobby a Tory whip was saying he had 311. Then, miraculously, another ten or eleven Members, who had been loitering out of sight around the corner, dribbled out of the Aye Lobby. One of Tommy McAvoy’s little tricks. No wonder he looked calm throughout.

  Afterwards I had supper with Jean Corston in the Tea Room. She now thinks The Man will lead us into the election. A few months ago she was saying she thought he’d be gone by the end of (last) year.

  Wednesday, 28 January

  By early afternoon it became clear that Lord Hutton had all but entirely acquitted the government of wrongdoing over the death of Dr Kelly and instead placed a good deal of blame on the BBC. Suddenly a great cloud lifted, the earth changed places with the sky. Our tormentors (temporarily at least) have been vanquished. The Man, looking happier than he has done for months, delivered himself of a dignified, gracious little statement. In contrast Michael Howard found himself, for once, entirely wrongfooted. Instead of graciously accepting the outcome and moving back to higher ground his response was grudging and nitpicking. ‘He’s hit bedrock,’ remarked a Lib Dem, but no, he was still drilling. On and on he drilled in the face of some undignified hissing from our side; the Tories looked miserable, only their leader was unembarrassed. By the end he had begun to resemble Iain Duncan Smith. A celebration was called for. I went immediately to the Tea Room and splashed out on a large piece of fruit cake.

  Only one question remained: How was the Harmsworth Lie Machine going to cope with this unexpected outcome? We didn’t have long to wait before an early edition of the Standard dropped onto our table: ‘BETRAYAL OF KELLY’. ‘Blair cleared …’ was on page 7.

  Thursday, 29 January

  To Number 10 to greet President Museveni. The Man emerged looking better than he has done for ages. Gone is that haunted, dehydrated look. He even quietly admitted to being relieved. But … still tense. The trouble is that, as I am beginning to realise, he never reads his brief. ‘What do you want me to say, Chris – in a word,’ he whispered as we hovered in the hall, waiting for the President’s car. ‘In a word …?’ At once I am reduced to blubbering incoherence. It was the same when I sat next to him during the Abuja statement the other day. He cannot be impressed. Neither can Sheinwald, whose mind is laser-like. Sooner or later someone is going to say that we need an Africa minister whose mind is less fuzzy. (‘Someone who can focus.’) Oh dear. The President arrives. We repair to the den. Twenty minutes of not very satisfactory conversation in which Museveni again declares his belief that the war will be over by the end of the dry season (it has been going on for 17 years). The Man (diffident, hesitant, glancing in my direction for reassurance) expressing mild scepticism. I am permitted one intervention. Then everyone departs, leaving The Man and the President alone. This is to enable The Man to say gently to Museveni that we don’t think a third term (in reality his fifth) is a very good idea. At least we hope that’s what he’ll say. The Man is not very good at telling allies (especially Americans) what they don’t want to hear. Outside the Cabinet is assembling.

  Then to Lancaster House for lunch. Hilary Benn presided. The huge, gross portrait of Charles II behind us prompted Museveni to reminisce about his school days in Kampala, where needless to say he learned more about Britain than he did about Africa; a surprising amount has stuck – 1066, 1649; that Charles I was the son of James I; that Ben Nevis is our highest mountain (though he was about 40 feet out on the height). ‘Any minute now, he’ll start talking about his cattle,’ whispered one of the Ugandans further down the table and, sure enough, he did. It is hard not to like Museveni. He has never fallen for all the old liberationist, quasi socialist bullshit that has wrecked so many other African countries and there is always a twinkle in his eye. He was once Clare’s favourite, having done so much to transform his country from the ruins of the Amin/Obote era. Alas, however, there are signs that (like Clare?) he is getting too big for his boots. If he were to go when his term expires, he would be remembered as a great hero. But the odds are that, like so many African (and some British?) leaders, he will outstay his welcome.

  Friday, 30 January

  The Hutton fallout continues unabated. Gavyn Davies, Greg Dyke and Andrew Gilligan have gone,* but so far as our free press – broad- sheet and tabloid (with the notable exception of the Sun) – are concerned these are the wrong victims. This is not how it was meant to be. They spent months preparing for a huge blood-letting and they are not about to give up quietly.

  Monday, 2 February

  Broomfield Hospital, Chelmsford

  Poor Dad is deeply demoralised. ‘If I can’t see again, I will give up,’ he kept saying. ‘I’ve had a good life. I’ve visited just about every country north of the Equator.’ At one point he said, ‘I’m nearly 100, you know.’

  ‘Nonsense, Dad. You’re 83.’

  As ever, he exaggerates (although in truth his situation is dire). One to one, he can hear clearly when he has his hearing aids in and, although his eyesight is very limited, I did notice him glance surreptitiously at his watch now and then. He would clearly like to go home, but the practical difficulties may be insurmountable. What will become of him?

  Tuesday, 3 February

  The Ambassador’s Residence, Washington DC

  A splendid dinner in honour of Mary Soames (née Churchill, mother of Nicholas), a dear, sweet, formidable old lady with a sunny, Queen Motherly disposition. She is here to open, in the presence of the President, an exhibition honouring her father’s relationship with the US. Other guests include two Churchill grandchildren, Young Winston (who I haven’t come across since he was annihilated in the 1997 landslide), Celia Sandys (daughter of Duncan) and Karl Rove, éminence grise of the Bush Administration. Like so many of our demons Mr Rove turns out to be charming and jovial. The Democrat primaries are in full swing. Who would he prefer to run against? Naturally, Howard Dean is his first choice. After that? To my surprise Mr Rove opts for Senator Kerry, presumably on the grounds that he has a long and destructible track record. And who would he least like? John Edwards, the handsome, squeaky-clean, silver-tongued Senator from North Carolina. In truth, I suspect, it doesn’t matter. None of them will be a match for the Republican meat-grinder.

  Wednesday, 4 February

  Awake since five, reading Joe Klein’s account of the rise and fall of Bill Clinton, a copy of which I found on the dressing-table. A fascinating analysis of the deterioration of American politics into a cesspool of abuse and character assassination in which, to the disgust and bewilderment of the electorate, rival party machines focus on mutually assured destruction, at the expense of such little matters as the survival of the planet. British politics seems to be going the same way.

  Daylight reveals a fine view of the snow-covered garden, a single set of footprints leading from the walled rose garden across the lawn to a seat and back to the terrace. I am installed in a grand suite (four-poster bed, marble bathroom, huge sitting room) in a wing of this Lutyens mansion.

  11 p.m.

  A day which started with a speech to Africa policy wonks at the Council for Foreign Relations and ended with another grand dinner at the Residence (principal guest, Chester Crocker, the Reagan Administration’s Africa man). In between, visits to Africa hands at USAID, the National Security Council and the State Department. Our principal mission (difficult in the best of times, but nigh on impossible in an election year): to encourage the Administration to keep Africa high on the agenda during the current US presidency of the G8.

  Thursday, 6 February

  A cold, clear day. The Potomac still iced over.

  Breakfast be
fore dawn with Catherine Manning (Sir David having already departed for the annual ‘Prayer Breakfast’ with the President); then the short flight to New York. The security was overwhelming. We were required to remove coats, jackets, shoes and for some that was not all. ‘You have been chosen for additional screening,’ Tom, my Private Secretary, was told as though he had won a lottery prize. He was taken to one side, instructed to open his bags, the contents duly rifled, and subjected to a close body search. Our boarding passes were examined once, twice, three times with cold-eyed courtesy. At the end of each procedure we were enjoined to ‘have a nice day’ but there was a hint of steel. The subliminal text was clear: one false move, a single unwise joke and we would be dragged away in chains to Guantanamo Bay. Protests that one was a member of Her Majesty’s Government would be met with, at best, icy indifference; at worst, a straitjacket.

  Even on the plane, there was no respite. ‘For the first 30 minutes of any flight passengers are required to remain in their seats. Should anyone get up, for any reason, we shall be forced to divert to an alternative airport,’ intoned our American Airlines hostess (blond, plump, cheerless – seconded from Aeroflot?). This repeated at least three times. One half expected her to add, ‘Make my day, punk.’ She approached a harmless-looking couple two rows ahead: ‘Do you both know that you are seated in the emergency exit row?’

  They nodded sheepishly.

  ‘Are you comfortable with your responsibility to command an emergency evacuation?’