by Mark Thomas
‘These are my comrades’ says Rene.
‘FMLN?’ I ask, using the acronym for the revolutionary front that fought the government in the war.5
‘Yes.’
This was Rene’s guerilla unit. This was Rene at war, these are his friends and it is virtually impossible that they are all alive today. I have a mechanism of dealing with complex emotional situations, especially ones about which I know absolutely nothing and that mechanism is to blurt out ill-considered suburban responses. Today is no exception.
‘Gosh. Do you ever have reunions?’
Rene the Mayor keeps his eyes on the photo.
‘They are mainly dead. There are only two living now. One is me and the other,’ he says pointing a finger at one of the men, ‘he lives in America.’
‘Right…well…sorry to hear about that…’
‘It was the war,’ he says with a shrug that seems to cast aside a brief and monumentally crushing sadness.
‘Shall we chat about Coca-Cola?’
Rene the Mayor turns from the picture and says, ‘Come,’ ushering me to a chair.
And there on the wall hang these two photos, one of Che and one of the smiling guerillas - the ideal and the reality. Right next to ‘brand Che’, the logo of the revolution, is the actuality of the revolution: seven of the defiant men are dead.
In the run-down world of Nejapa the Coca-Cola bottlers must have ridden into town like a cavalcade. The council were delighted they wanted to open up a bottling plant. ‘We welcomed them,’ explains Rene, as he places a cup of coffee in front of me. His eager reception of the company is not the predictable response of a gun-toting ex revolutionary footballer but times and needs change. The reason he welcomed Coke was simple.
‘Jobs,’ says Rene the Mayor sitting down behind his desk. ‘It’s a poor region, most people here are working class and their economic level is quite tough.’
I tentatively enquire, ‘Did it seem odd to you, with your history, to now be working with Coca-Cola?’
‘Well…’ he says resting his hands on his lap with just the tips of his fingers touching, ‘…a little. I came from the war. They were a strong company. They had the idea that we couldn’t do business. But we got past that stage and as a council we were able to give them permission, even though sometimes they were not meeting all the requirements. As a demonstration of our goodwill we said “Come.” Because we wanted the employment they offered the community.’
He flicks a piece of lint from his button-down shirt and sits back.
Nejapa really wanted those jobs, the problem was that the Coke bottlers Embotelladora Salvadorena (Embosalva) did not have a spotless public record when it came to community relations. The previous plant in Soyapango, a working-class area a few miles to the east of San Salvador, was shut down amidst allegations the company had over exploited the area’s water supplies whilst residents only had tap water for eight hours of the day.6 So when Coke’s bottlers, Embosalva, came to Nejapa the council had a few conditions. Rene the Mayor explains that the company were told ‘There are four conditions you must agree to before opening up here: provide jobs, pay your taxes, respect the environment and provide some funding for the local amateur football team.’
If the company met these conditions it would indeed be fitting for Coke to boast of playing a role ‘in supporting sustainable communities’.
So how well did Coca-Cola manage to comply with these conditions? Did they fund the local football team? No. Though as Rene says, ‘lately they have taken up the issue again. I hope that it works this time.’
OK. Did they provide employment for the community? Rene says, ‘they didn’t employ anybody in Nejapa.’
‘They have employed no one?’ I question.
‘No, no one. Absolutely no one.’
Though to be absolutely fair to the company, I later heard a very strong rumour that one person from Nejapa was employed at the new plant…as a part-time gardener. Though this is unconfirmed.
To find out how the company managed with one of the other conditions Mayor Rene has arranged for me to meet Councillor Carlos in the town square at midday. And in a manner befitting the time and place, Councillor Carlos appears with the sun behind him. Middle-aged, trim and sporting jeans, polo shirt and a quiff that any elderly fan of Bronski Beat or Bros would be proud of, Councillor Carlos has been tasked with two jobs. Firstly to take us to the community he represents, who rely on the stream running downstream from the Coke bottling plant. This hopefully will provide some insight into how Coke works with sustainable communities. His second job is to act as our minder. It transpires that Armando’s earlier worries about gangs are not unfounded. The Coke bottlers are supposed to protect the environment and the councillor is to protect us. I hope he does a better job than the company.
We are given directions to the community. The van is to turn right at the top of the town, follow the road for about five minutes, keeping an eye out for a dirt track on the right, it should be obvious as it is directly after a pile of old fridges lying on their side in a field. Then onwards down the dirt track, until we reach a standpipe, turn sharp right and we will have arrived. It is obvious we are not going to the salubrious end of the neighbourhood. Any explanation of how to get to someone’s home, that involves the directions ‘turn right at some abandoned fridges’, tells you the person you’re visiting is pretty much fucked.
By the standpipe lies Councillor Carlos’ constituency, a narrow lane, with overhanging leaves and palms cutting out the light. The sides of the lane are banked high with dirt and debris forming walls to create a tunnel wide enough for the van but not its mirrors. These walls are where roots and scrub entwine with junk and litter, held together with packed mud. Gnarly branches are meshed into an old mattress frame, its springs knotted through with crawlers, which is all propped up by a tyre set in soil and baked hard. Into these walls of litter and grime are steps cut in the dirt and the steps lead to homes. This is the Gallera Quemada Canton of Nejapa.
Kids in shorts crouch on their haunches at the top of the steps. From up there they look straight into the van windows, our faces just feet away from each other. As we slowly rumble down this tunnel of hovels people stop what they are doing, adults stop cooking, girls stop hanging clothes out, kids stop playing; they stop and stare at us.
David our American raises his eyebrows and softly says, ‘This is Apocalypse fucking Now, man.’
Except that it isn’t. A foreign documentary film crew has just turned up with a camera that’s worth more than three year’s wages, so the locals are hardly likely to quip, ‘Not another polemic on globalisation, well, there goes the neighbourhood.’
Getting out of the van Councillor Carlos greets a few of his constituents with a nod and a word or two. ‘The people here make a living when it’s the rice or sugar cane season, they get some building work too,’ says Councillor Carlos
‘How much do they get paid?’
‘About $40 a month.’
But the one thing they had in their favour was access to clean water. The stream runs past the community and feeds into the San Antonio River. ‘Originally the stream had more water flowing through it and everybody could use it to water their flocks. Within the stream we still had wells and people could use this water.’ Poor yes, but with drinking water for themselves, their animals and for washing, they at least had that.
As we walk Councillor Carlos refers to the water in two distinct time zones, Before Coke and After Coke. ‘Previously,’ he says implying the time Before Coke, ‘the water wasn’t polluted. People would come and wash and children would get into the stream to have a swim; then as time went by the children would come out of the water with some kind of allergy on their bodies. They were sent to the clinic and that’s when they found out it was because of the contamination of the water.’ He pauses as we glimpse a field beyond the lane, with one solitary thorny tree and some small grey breeze-block homes in the distance made colourful with the laundry drying in the
sun.
‘We no longer use the water in the way we used to…People coming to the stream no longer use it for drinking water.’
Two men appear and smiling take the councillor to one side, say a few words and then Councillor Carlos explains that we should leave the area and that he will take us to a quieter location where we can continue the interview. The local gang is on their way down here to rob us and take the camera equipment. Apparently they are going to finish their drinks first, then come and get us. Great. Not only are we to be mugged, but we have to give the gang drinking-up time too. Armando the driver fumbles the gear stick gently muttering ‘Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.’
‘Have we got a security situation?’ David the American cameraman asks, adding, ‘I want a guard with a shotgun and I want one fucking now.’
Everyone ignores him, the engine revs and we leave. We have been saved by the universal phenomena of a bloke in a bar saying, ‘You can’t leave that, that’s still half full.’
We drive for a further 15 minutes in glorious and valiant retreat; in situations like this there is nothing finer than the nobility of cowardice. We have followed the stream and charted a course deeper into the countryside, there is no one is sight and we are quite alone. Out here the water sashays along flat plains hemmed in by distant hills and against the backdrop of a clear blue sky. It is easy to forget this countryside is contaminated.
‘The gangs will not come here,’ says Councillor Carlos as we walk to the stream to set up the camera equipment. ‘We are safe here,’ he says. But nobody asks how he can be sure of this, no one says ‘What if the gang had a car?’ or ‘What if they drove down the track they saw us leave on?’ Or being a rural gang, ‘What if they had a horse?’ Tattooed gang members trotting along doing a twos-up on a horse might not seem a possibility but this is the countryside - an unfamiliar place in my own land let alone another continent. For all I know the gangs round here could use pigs as pitbulls and pimp tractors. We are in the middle of nowhere, a little shaken up and in need of some reassurance.
The sound of a motorbike revving in the distance is not reassuring. Nether is the vision of the solitary bike heading towards us down the hillside, with billowing dry earth blowing up behind it. A black cop car then screeches to a halt on a ridge, three men step out into the swirling dust, silhouetted in the dirt clouds. The red and blue lights mounted on the roof flash a dull light in the haze. They wait, looking on, as the lone cop on the motorbike drives towards us. The dust and roar gets nearer until the rider guns the engine, brings the bike to a stop, flicks out a stand and dismounts all without taking his gaze off us. He wears reflective shades and is dressed head to toe in black, laced paratrooper boots, combat trousers, short-sleeve shirt, gun belt and holster. Even his jungle hat is black. Perhaps it is a nervous reaction but I get an overwhelming urge to say, ‘Fuck me it’s a paramilitary goth.’ But the words come out as, ‘Hi, there.’
We have no idea if we are breaking the law, if we need permission to film here, if he will take exception to foreigners making films that might be critical of his country. He stands tall, legs astride, one hand resting on his belt. Councillor Carlos explains we are filming for a programme about water contamination. The cop removes his shades looks at us and says, ‘I’m pleased, especially in view of what’s going on.’ Then he continues in a deep, serious and sincere tone, ‘As a rural police officer we’re involved with everything to do with the natural world and the environment. The other forces work within the city, within the urban areas. We ourselves are here for the well-being of the natural world, the rural areas.’
Oh my God, we’ve just meet our first genuine green cop. He’s tough, rides a motorbike, looks as sexy as hell and wants to protect his local eco system. Does he have any idea of how many boxes he ticks? I have women friends who would ovulate at the sight of him…men too.
As if this isn’t enough he initiates a brief and succinct critique of multinational corporations. ‘Most of the companies, like Coca-Cola, for example - it’s a very obvious example, isn’t it? - these companies, the waste products which they produce: the only outlet they find is here in our scanty resources.’ He gestures to the stream, smiles and says, ‘I’m really pleased that groups like yourselves are concerned about rescuing the few natural resources we enjoy today.’ And with that he touches the tip of his hat, nods his head, mounts his bike and roars off to fight wrongdoers, hug trees and break hearts.
It’s a hard act to follow but Councillor Carlos returns to the matter in hand, telling us the final episode of his saga. The story so far: the Coca-Cola bottling plant dumps waste in the water, kids get rashes, fish die and are found floating belly up, the mayor and the council can’t leave the community without water. Carlos says, ‘We obtained water tanks…[everyone] gets their water from the water tanks.’
‘Where does the water come from?’
‘There is a well where the water comes from which by means of piping feeds water to the tanks…so the well water supplies these water tanks for the benefit of the community.’
‘Who pays for it?’
‘We as a community pay for it. If we get a bill for X amount and 50 people use the tanks then we divide up the bill by 50.’
So the company that was supposed to bring employment to the community doesn’t employ anyone, pollutes the stream and causes people earning about $1.50 a day to pay out more money for their drinking water.
Carlos shrugs, ‘We fought and struggled so that Coca-Cola would pay for the water tanks, so that they would pay for the consumption of water that we have. Unfortunately Coca-Cola, like the huge company they are, merely came here to take over the resources…’
The question that worrying me is a simple one: how can a company that makes fizzy pop produce waste that kills fish and pollutes drinking water? They are making Coca-Cola in there, they are not Dow Chemicals or British Nuclear Fuels, and to the best of my knowledge they are not the final hiding place for The Mythical Weapons of Saddam Hussein. So how is this pollution happening?
Chemical engineer Daniel Martinez, has agreed to meet me to explain. He’s a chubby, clean-faced man with an innocent friendliness. A Salvadorean by birth he trained in Canada. ‘I used to work for City Hall and was in charge of monitoring how Coca-Cola was handling waste products,’ he says while we scramble down to the stream. We are looking for the Coke bottling plants’ waste pipe and find it halfway down the bank side protruding on to a brick overflow that cascades into the stream. The pipe leads straight to the plant and is easily big enough for a man to crouch and walk in, Tom Cruise could probably get in standing upright and would do too, especially if you told him L Ron Hubbard was in there.
Daniel stands by the constant flow of water coming out of the pipe and explains how the waste is produced. ‘There are two processes, one is the actual production and the other is when they wash the bottles. They use caustic soda to wash the bottles and detergents, that’s what gives the water the high PH. The other contaminant is from the process itself, that’s sugar mostly.’
Science admittedly isn’t my strong point but if sugar is being dumped into the water don’t the inhabitants just face very sweet water, surely their problem is calorific at this point?
Daniel develops a habit for dealing with my stupidity, namely he giggles then ignores me.
‘The main problem is the biowaste contains too much nutrients. And they are all biodegradable but to be biodegradable they absorb the oxygen in the water.’
Somewhere in my mind a light bulb goes on.
‘OK, so when people told us that the fish died when Coca-Cola moved here, it is because this stuff uses the oxygen and there is nothing left in the water.’
‘Exactly,’ he flashes a quick encouraging smile, ‘they suffocate, they drown. When you have these multiple species dead, it’s because Coca-Cola had a problem with the plant and they had a dumping…they just opened the gate,’ he says referring to the pumps and sluice gates that release the waste, ‘ and the problem goes away.
’
‘Except it doesn’t go away.’
‘Except it comes to the community.’
THE CURIOUS CASE OF CLEAN WATER
Daniel Martinez, the chemical engineer who worked for the council, found curious results when the Coca-Cola bottlers tested the wastewater. He said ’They are supposed to test the water because of the quantities they manage, they have to test daily.’ So who conducts these daily tests? The Coca-Cola bottlers, that’s who, in their own labs. However, once a month, ‘They are supposed to send samples to be tested in another lab outside of plant, independent laboratories…. That will help them compare the results with their own results and that will help them to see if their own lab is running properly or not.’