Part 8 (2/2)
Bansal shows the way to the pump house, where the plant has two bore wells-one with a capacity of 50,000 liters per hour, and a backup of 30,000 liters-for a total extraction of some 15 million liters during June, its busiest month. From there, a pipeline leads to the water treatment facility, where Bansal explains a seven-step process of purification, starting with the application of lime and bleach, continuing through a carbon filter to remove chemicals, then ultraviolet light to kill bacteria, and then successively smaller filters that remove any particles left in the water. From there, the water pa.s.ses into the bottling facility. ”German,” Bansal nods approvingly at the Krones automatic electronic bottling machine on the way past a blur of gla.s.s bottles-the one part of the plant that looks identical to the Coca-Cola Enterprises plant in Ma.s.sachusetts.
Finally, to complete the cycle, the water pa.s.ses to the wastewater treatment plant, which looks surprisingly rudimentary compared with the s.h.i.+ny and complex intake treatment room. A catwalk leads over several open tanks where water is sprayed with ammonia to reduce the pH level and aerated in a froth to reduce the oxygen bacteria need to survive. The water is then filtered through tanks where chemicals and bacteria dry as sludge, while the rest of the water is pumped into holding tanks to be flushed out as waste.
A small laboratory full of test tubes and beakers checks the wastewater for pH as well as dissolved solids and biological oxygen demand (BOD)-a measure of dissolved organic matter that can lead to bacterial growth. A whiteboard on the wall shows that on the day of the tour all of these measures are below the standards set by the Central Pollution Control Board of India. To prove that the water can support life, Bansal shows off a small tank containing two ground fish, which he says are swimming in the same treated wastewater that will be flushed from the plant. ”That is the ultimate test,” he says.
Leading the way into the manager's office, he introduces a local farmer from the nearby village of Karipur named Dudh Nath Yadav. The bottling company has done a lot of good for his village, he says, giving young people employment at the plant. While he says the groundwater has receded in the past four or five years, the farmers protesting c.o.ke have exaggerated the amount, which he puts at only fifteen feet. ”They don't have too much support,” he says of the protesters. Ranjan chimes in, insisting that he has never seen more than 150 people protesting in front of the plant, half of them from the Lok Samiti school.
Of all of the claims that Ranjan makes, the idea that protesters have very little support is the most easily contradicted. Photos, eyewitness accounts, and independent news reports have doc.u.mented thousands of people at a time protesting in front of the plant in Mehdiganj. And that is neither the first nor the only place that c.o.ke has met opposition in the country. In fact, not since France after World War II has any country shown such vehement opposition to c.o.ke on so many fronts, part of a rocky history that has beset the company for decades.
c.o.ke first entered India in 1958-back when the recently independent country was openly welcoming the investment of foreign corporations. In short order, c.o.ke became the dominant soft drink in the market. The mood of the country changed in the 1970s, however, when a lingering mistrust of foreign powers led to a backlash against multinationals. Then Parliament pa.s.sed a law requiring companies to divest at least 60 percent of their shares to local investors. Despite the fact that some twenty-two bottling plants were already majority-owned by Indians, the Coca-Cola Export Company that supplied them with syrup was not. Not only did the government demand divestment from the syrup plant, it also required c.o.ke to divulge the recipe for the secret formula, an obvious deal-breaker for the company. c.o.ke's executives from John Pemberton to Robert Woodruff hadn't spent so much time imbuing the secret formula with such totemlike secrecy only to throw all of that away for the sake of one country. Reluctantly, c.o.ke packed up and left in 1977. in 1958-back when the recently independent country was openly welcoming the investment of foreign corporations. In short order, c.o.ke became the dominant soft drink in the market. The mood of the country changed in the 1970s, however, when a lingering mistrust of foreign powers led to a backlash against multinationals. Then Parliament pa.s.sed a law requiring companies to divest at least 60 percent of their shares to local investors. Despite the fact that some twenty-two bottling plants were already majority-owned by Indians, the Coca-Cola Export Company that supplied them with syrup was not. Not only did the government demand divestment from the syrup plant, it also required c.o.ke to divulge the recipe for the secret formula, an obvious deal-breaker for the company. c.o.ke's executives from John Pemberton to Robert Woodruff hadn't spent so much time imbuing the secret formula with such totemlike secrecy only to throw all of that away for the sake of one country. Reluctantly, c.o.ke packed up and left in 1977.
Into the breach came Thums Up, a drier and fruitier cola made by the Indian company Parle that quickly s.n.a.t.c.hed up the market c.o.ke had left behind. The tide turned back in the 1990s, however; with the new globalization fostered by the WTO and IMF, countries were told that the key to prosperity was privatizing industry and reducing barriers to foreign investment. India relaxed its owners.h.i.+p guidelines, and c.o.ke began exploring a return to the country-which it did in a big way in 1993. Facing opposition from Parle, however, c.o.ke simply bought up the company, along with its brands.
Initially, c.o.ke set out to create an anchor bottler similar to other parts of the world-but it ran into resistance from the bottlers already existing in the country, which refused to sell out or merge. By 1997, c.o.ke s.h.i.+fted tack to build its own bottling system under a new ent.i.ty called Hindustan Coca-Cola Beverages Pvt. Ltd., which now directly runs approximately half of the bottling plants in the country. The Indian government allowed the company under the stipulation that at least 49 percent of shares would be sold to Indian shareholders by July 2002.
Almost from the beginning, c.o.ke's return to India was a disaster. Soft drinks had never caught on much in India outside an urban middle cla.s.s that made up only 10 percent of the population. In the rural areas, people still drank traditional beverages such as coconut water, tea, and yogurt-based la.s.si. By 2002, per-caps in India were dismal, at just 6 bottles per person per year, compared with 17 in Pakistan, 73 in Thailand, and 173 in the Philippines. Making matters worse, c.o.ke made the poor decision to kill the popular Thums Up brand and subst.i.tute c.o.ke instead. The push failed, opening up more room for the ascension of Pepsi. Now Thums Up and Pepsi both command 20 percent of the market, while c.o.ke languishes in third place with 11 percent, despite lavish ad campaigns featuring Bollywood film stars.
Pleading poverty, Coca-Cola India asked the government for a stay of execution in divesting its shares in Hindustan Beverages, arguing it would lead to a fire sale in shares that would hurt the company's all-important brand image. The government granted it, even as the national and foreign press slammed c.o.ke for reneging on its promise. Now, seven years after the deadline, only 10 percent of the company is Indian-owned.
Already in 2001, however, c.o.ke's fortunes were beginning to change, first with a new strategy to divide the market into two separate parts. Sophisticated urbanites were sold an aspirational campaign invoking an upscale American way of life, with the tagline ”life as it should be.” Meanwhile in the rural market, the company pushed the simpler slogan ”c.o.ke means cold” to appeal to a generic love of cold drinks in the steamy back-waters of the country. Akin to its strategy in Mexico, c.o.ke also marketed a smaller bottle for half the price in rural areas. The gambit began to show promise. Volume grew by nearly 40 percent in 2002, with the company breaking even for the first time since reentry. Business, it seemed, had finally turned a corner. Then all h.e.l.l broke loose.
The first rumblings of what would grow into a national condemnation of Coca-Cola began not in Mehdiganj but in a sleepy village in the southern state of Kerala. Once known as the Malabar Coast, Kerala is a sliver of land in southwestern India, just seventy-five miles across at its widest, sandwiched between the ocean and a craggy mountain chain known as the Western Ghats. of what would grow into a national condemnation of Coca-Cola began not in Mehdiganj but in a sleepy village in the southern state of Kerala. Once known as the Malabar Coast, Kerala is a sliver of land in southwestern India, just seventy-five miles across at its widest, sandwiched between the ocean and a craggy mountain chain known as the Western Ghats.
Thanks to the wall of mountains, the state gets more rain than any other in India. Compared with the heat and frenzy of Varanasi, the air here is fresh and cool by late June after the monsoons have hit. Everything is lush and green, framed by picturesque mountain peaks with mist curling around their middles. As in Chiapas, however, all of the abundance can be misleading. Water is unevenly distributed in the state, with some areas in a ”rain shadow” behind a mountain peak getting half of the rainfall of a village just a few miles away.
That is the case in Plachimada, where Hindustan Coca-Cola decided to build a bottling plant that began operation in March 2000. The company sank six bore wells to take advantage of the village's seemingly ample groundwater. Excited by the possibility of jobs, both the state and the local village council, the Perumatty Panchayat, fast-tracked approval.
”When Coca-Cola first started, people were very happy,” says Ajayan, convener of the Plachimada Solidarity Committee, who grew up a few miles from here but now lives in the southern city of Trivandrum. (Like many Indians, he goes by only one name.) As in Mehdiganj, however, the villagers very quickly changed their tune, when their wells started drying up and their water started being polluted. Driving past palm trees and rice paddies, Ajayan slows the car slightly to point out the gates of the plant. Rising thirty feet above the green undergrowth, a twisted metal frame is now all that remains of the sign where Hindustan Coca-Cola once hung. ”Many villages have boycotted Coca-Cola, [but] nowhere in the world has a Coca-Cola unit but Plachimada,” Ajayan says proudly.
The resistance that led to that closing started in earnest in 2002, led by a shrunken s.e.xagenarian named Mailamma, who pa.s.sed away a few years ago. Ajayan pulls off the road and leads the way down a path of red earth lined with brick walls to Mailamma's home. In what is becoming a familiar ritual, he shows off the well in her front yard, empty except for a few feet of brackish water. Along with the lack of water, Mailamma and others started noticing a bitter taste to the water they did have. A teacher at a nearby school found that her students were increasingly absent because of stomach ailments and skin rashes, or late because they were sent farther and farther away to fetch drinkable water. Others discovered that the water turned rice brown when used for cooking, or that baths caused itching that lasted for days. As in Mehdiganj, the villagers also allege that the company distributed sludge for use as fertilizer, causing coconuts to shrink and turn yellow.
The problems with the water continue to this day-as evidenced by cl.u.s.ters of bright plastic jugs sitting by the roadside, which are filled every week by trucks the government has forced c.o.ke to provide to bring in clean water. Even so, say residents, there is never enough water to get through the week, so they are forced to continue to use well water-when that is available. A well in the center of the village, just a few feet from the plant, is almost dry, despite the fact that the plant closed more than four years ago. The hand pumps nearby have only recently started to work again, but the water is still polluted. ”You taste the water, you'll see,” Ajayan urges, pumping the handle a dozen times before water comes out in a trickle. Sure enough, it tastes clean enough at first, but within a few seconds it leaves a bitter aftertaste difficult to describe-like lime with a slightly metallic or sulfurous undertone that clings to the back of the tongue for hours. According to Ajayan, this is a vast improvement from how the water used to taste, back when the community was spurred to action.
c.o.ke hardly could have picked a worse place in India to set up shop than Plachimada. Like Chiapas in Mexico, Kerala has long been a state apart in India, setting up a socialist government in the 1950s and now trading political power between two left-leaning coalitions. The state's social consciousness has led to a literacy rate of over 90 percent, and health stats far above the national average. On the other hand, the antibusiness climate had led to high unemployment, and given Kerala a reputation of little more than a haven for restless trade unions and righteous NGOs. could have picked a worse place in India to set up shop than Plachimada. Like Chiapas in Mexico, Kerala has long been a state apart in India, setting up a socialist government in the 1950s and now trading political power between two left-leaning coalitions. The state's social consciousness has led to a literacy rate of over 90 percent, and health stats far above the national average. On the other hand, the antibusiness climate had led to high unemployment, and given Kerala a reputation of little more than a haven for restless trade unions and righteous NGOs.
Coinciding with c.o.ke's arrival, Kerala had also seen a surge in political consciousness of India's indigenous people, the Adivasis, who had won a huge victory in October 2001, when the state returned a portion of their ancestral lands. Emboldened by their newfound political muscle, some Adivasis from Plachimada turned their attentions to the c.o.ke plant. After the problems with water started emerging, some urged to shut the plant down by force. A leftist intellectual who had advised the community in the land campaign, however, urged patience, worried the village would face a backlash if it resorted to violence. ”I told them their strength was in the local, but their weakness was in not being able to reach out of the local,” says C. R. Bijoy. ”We had to make the local s.p.a.ce a s.p.a.ce of struggle.”
Under the leaders.h.i.+p of Mailamma and an Adivasi tribal chief, Veloor Swaminathan, that is exactly what they did, constructing a forty-foot thatched-roof hut directly across from the plant, which still exists in perfect repair, hung with framed pictures of Gandhi at his spinning wheel among propaganda posters. There they settled in for an around-the-clock sit-in that eventually lasted more than four years and has since been used as a textbook study for how a small group of citizens with limited resources can take down a rich multinational.
At each stage of the protest, the villagers worked with what they had, to gather first evidence, and then support, and gradually expand locally, nationally, and even internationally. From the beginning they sought to legitimize their experience with hard evidence. Sending the water out to a local lab, they were validated to find levels of dissolved minerals so high it was ”unfit for human consumption, domestic use (bathing and was.h.i.+ng), and for irrigation.”
Armed with that science, the villagers demanded that the local council, the Perumatty Panchayat, cancel the plant's license to operate. But the council dragged its feet in the face of c.o.ke's own tests contradicting the villagers' claims of water depletion and pollution. ”In the beginning we were not against the plant, because so many people were getting employment,” admits former village council president A. Krishnan. ”We told them we cannot take any action without investigating.”
By now, protests in front of the plant attracted hundreds-and on some days, thousands-of people. As word spread, outside groups such as the Indian branch of Greenpeace used the situation to decry the liberalization of the Indian economy as a cautionary tale of the evils of globalization, adding their own foot soldiers to the protest. The village was fast becoming an activist carnival. For each outside group, villagers would show off their depleted wells, let them taste the water, show them the failed attempts to boil rice. Sympathetic stories in the media followed, emphasizing the David versus Goliath aspects of the story, and day by day political pressure grew.
Eventually, both of the state's two communist parties declared their support for the villagers. c.o.ke maintained the support of the mainstream Congress Party, which then controlled Kerala's parliament, and the left-of-center Janata Dal (Secular) Party, which controlled the local village council. But the panchayat panchayat was wavering in the face of the activist occupation of the village-and c.o.ke itself pushed it over the edge when they rebuffed the council's request for information to dispute the activists' claims. ”They were just too arrogant,” says Krishnan. ”They said we've already talked to the big guys, we don't need to talk to you guys.” was wavering in the face of the activist occupation of the village-and c.o.ke itself pushed it over the edge when they rebuffed the council's request for information to dispute the activists' claims. ”They were just too arrogant,” says Krishnan. ”They said we've already talked to the big guys, we don't need to talk to you guys.”
Stung by the response, the panchayat panchayat reversed itself, revoking the plant's operating license on April 9, 2003, a year after the protest had begun. The stage was set for a showdown with the state government, which still supported the company. Just at that moment, in July 2003, a BBC radio crew appeared on the scene and dramatically changed the game. Told by farmers that c.o.ke had distributed solid waste as fertilizer, the crew took a sample back to a.n.a.lyze its nutrient content to see if it actually could be used to help grow crops. reversed itself, revoking the plant's operating license on April 9, 2003, a year after the protest had begun. The stage was set for a showdown with the state government, which still supported the company. Just at that moment, in July 2003, a BBC radio crew appeared on the scene and dramatically changed the game. Told by farmers that c.o.ke had distributed solid waste as fertilizer, the crew took a sample back to a.n.a.lyze its nutrient content to see if it actually could be used to help grow crops.
No one expected the results they found. The tests from the University of Exeter revealed not only that the sludge was useless as fertilizer, but also that it contained dangerous levels of the toxic heavy metals lead and cadmium. Samples taken from a nearby well also found toxic levels of lead and cadmium, which is known to cause prostate and kidney cancer with prolonged exposure.
The news report rocked the country, from Plachimada to Mehdiganj. After years of anecdotal reports that the sludge was harmful to livestock and crop production, here at last was proof from an internationally respected news agency. India has long had a double standard about Western foreign countries. On one hand, the long shame of colonialism has created a fierce animosity toward foreign influences-evidenced by the early backlash against c.o.ke. On the other hand, the long period of British rule has created an almost reflexive deference to foreigners. While the tests by the Indian company hadn't resonated, the evidence from a respected British university couldn't be ignored.
Shamed before the international press, the Kerala Pollution Control Board did its own tests, concluding within a week that c.o.ke's sludge contained levels of cadmium four times the tolerable limit of 50 milligrams per kilogram. The following day, the Janata Dal Party held a joint press conference with the panchayat panchayat. Not only did it support the local government in revoking the license, party officials said, but it also vowed to pursue legal action to close down the plant.
In the midst of this controversy, c.o.ke was blindsided by the release of another report that helped turn the growing local backlash into a national movement. A month after the BBC report, on August 5, 2003, a Delhi-based environmental group called the Centre for Science and Environment (CSE) called a press conference on a sweltering day in the nation's capital to announce to a crowded room of journalists that soft drinks around the country contained dangerous levels of pesticides. Coca-Cola, it reported, contained residues of DDT and malathion forty-five times the European standards. (Pepsi, too, was called out, for containing pesticides at thirty-seven times the European standards.) of this controversy, c.o.ke was blindsided by the release of another report that helped turn the growing local backlash into a national movement. A month after the BBC report, on August 5, 2003, a Delhi-based environmental group called the Centre for Science and Environment (CSE) called a press conference on a sweltering day in the nation's capital to announce to a crowded room of journalists that soft drinks around the country contained dangerous levels of pesticides. Coca-Cola, it reported, contained residues of DDT and malathion forty-five times the European standards. (Pepsi, too, was called out, for containing pesticides at thirty-seven times the European standards.) The issue struck directly at the heart of urban India, where the majority of soft drinks were consumed. No longer was this a question of stealing water from poor farmers, this was a company poisoning everyone. Indian consumers, the findings implied, were not worth the same care that companies lavished on consumers in the United States and Europe where c.o.ke was pesticide-free. c.o.ke's famous promise that its products were the same everywhere in the world had been exposed as a lie.
The day after the announcement, national pride kicked in. India's right-wing Parliament immediately banned the sale of soft drinks in its cafeteria, while protesters in Mumbai (Bombay) symbolically broke c.o.ke bottles and trampled on logo-bearing cups. Elsewhere, angry Indians tore down posters of Bollywood film stars Aamir Khan and Kareena Kapoor, who'd just signed endors.e.m.e.nt deals with the company. The reaction from the industry was swift, if cynical. ”Within days, c.o.ke's men from the Hong Kong group office were in Delhi to personally a.s.sess the situation,” wrote Nantoo Banerjee, c.o.ke's former head of public relations, in a scathing tell-all about his former company. ”The key message was: manage Parliament, manage ministers, and manage media. . . . To them, everything in India appeared to be 'manageable' with money and connections.” Led by Coca-Cola India, the soft drink industry published a full-page ad in India's English-language newspapers stating on the basis of its own tests ”we can safely a.s.sert that there is no contamination or toxicity whatsoever in our brand of beverages.” The facility CSE used to measure its own tests, the company went on to say, was not accredited highly enough, causing the tests to be hopelessly flawed.
The PR campaign did nothing to dim the public fury-sales of c.o.ke plummeted more than 30 percent in just two weeks. The final blow came when a Joint Parliamentary Committee backed up CSE's findings, saying its study was ”correct on the presence of pesticide residues in . . . branded products of Coca-Cola.” The company changed courses to diffuse blame. Rather than claiming its drinks did not contain pesticides, it now argued it wasn't their fault if they did did, since hazardous chemicals were endemic to the Indian food and water supply. If the government didn't enforce its environmental regulations, then how could the company be expected to abide by them? c.o.ke, they argued, has just been singled out to further CSE's own political agenda, exploiting the fact they were a foreign company to sway public opinion.
CSE's Kushal Yadav, however, disputes c.o.ke's contention that ”everything has pesticides.” In fact, he says, tests on fruits, vegetables, and sugar found relatively few cases of pesticide contamination. If soft drinks were contaminated, he concluded, it was from the groundwater that c.o.ke was not cleaning-despite the state-of-the-art water-intake treatment system that the company now shows off at its plant in Mehdiganj.
Whatever the cause, the pesticide story garnered more anti-c.o.ke press in a week than the struggles around groundwater depletion and contamination had in over a year. c.o.ke's most valuable a.s.set-its brand-had been tarnished, and its reputation called into question. A public that had mostly ignored a problem affecting the very livelihood of some of the world's most desperate people had been galvanized by contamination of a daily treat for the middle cla.s.s. On the other hand, if it weren't for the pesticide situation, the overmatched villagers fighting c.o.ke plants in Kerala may never have achieved the opening for national-and international-recognition.
”On the contrary,” says Yadav. The pesticide issue ”brought out in the open the other issues. Groundwater depletion, groundwater pollution, all of these issues came to the fore.” And in the summer of 2003, they began emerging in c.o.ke's home country as well, as the situation in India garnered more and more press in the United States-mostly through the work of one Indian-American activist who worked tirelessly to raise the issue.
Amit Srivastava was born in the United States, when his father, a business management professor, was on a sabbatical at the University of Illinois. His parents were originally from the Indian state of Bihar, a few hundred miles east of Varanasi. He spent his childhood in Tanzania and India, getting a crash course in poverty before going back to Illinois for high school. Originally, he entered the University of Illinois for computer engineering but felt increasingly under pressure to was born in the United States, when his father, a business management professor, was on a sabbatical at the University of Illinois. His parents were originally from the Indian state of Bihar, a few hundred miles east of Varanasi. He spent his childhood in Tanzania and India, getting a crash course in poverty before going back to Illinois for high school. Originally, he entered the University of Illinois for computer engineering but felt increasingly under pressure to do do, not to learn. ”I realized very quickly I was never cut out for college work,” he says in a taxi, speeding through the agricultural fields outside Varanasi. After his nontraditional upbringing, he never lost a sense of outrage wherever he saw exploitation in his adopted homeland. He dropped out of college and began traveling around the country to organize college students to fight for environmental justice in their communities-frequently involving big corporations he accused of polluting the environment and exploiting people.
Now sporting a ponytail and baseball cap, he looks like he is hardly out of college, despite his forty-four years of age. Back in the 1980s and 1990s, he was frustrated by a lack of awareness of the environmental justice issues he was pus.h.i.+ng. Environmentalism then was about saving whales and rain forests, not exposing cancer cl.u.s.ters around Baton Rouge. But he continued fighting, traveling overseas to Norway and j.a.pan to tackle issues in those countries as well. When India began liberalizing its economy in the 1990s, he was naturally drawn home.
”At the time, the entry of corporations into India was a new thing,” he says. ”I realized the movement in India could stand to benefit from an active movement in some of these countries like the United States where decisions were being made.” He launched the India Resource Center in 2002 with a budget of $60,000 a year, much of it originally provided by Body Shop founder Anita Rodd.i.c.k-a true believer in the spirit of corporate social responsibility who had recently traveled to Plachimada and decried c.o.ke's insensitivity there. After traveling there himself the following year, Srivastava knew he'd found a nemesis worthy of his time. ”I'll spend my whole life on Coca-Cola if I have to, why not?” he asks.
Despite the growing attention Plachimada was receiving in the international press, the local activists in Kerala were skeptical of being co-opted by international nonprofits who wanted to use the fight to push their own issues. Srivastava came to them with the proposal not to support their struggle from afar but to take the issue to the home of c.o.ke itself-the United States. ”The whole point is not to support the struggle, it is to join the struggle,” says C. R. Bijoy. ”One of the people who picked up on this was Amit.”
Like Ray Rogers, Srivastava realized early on that the vulnerability of c.o.ke lay in its brand image. In fact, he hooked up with Rogers in New York in spring 2004 ”walking out with two boxes full of propaganda” to begin organizing on college campuses. From then on, anytime SINALTRAINAL raised its own issues on campus, it also mentioned India; when Srivastava made his own visits to campuses, he brought up anti-union violence in Colombia. While Srivastava admits that the Indian situation isn't as dramatic as the murders that took place in Colombia, he argues that in some ways it is more compelling, since the bottling plants there were actually owned by the company in Atlanta, not contracted out to a separate franchisee, making c.o.ke's alleged infractions more direct. And while the violent civil war in Colombia is unique, c.o.ke's water use is an issue all over the world.
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