by Mark Thomas
So Coke can say, 31 per cent belong to a union , because the rules they use only count every fifth worker employed under the Coca-Cola logo. Now I am not saying that this special counting method is necessarily bad; there are times when it would be nice to count five as only one, Die Hard movies for example.
The fletero testimonies raise some serious issues. If the Coca-Cola bottlers do not employ these workers, why do they keep insisting that these workers cannot join a trade union? Answering this question TCCC’s global workplace rights director responded by saying, ‘Colombia has unique labour laws in that contract workers are not allowed under Colombian law to belong to industrial unions…it’s a unique law in the world...’10 Implying quite clearly that the ‘Coca-Cola system’ was just obeying the law on the issue. This is somewhat disingenuous.
Colombian law, according to the Colombian Trade Union Federation ‘recognises the right of association only to the workers who have a labour contract [permanent employment]’.11 This means temporary or casual workers are being denied one of their basic human rights - the right to freedom of association.
So is Coke merely an innocent party here? Is the Pope a lesbian? According to Sinaltrainal, in 1990 75 per cent of workers under the Coca-Cola system in Colombia had permanent employment and 25 per cent casual employment. Today that figure is basically reversed, 80 per cent of workers in the ‘Coca-Cola system’ in Colombia are casual labour. The ‘Coca-Cola system’ has subcontracted its workforce at an incredible rate thus denying them the right to join a union and keeping wages low and work hours high.12
I wake up the next morning at Chile’s house to find that the family rush hour has just kicked in. Amidst the washing and dressing, shouting and shushing, beating and stirring, sweeping and feeding, homework and cleaning, Esmeralda is showing me how to make arepas, a flat round griddled cornmeal patty stuffed with cheese. Frankly, this is the last thing she needs and after tasting my efforts it is the last thing the family need too. Laura is finishing her homework while glancing urgently for her breakfast. Mayela feeds the baby while trying to ignore the smoke from the griddle tray. The baby’s attention is caught by the smoke and so hangs open-mouthed over the bottle. Esmeralda is making dough balls, coaching me, doing up a child’s shirt while serving as a human clock by periodically shouting out someone’s name and the time. Jess leans over the table to snap the scene with an enormous camera, Laura’s college friend is eating eggs and ducking to miss Jess’s lens. Someone is in the shower upstairs shouting ‘What’s burning!’ Emilio stands blankly in his underwear and Luis Eduardo frantically searches for the latest batch of death threats he has received.
‘Luis Eduardo aka Chile’ is what the paramilitaries call him in their death threats, that and ‘you trade unionist son of a bitch.’ Luis Eduardo collects death threats like my mum collects parking tickets.
It’s a trivial point, but considering the nature of death squads and their primary purpose, namely killing people, they rarely come up with catchy names for themselves. The old Colombian paramilitaries were called the Autodefensas Unidas de Colombia (AUC) which translates as The United Self-Defence Forces of Colombia. The new paras, both nationally and in Bucaramanaga, have opted for the Águilas Negras - The Black Eagles, which doesn’t sound that threatening, evoking as it does, the name of a Goth Folk band.
What isn’t so trivial is that they regularly send death threats to prominent Sinaltrainal members. This one was sent to Chile in February 2007: ‘The Paramilitiaries of Magdalena Medio, The Black Eagles, call on the terrorist Coca-Cola trade unionists to stop bad mouthing the Coca-Cola Corporation given that they have caused enough damage already. If there is no response we declare them military targets of the Black Eagles, and they will be dealt with as they prefer: death, torture, cut into pieces, coup de grace. No more protests!’
There are a number of significant points about this threat:1. The Black Eagles target Luis Eduardo because of his work as a Coca-Cola trade unionist and clearly object to the campaign against Coke.
2. They insist that trade unionists are terrorists.
3. They bizarrely offer a menu of physical assault, as if murder à la carte is somehow classy.
This particular threat came shortly after the vice-president of Colombia, Francisco Santos, made some particularly unhelpful remarks. In a thinly veiled reference to Sinaltrainal, Vice-President Santos called on those agitating against ‘Coca-Cola, Nestlé, and other private companies’ to stop their campaign, adding that this was fuelled by interference from ‘sectors of the extreme left, radicals infiltrated into trade union sectors that are generating absolutely absurd campaigns against the corporations.’13
‘It was after the State’s version of the events that the threats started coming through to the trade union leaders…the security situation became much worse in 2007,’ says Chile.
‘How many death threats have you received in a year?’ I ask, expecting a rough estimate.
‘Eight threats,’ he says precisely, as it dawns on me that death threats by their very nature are not likely to be forgotten. Death threats rarely illicit the response of, ‘Oh Lord, I’ve been that busy I’ve lost count of them.’
Alongside the eight threats came a visit to the family home. Two men got past the security hut, crossed the wide courtyard in the middle of the blocks, passed the grocery shop with a tray of eggs on the counter, then turned left through an archway that goes under an apartment, emerging quickly into the cool shaded walkway that nips and tucks between the homes. Small iron fences balance on top of low brick walls where little front patios are littered with clutter - kids’ plastic toys, spades, garden chairs and lots of pots sprouting firs, ferns, palms and red-leaved lilies. At the end of this is a home with bigger railings, with proper locks on them. Laura, the youngest daughter says, ‘I was inside, on my own…I came down when they knocked on the gate.’ She curls up on the chair. ‘They said they wanted my father.’
‘It’s really bad and we’re really scared,’ says Esmeralda.
While Coca-Cola might call this an ‘old story’ it is a crucially current one for the family and the familiar chaos of breakfast belies the strain. A couple of years ago their eldest child Alexander had to jump from a moving bus to escape two men who clearly knew who he was and seriously threatened him. Alexander has moved well away with his wife and child and now manages a restaurant. Esmeralda spends most of her week working for him there and returns home when she can. Laura is receiving counselling as the recent visit by the paras has triggered memories of her childhood exclusion from school while her father was in jail.
The Coca-Cola Company says that the bottler, Coca-Cola FEMSA, has given assistance to workers threatened by the Black Eagles, including:• ‘Paid leaves of absence from work.’
• ‘Loans to install security cameras at the homes of affected workers.’
• ‘Set flexible working schedules for those workers upon their return to work.’
• ‘Provided individual transportation for those workers to and from work.’14
Which sounds reasonable, but let us balance the books - what is in the credit column and what is in the debit column? In the debit column we have The Coca-Cola Company whose bottlers have been accused of collaborating with paramilitaries and they themselves have been accused of making little or no effort to redress the situation despite an employee being killed in the bottlers’ own plant. In the debit column the bottlers’ security manager falsely accused union members of terrorism, for which they are wrongfully imprisoned for six months, while their families have to beg to survive. Those bottlers have made no effort to redress that wrong. In the debit column Coke wanted rid of the union, which was the logical outcome should a settlement have been reached. In the debit column the bottlers have subcontracted workers so they do not have to give them permanent employment and refused to let them join a union. The bottlers are accused of undermining Sinaltrainal while The Coca-Cola Company claims to respect their rights.
And so on to the credit column. This entry in the balance books is not quite as long as the previous column. In the credit column is: when workers receive death threats the company lends them some money for a camera, gives them some time off and provides them with a lift to work. It is a list you could sum up as: a day off, a taxi and a loan…
Luis Eduardo has by most standards led an eventful life. There was an attempt on his life, when a para appeared with a gun while he was delivering Coca-Cola. He was saved by a shopkeeper pulling him into the store. On top of the false imprisonment on trumped-up terror charges, he has been on hunger strike for better conditions at work. Paramilitaries visit his house and his children have been threatened. His friends are either dead or carry pistols, tucked inside their shirts. Yet paradoxically I feel totally safe in his home. Perhaps my sense of security is the result of rationalisation, namely: the paramilitaries are more likely to kill Luis Eduardo than they are to do anything to me and it is a reasonably good bet that they are not going to kill Luis in front of a foreigner with a press card. Ergo, as long as I stay with Luis Eduardo, everything will be fine…it is when I leave that the problems will start. I reckon Jackie Kennedy had similar feelings, figuring that ‘no one is going to bother shooting at me when they can shoot at John.’
Leaving, under the cloud of this calculation, is an unsettling affair. ‘This is a little thank you.’ I say handing Luis Eduardo a bottle of single malt whisky.
‘This is for you’ says Esmeralda, handing me a rolling pin and an arepa mould, ‘But you must promise to make them when you get home.’
‘Thanks, that is really kind of you and thank you for putting up with me,’ I say.
‘These are for you,’ says Luis Eduardo, handing over a bundle of photocopied death threats. Not a traditional parting by any means, but I don’t think he had time to get me a presentation tin of regional quality biscuits.
5
THE DAYS OF THE GREAT COKE PLEDGE
Istanbul, Turkey
‘Coca-Cola acknowledges that Coca-Cola workers are allowed to exercise rights to union membership and collective bargaining without pressure of interference. Such rights are exercised without fear of retaliation, repression or any other form of discrimination.’
Joint Statement issued by The Coca-Cola Company and the
International Union of Foodworkers on 15 March 20051
Everyone is a mere six phone calls away, so says the theory of six degrees of separation. It works like this: you can contact anyone in the world merely by phoning someone you think might be able to help track down your target and creating a chain of contacts until you reach your goal. Admittedly, anyone who has used NHS Direct at a weekend would beg to differ. But, for example, if I wanted to reach Vladimir Putin I would try and find someone who in turn knew someone else in the Russian Embassy and go from there. Admittedly, in Putin’s case you would only have to make a couple of calls before he came looking for you, probably with a plate of sushi with a half-life of a few million years, but you get the point.
In practice though, this is far from foolproof. One unforeseen consequence of attempting to utilise the ‘six degrees’ theory is that once you start the ball rolling, people come back with all sorts of unrequested information. You might start out looking to track down Eddie Murphy and end up getting through to Aleister Crowley’s cousin.
And so it was that I had set out for Istanbul with the intention of talking with ex-Coca-Cola workers sacked for joining a trade union, and ended up nattering to a host of other, unexpected folk, including the man who wrote a history of Coca-Cola in Turkey. Someone I knew knew someone, who knew someone, who thought it might be interesting for me to meet with a Coca-Cola obsessive. Partly out of curiosity but mainly out of a desire not to appear rude I said, ‘Sounds great.’
Which is why I am sitting in a patisserie just off Taksim Square fighting to keep a polite smile from turning into jowl cramp. The writer opposite me is slouching across the table. In fact everything about him slouches, his sixteen-stone frame slouches in the chair, his black driving jacket slouches, his shoulders slouch, even his thick-rimmed glasses slouch on his nose. He doesn’t so much sit at the table as nearly melt over it. If I were him I would be worried in case the Buddhists are right and in the next life he comes back as an ice-cream.
He’s a knackered guy in his mid-forties but has the glint of a young believer in his eyes. The front half of his head is bald and the back full of black curls, flecked with the odd grey. These same colours are sported by his stubble, making his chin look like a badger recovering from chemo.
Our man here has written a history of Coca-Cola in Turkey. Naturally he orders a bottle of the stuff, while I opt for the traditional Turkish apple tea. He slugs, I sip and I feel the better man for it. His book has not been officially ‘authorised’ but is currently ‘with Atlanta’ awaiting a decision. There have been a few hoops to jump through too as, according to our fellow, the company doesn’t like any mention of their cocaine history - of all the C words to take offence at, it seems that ‘Cocaine’ tops the Company’s list. I imagine it must be quite a task, writing a history of a product with Coca in its name and not actually mentioning cocaine. But our slumped fellow avoided this pitfall by reference to alkaloid compounds throughout the book to avoid the dreaded ‘cocaine’ word and is hopeful that he will get it published.
On mentioning that I am researching communities and groups who have found themselves in conflict with the company, his reaction is livelier than his posture belies.
‘There is no story here,’ he says in good English, ‘there is no story about Coca-Cola in Turkey.’ Pausing to looks at me directly ‘The only story here…’ he spreads his hands out across the table top, palms up, Jesus-style ‘…is of a miracle drink…’ his eyes widen in wonder ‘…the miracle of Coca-Cola. The drink that unites people across the world.’
I don’t mention the Istanbul Coke deliverymen I’ve just met who would probably interpret ‘uniting people across the world’ in a slightly different fashion, seeing as they were sacked for joining a union. For the time being I’m not uttering a single word, as I have an unnerving feeling that if he’s interrupted he’ll go back to the beginning and start all over again. Blinking, I focus on what he has to say. ‘I was involved in one of the bridge projects, it was partnered by a Japanese firm and at the end of it there was a party to celebrate.’ He leans forward in the way that racists do when they are about to say something they know they shouldn’t. ‘The Japanese…’ he says on cue, ‘served up this food…’ his face is full of disgust, ‘…that soup with seaweed, really disgusting, you can’t drink it,’ he informs me as if this is scientific fact. ‘Then these vegetables and rice, it smells disgusting, like vomit, you know what I mean.’ He looks around and finding no disagreement, sneeringly spits out the word again, ‘Vomit. No one could eat this shit. But all of us…’ his faces smiles at his conclusion ‘….we could all drink Coca-Cola.’ And he toasts the sky with his bottle.
This fellow is a zealot, Coca-Cola to the core, you could cut him and he would spill fizzy brown blood, possibly with a slice of lemon. His feelings towards Coca-Cola are intense enough to border on love, although this kind of love is the type one normally associates with restraining orders. I find his obsession fascinating, indeed it is almost an asset as it gives him a certain gauche charm. I do not, however, have much like for him.
It’s not his physical appearance at fault, because to be honest I am at best only five years behind him. Nor do I dislike him because he idolises Coke so much; life is too short to hate someone over a fucking fizzy drink. Believing Coca-Cola to be the greatest thing in the world is neither a crime nor an affliction. I actually don’t even mind pushing cake around a plate, while he tells me all about his collection of Coca-Cola memorabilia - a topic that is as endless as it is dull. Nor do I dislike him because his obsession has led to the suspension of any critical faculties he must have had. No, all of these things are kinks and quirks, the odd s
trand of DNA that defines who we are as people. No, I dislike him for the simple fact that he is a bigot.
‘Coca-Cola has brought only good to this country.’ He explains that he and his wife visited the east. As the south-east is the Kurdish region I wince in anticipation. ‘We went into a shop and the grocer used disposable gloves to cut the cheese.’ He holds his hands up in wonder and mimes putting on the gloves. ‘Those people have never been able to understand basic personal hygiene…’ In this particular instance the subtext is more ‘text’ than ‘sub’ and the message is quite clear: ‘Kurds are filthy’. ‘And do you know who taught them about hygiene? Coca-Cola. I talked to the shopkeeper and he told me how Coca-Cola had taught him about hygiene in classes…Their hygiene was terrible, no one could do anything about it, not even the government could teach them. But do you know who taught these people? Coca-Cola taught those people.’
If I have interpreted this correctly Coca-Cola are great because they and only they have managed to teach the Kurds to wash their hands. It is fair to say that logic plays no great part in our man’s analysis. He sees a world where Coca-Cola brings western values and civilisation to the heathen hordes, where the company are missionaries travelling the globe for converts. It is a cap-doffing vision of ‘our betters’ doing their bit to improve us, one drink at a time.