The Coke Machine Part 5
c.o.ke formed a partnership with Nestle in 2006 to roll out a green-tea drink it called Enviga, which was "proven to burn calories." The claim hinged on the antioxidant EGCG, the active component of green tea, which had been found in some controlled tests to speed metabolism. A study by c.o.ke and Nestle claimed that when thirty-one already thin adults drank Enviga for three days, they burned an average of 100 extra calories on the third day. Even to burn that modest amount of calories, you'd have to drink three 12-ounce cans of Enviga, at between $1.29 and $1.49 each. But c.o.ke was bold enough to say the drink had "negative calories."
That was too much for the "food police." Still smarting from being double-crossed on the school soda deal, c.o.ke's old nemesis CSPI filed a cla.s.s-action lawsuit against the companies. c.o.ke hedged, claiming ridiculously that it had said only that Enviga burned calories, not that it led to weight loss. "You can stop that, it's about weight loss," said a judge, swatting down the distinction during a hearing. In the end, the company cut the calorie-burning claims, and eventually c.o.ke and Nestle pulled Enviga entirely in the face of poor sales.
The same could not be said of VitaminWater, the leader in a new trend of "enhanced beverages," which c.o.ke had paid an eye-popping $4.1 billion to acquire through its parent company Glaceau in 2007. VitaminWater promised a c.o.c.ktail of exotic ingredients-guarana, acai, and green tea-that in another era would seem straight out of the carpetbag of a snake oil salesman. But consumers have literally drunk it up, with sales in recent years growing by double digits, comparable to bottled water sales a few years before (or, for that matter, soft drinks two decades ago). It has even found its way quietly into schools, when the American Beverage a.s.sociation and the Alliance for a Healthier Generation amended their agreement from allowing sports drinks and juices to allow any "other drinks" with fewer than 66 calories per 8-ounce serving into school vending machines. In all of its advertising of vitamins and health additives, however, c.o.ke failed to advertise one ingredient in VitaminWater: a whole lot of sugar. In fact, a 20-ounce bottle of VitaminWater has 32.5 grams of sugar and 125 calories-nearly half of the calories in a comparable-size c.o.ke.
"When I bought VitaminWater, frankly I thought I was doing myself a favor healthwise," says James Koh, a San Francisco gym rat who drank the stuff regularly. "I had no idea I was actually getting almost a c.o.ke's worth of sugar and calories." Koh is now the lead plaintiff in yet another cla.s.s-action lawsuit filed by CSPI, which may finally get its day in court. This time, CSPI didn't even bother calling c.o.ke before filing the suit in January 2009. As a sign of the increasing acrimony between the company and its nemesis, c.o.ke blasted the lawsuit as "ridiculous and ludicrous." Using language rare even for a company under attack, the company went on to call the suit an "opportunistic PR stunt" and "grandstanding at a time when CSPI is receiving very little attention."
At the same time, in response to press inquiries, c.o.ke claimed it hadn't yet had the opportunity to read the complaint, so it couldn't respond to specific charges. Had the company read it, they would have found it alleged a grab bag of bogus health claims on behalf of c.o.ke to hide the fact that the drink is essentially watered-down soda.
The FDA allows food companies a lot of leeway in making claims about the nutritional effects of supplements-for example, that calcium supports the formation of strong bones. It prohibits companies from marketing food items as drugs intended to treat or cure disease (though in practice enforcement of this has been lax). VitaminWater's claims have skirted and in some cases crossed the line with claims that antioxidants in one flavor "may reduce the risk of certain chronic diseases," and vitamin A in another "may reduce the risk of age-related eye disease."
Even more egregiously, says CSPI's Stephen Gardner, the brand has deliberately misled consumers through a practice of "double labeling"-listing the good stuff like vitamins and other nutrients by the bottle size, while listing the bad stuff like sugar and sodium by the serving size in order to minimize their appearance, since there are two and a half 8-ounce servings in a 20-ounce bottle. "They say there are only 50 calories, but in effect there are 125 calories," Gardner says, bristling. "Why should consumers a.s.sume they are being lied to in the front? Why should they have to study the very hard-to-read fine print to know the ingredients?"
Remaining a step ahead of the backlash, Coca-Cola recently released VitaminWater 10, with just 10 calories per serving (that is, 25 calories per bottle). The product contains stevia, a plant-derived sweetener that has faced its own controversy over claims it contributes to infertility and cancer, even though it has just won approval as safe by the FDA.
If c.o.ke doesn't succeed on VitaminWater, they may have few options left in the United States and European markets. While the key to capitalism is constant innovation, the company may have simply reached a plateau in developed countries. While c.o.ke has survived the backlash against soda in schools, the sugar-sweetened carbonated beverage market has stopped growing. Bottled water, too, has stagnated, and if it doesn't revive, it will spell a big loss to c.o.ke's profit center.
Fortunately for the company, it isn't dependent on the U.S. and European markets-and hasn't been for a long time. Like the tobacco companies, which looked overseas when they came under fire in the United States, c.o.ke has increasingly looked to countries like Brazil, China, and Russia as its next big markets. In addition to the growing populations of countries in the developing world, the company has the added benefit of a more lax regulatory environment, allowing c.o.ke to take advantage of lower costs. In doing so, however, it has created an even bigger conflict between the image of international harmony the brand projects and the reality of the company's operations on the ground.
The world of Coca-Cola isn't the World of Coca-Cola. isn't the World of Coca-Cola.
Part Two
TEACHING THE WORLD TO SING.
I'd like to teach the world to sing, in perfect harmony, I'd like to buy the world a c.o.ke, and keep it company, That's the Real Thing . . .
-c.o.kE COMMERCIAL, 1971.
SIX.
"Toma lo Bueno!"
Salamandering along the ridges of the Chiapas Highlands in southwestern Mexico, you might miss the small sign announcing the village of San Juan de Chamula. But you'd never miss the painted c.o.ke advertis.e.m.e.nts that surround it on all sides. As visitors come down the hill into the town of 60,000, it takes on the appearance of an army camp, with bright red tents bearing the red c.o.ke logo pitched all over town. Like most Mexican towns, Chamula centers around a huge central plaza where vendors sell bright Mayan textiles, piles of fruits and vegetables, knockoff clothes, and, of course, soft drinks. But the visibility of c.o.ke only hints at the complete cultural integration the fizzy beverage has achieved in Chamula. Facing the plaza is the Church of St. John the Baptist, a white colonial-style cathedral built in 1522, where c.o.ke has literally been turned into a means of religious veneration.
Nearly every day, gringo tourists line up outside the church, clutching tickets to observe the bizarre rituals within. Once through the entrance, they are enveloped in the warm, woodsy smell of pine incense, supplemented by fresh pine needles strewn on the floor. A soft light filters in from windows set below the ceiling some eighty feet above, while thousands of candles burn on tables before gla.s.s cases containing gaudily dressed statues of saints. As musicians near the altar play a repet.i.tive dirge, small groups of women and children are burning clumps of small, tapered candles stuck into the flagstones. Some are so close together, their combined flames look like a small campfire.
As bewildered tourists wander among them today, a young girl opens up a cardboard box to lift out a clucking brown chicken. Her mother takes it, holding it by its neck and feet, as she rubs it over each of her children. Then laying it on the ground in front of her, she talks to it and soothes it before calmly breaking its neck. The ceremony is a healing art; the chicken is intended to take away the problems of those upon whom it is rubbed. When it dies, the problems go away.
By far the most prominent rituals in the church, however, are those involving soft drinks-which are used by the indigenous people here as a means of directly communing with G.o.d. Half-empty bottles of Pepsi and local drinks Big Cola and Gugar are scattered all over the ground amid the pine needles. The most common drinks, though, are half-liter bottles of c.o.ke. By the altar, one man opens up a canvas bag full of them, along with clear bottles of a homemade sugarcane rum called pox pox (p.r.o.nounced "posh"). He pa.s.ses two small gla.s.ses to each member of the group, one full of (p.r.o.nounced "posh"). He pa.s.ses two small gla.s.ses to each member of the group, one full of pox pox, the other of c.o.ke. Then the eldest man, who stands in the middle dressed in a black sheepskin vest and is missing most of his teeth, chants for five minutes. When he's done, he takes a gingerly sip of the cane liquor-then tosses back the whole gla.s.s of c.o.ke in one long guzzle, holding his hand out for a refill as the other members follow suit.
All around the church, in fact, the groups of people are performing the same ritual, explains Carlos Gallegos, an English-speaking tour guide leading a quiet group of Germans. "People drink the pox pox first, then they drink the Coca-Cola," he says. "Then they make a little burp, and that is your spirit floating up into the air. It makes a confession to G.o.d and it comes back to your body." The burps are virtually undetectable, done discreetly as a personal communication with G.o.d. The different colored candles, continues Gallegos, represent different supplications-yellow for health, green for the harvest, and so on, which are carried upward along with the little belches. "People drink different ones now, but Coca-Cola is still the official one, the best one," says Gallegos. So significant has c.o.ke become to the ritual life of the village that neighbors give it to celebrate births, deaths, and marriages, and judges order it as a means of payment in small claims court. "Here," says Gallegos, "Coca-Cola is cash, poison, magic, pa.s.sion, pleasure, torture, love, and medicine." first, then they drink the Coca-Cola," he says. "Then they make a little burp, and that is your spirit floating up into the air. It makes a confession to G.o.d and it comes back to your body." The burps are virtually undetectable, done discreetly as a personal communication with G.o.d. The different colored candles, continues Gallegos, represent different supplications-yellow for health, green for the harvest, and so on, which are carried upward along with the little belches. "People drink different ones now, but Coca-Cola is still the official one, the best one," says Gallegos. So significant has c.o.ke become to the ritual life of the village that neighbors give it to celebrate births, deaths, and marriages, and judges order it as a means of payment in small claims court. "Here," says Gallegos, "Coca-Cola is cash, poison, magic, pa.s.sion, pleasure, torture, love, and medicine."
How a caramel-colored drink from Georgia came to be everything to a remote Mexican village is a long story, intertwined with c.o.ke's international expansion after World War II. When Asa Candler forecast c.o.ke's unstoppable growth, and Robert Woodruff imagined c.o.ke "within arm's reach of desire," they might have been picturing modern-day Mexico. from Georgia came to be everything to a remote Mexican village is a long story, intertwined with c.o.ke's international expansion after World War II. When Asa Candler forecast c.o.ke's unstoppable growth, and Robert Woodruff imagined c.o.ke "within arm's reach of desire," they might have been picturing modern-day Mexico. "Toma lo bueno!" "Toma lo bueno!" read ads blanketing the country-"Drink the good stuff!"-and Mexicans do, 635 cups of c.o.ke beverages annually per person, half again as much as the United States' 412. In part, it is c.o.ke's role as a symbol of the American way of life that has made it so popular, and in part, it's the extremes the company has gone through to get its soda into every village shop and dispensary. It's nearly impossible to describe the ubiquity of soft drink ads in Mexico, with c.o.ke's logo painted on houses and buildings along the roads at least every hundred feet. read ads blanketing the country-"Drink the good stuff!"-and Mexicans do, 635 cups of c.o.ke beverages annually per person, half again as much as the United States' 412. In part, it is c.o.ke's role as a symbol of the American way of life that has made it so popular, and in part, it's the extremes the company has gone through to get its soda into every village shop and dispensary. It's nearly impossible to describe the ubiquity of soft drink ads in Mexico, with c.o.ke's logo painted on houses and buildings along the roads at least every hundred feet.
Along with Canada and Hawaii, Mexico was one of the first foreign countries to sell c.o.ke, dating back to 1897. For the next few decades, the company sold small amounts in Cuba, the Philippines, England, Germany, and other countries. Early sales abroad ranged from sporadic to anemic. In 1927, Woodruff focused on the market with a new Foreign Department, which contracted out with local companies and businessmen to operate plants overseas, eventually spinning off into a separate subsidiary called the Coca-Cola Export Corporation.
The franchise system put into place when Candler accidentally gave away the store proved useful in foreign markets, allowing the company to expand more rapidly and with less risk-not to mention decreasing the company's liability if anything should go wrong. The company took delight in calling itself a "local" company wherever it went, pointing out that only 1 percent of Coca-Cola Export's employees were American. Then again, the bulk of the profits-up to 80 percent in some cases-flowed back to Atlanta. And not all countries were created equal. In developing nations, bottling companies were often contracted out to American corporations, such as the powerful United Fruit Company in Guatemala and Nicaragua, or owned outright by c.o.ke, as in India.
However much it championed local autonomy, the company was not above using its lobbying clout to force its way into countries that weren't so receptive. In Brazil, for example, a law prohibited drinks containing the preservative phosphoric acid, necessary to prevent degradation of caffeine. (Since Brazilian colas contained caffeine naturally derived from the guarana plant, the preservative was not needed locally.) As part of a bilateral trade agreement with the United States in 1939, the country was forced to repeal the law. The agreement also reduced taxes on soft drinks sold in 6-ounce bottles, a transparent sop to c.o.ke, since local sodas were sold in 12-ounce bottles.
Despite expansion into South America and Europe in the 1930s, c.o.ke's sales overseas didn't really pick up until after World War II-thanks to Woodruff's promise to give soldiers c.o.kes for a nickel and the taxpayer-funded bottling plants it engendered. In many ways, the company's international success mirrored that of the country that created it. As Europe lay in ruins, the United States suddenly found itself, along with the Soviet Union, as one of the world's two superpowers. With the new economic and cultural hegemony came a new resentment from some foreigners, particularly in Europe, where the Marshall Plan facilitated the entry of American corporations, at the same time creating anxiety about the cra.s.s commercialism of American culture. In some cases, the opposition spilled out into open protest, often directed against the most obvious symbol of the United States: Coca-Cola.
Local communists, in particular, spread wild rumors about the American drink-warning that it turned children's hair white overnight, or that its bottling plants were cover for atomic bomb factories. Nowhere was opposition stronger than in France, where the French Communist Party lamented the growing "Coca-Colonization" of the continent, and the left-centrist newspaper Le monde Le monde warned that nothing less than "the moral landscape of France is at stake!" Joining the leftists in an unlikely alliance were conservative wine growers who feared c.o.ke's effect on French viniculture-the liquid symbol of France's own way of life. warned that nothing less than "the moral landscape of France is at stake!" Joining the leftists in an unlikely alliance were conservative wine growers who feared c.o.ke's effect on French viniculture-the liquid symbol of France's own way of life.
When the communists and their allies tried to pa.s.s a law in the French National a.s.sembly to effectively ban c.o.ke in France and its colonies, c.o.ke reacted with immediate furor. "Coca-Cola was not injurious to the health of American soldiers who liberated France from the n.a.z.is," fumed Coca-Cola Export head James Farley, a former political operative in the Roosevelt administration. "This is the decisive struggle for Europe," cried c.o.ke's top lawyer, as if describing a military conquest. The company called in all of its troops. At its urging, the State Department warned France of "serious possible repercussions" if it pushed through a ban so "prejudicial to American interests." One Georgia congressman forswore French dressing (in an eerie precursor to the "Freedom Fries" protest by Republican congressmen preceding the invasion of Iraq); another more seriously threatened a trade war on French wine, cheese, and Champagne.
As the combined political pressure defeated the anti-c.o.ke alliance in the National a.s.sembly, the company was in fact living up to the fears of those opposing it-becoming a cultural bully that imposed its will, and its products, on a country whether it liked it or not. Despite its victory in France, a 1953 poll there found that only 17 percent of respondents liked c.o.ke "well enough" or "a lot," while 61 percent liked it "not at all." Company officials justified their forceful entry into Europe in the name of the free market, in contrast to the totalitarian control by communists.
"My guess is that the commies don't dislike us so intensely just because we're American," mused one c.o.ke executive. "It's because c.o.ke is a champion of the profit motive. . . . Everyone who has anything to do with the drink makes money." c.o.ke had good reason to resent communists, who had nationalized bottling plants in Cuba and China after World War II. For years, c.o.ke steered clear of the communist world, even as Pepsi broke into the Soviet Union with the help of former Pepsi counsel Richard Nixon in the 1960s.
With the exception of its stand against "the commies," however, the company was as flexible in its politics internationally as it had been at home. In the Middle East, it used every excuse not to open a franchise in Israel so it didn't upset the wealthy sheiks who owned bottling franchises in Saudi Arabia, Egypt, and other Arab countries. When American Jews protested in a boycott in 1966-Mount Sinai Hospital and Nathan's Famous Hot Dogs both suspended sales-c.o.ke backtracked and granted a franchise in Tel Aviv within days. The Arab League predictably retaliated with its own boycott. c.o.ke did the math, and stayed with the Jews, closing up shop in the rest of the Middle East for the next two decades. In an interview, company head Paul Austin said it would simply be against company policy to give in to a boycott, despite the fact that the company seems to have done exactly that.
As president of c.o.ke in the 1960s and chairman in the 1970s, Austin spent more than half his time flying around the world to cultivate new countries for c.o.ke. By 1976, the overseas market accounted for 40 percent of consumption and 55 percent of profits. By this time, the concept of the "multinational corporation" had become the established way of doing business around the world. All across the business world, companies sp.a.w.ned international subsidiaries to exploit local markets, while profits invariably flowed back to New York, London, Paris, or Stockholm. c.o.ke was virtually unique, however, in spinning off not only control but also ownership to its franchises.
"We're not multinational, we're multilocal," said Austin, who after the Arab boycott began actively trying to walk the walk in living up to the image of international harmony espoused by c.o.ke's "Teach the World to Sing" commercials. As the idea of corporate social responsibility (CSR) caught on, Austin set out to make c.o.ke a leader. In addition to buying Aqua-Chem, the subsidiary that made desalinization plants to provide fresh water in the Middle East, he invested money in sports programs and nutritious milk-based drinks to sell in Latin America alongside sugary sodas. Austin's efforts to create his so-called halo effect seemed genuinely aimed at improving the lot of people in countries where c.o.ke was sold. If it had a secondary effect of selling more c.o.ke in markets where c.o.ke struggled, that was just the "perfect harmony" of the company's business plan.
In the campaign for president in 1976, Austin cultivated corporate peanut farmer-turned-Georgia governor Jimmy Carter, throwing the candidate multiple fund-raisers and offering free use of c.o.ke's corporate jet. "We have our own built-in State Department in the Coca-Cola Company," Carter said in one interview, claiming c.o.ke execs gave him "penetrating a.n.a.lyses" of foreign countries, "what its problems are, who its leaders are, and when I arrive there, provide me with an introduction to the leaders of that country." The strategy paid off for c.o.ke after Carter's election, when Portugal suddenly reversed its long-standing resistance to a c.o.ke bottling plant (maintained out of deference to citrus growers). Shortly after c.o.ke went on sale there, the State Department approved a $300 million loan to the country, a coincidence that did not go unnoticed by U.S. editorial writers.
The limits of Austin's "halo effect" were most evident-violently so-in Guatemala, a sliver of a country southeast of Chiapas that shares its indigenous Maya population. The c.o.ke franchise in Guatemala City had pa.s.sed from United Fruit in the 1950s, and was now run by Texas businessman John Trotter. A lawyer who loved polyester suits and hated communism, Trotter flew in on his Piper Club plane every few weeks to give pep talks to local managers. Mostly he harped on one theme-the evil of unions, which he ranked second only to communists in their desire to s.n.a.t.c.h away the G.o.d-given profits of the working businessman. Under no circ.u.mstances, he told them, should the cancer of unionism be allowed to affect the plant. "halo effect" were most evident-violently so-in Guatemala, a sliver of a country southeast of Chiapas that shares its indigenous Maya population. The c.o.ke franchise in Guatemala City had pa.s.sed from United Fruit in the 1950s, and was now run by Texas businessman John Trotter. A lawyer who loved polyester suits and hated communism, Trotter flew in on his Piper Club plane every few weeks to give pep talks to local managers. Mostly he harped on one theme-the evil of unions, which he ranked second only to communists in their desire to s.n.a.t.c.h away the G.o.d-given profits of the working businessman. Under no circ.u.mstances, he told them, should the cancer of unionism be allowed to affect the plant.
Workers at the c.o.ke plant at the time suffered under inhuman working conditions, spending twelve-hour shifts loading crates at the minimum wage of $2 a day. By spring of 1976, more than 80 percent of the two hundred-some workers signed papers to unionize in an effort to improve their lot. When union leaders Israel Marquez and Pedro Quevedo presented the pet.i.tion to Trotter, however, the Texan refused to recognize it, firing 154 workers. With the law on their side, the workers successfully sued for reinstatement-but Trotter and local executives continued to break up the union, subdividing the bottler into other companies to make it more difficult for workers to organize. The c.o.ke workers reached out to the Catholic Church for help, and were answered by a Philadelphia-based order of nuns called the Sisters of Providence, who owned two hundred shares of Coca-Cola stock-as a way to generate wealth for their order and to influence policy abroad.
Horrified to hear of the situation, its leader, Sister Dorothy Garland, contacted the Coca-Cola Company to demand changes. c.o.ke's president, Luke Smith, admitted tension, but said the franchise agreement tied the company's hands. "There is no provision in the bottlers' agreement . . . which give us any right to intervene on such a dispute," he explained. Undeterred, the nuns filed a shareholders' resolution at the company's annual meeting in 1977 to demand an independent investigation into the issue.
Before the vote, c.o.ke announced its own investigation, which came back a few months later, exonerating Trotter. The nuns cried foul, even as a new president a.s.sumed power in Guatemala in 1978. General Romeo Lucas Garcia was one in a long line of military leaders who had ruled the country since a CIA-sponsored coup in the 1950s. But the avowed anticommunist was particularly brutal in his crackdown on "subversive elements," directing his secret police to rout any leftist influences in government, academia, and industry-including unions.
Taking advantage of the situation, Trotter threatened the union organizers with violence if they didn't give up their efforts. Shortly thereafter, Israel Marquez was sprayed by machine-gun fire in his jeep, narrowly escaping with his life. Pedro Quevedo wasn't so lucky. Sitting in his truck during deliveries, he was ambushed by two men, who pumped four rounds into his face, then another eight into his throat before driving away on waiting motorcycles. Another union leader, Manuel Lopez Balan, was also killed, his throat slit while making deliveries on his route.
Even as most of the workers resigned from the union, Marquez traveled to Wilmington to confront c.o.ke chairman Paul Austin at the 1978 annual meeting. In a soft voice, he detailed the murders of his colleagues, before directly appealing to Austin's business sense. "Coca-Cola's image in Guatemala could not be worse," said the small Guatemalan man through a translator. "[In Guatemala,] murder is called 'Coca-Cola.' I have come here today to ask your immediate help so that blood no longer flows through the Coca-Cola plant." Unmoved, Austin tabled the resolution as out of order. Then amid cries from the audience, he gaveled the meeting to a close.
In truth, Austin's hands were tied-intervene in the dispute and he'd call the entire franchise system into question, potentially opening the Coca-Cola Company up to a flood of labor complaints from other countries. At the same time, if he didn't intervene, he'd abrogate all the goodwill he'd so eagerly sought through c.o.ke's CSR efforts. Even as c.o.ke execs privately decided not to renew Trotter's contract, they declined to break it, instead sending another company exec to investigate the situation. He, too, exonerated the franchisee-and no wonder, since he never even questioned Trotter or set foot inside the plant. Unconvinced, the Guatemalans appealed to the International Union of Food and Allied Workers (IUF), a Geneva-based super-union, which issued a call to boycott c.o.ke in November 1979 and instigated work stoppages at c.o.ke plants in Finland, Sweden, and New Zealand.
As the situation quickly grew out of hand, the company a.s.sured critics that it would not be renewing Trotter's contract when it expired in 1981. Meanwhile, the rampage continued, with four more union organizers killed. Street protests against c.o.ke in Guatemala led to a dramatic fall in the company's market share. Finally, the pressure was too much for c.o.ke to stall any longer. Even though it had repeatedly claimed it could do nothing until the contract expired, company execs flew to Houston in July 1980 to present Trotter with an offer he couldn't refuse-a generous buyout by two handpicked bottling executives, with most of the financing provided by c.o.ke Atlanta, and no questions asked. The new owners approved a contract with the union after the sale.
But c.o.ke's stalling had left eight workers dead-a legacy in Guatemala that would come to haunt the company again in more recent years.
For the time being, however, the company was able to breathe a sigh of relief when it put the Guatemala incident behind it, and could focus again on expanding the company. When Roberto Goizueta took over the Coca-Cola Company in August 1980, he targeted international growth as a critical part of his plan to increase shareholder value and make c.o.ke, as he would later say, "the number one beverage on Earth." The yardstick he chose to measure that growth was "per-caps"-the number of drinks per capita claimed by Coca-Cola in a country in a given year. He salivated as he looked at the numbers. Per-caps in Latin America at the time were just a third of those in the United States; those in Europe, less than a quarter; and in Africa, only 4 percent.
Goizueta's mantra was "Think globally, act locally," a phrase first attributed to him and only later appropriated by social activists. Under his leadership, c.o.ke concerned itself with the minutiae of foreign markets, installing automatic drink dispensers on street corners in Tokyo and slapping thousands of c.o.ke stickers on every available surface in Bordeaux. "Our success," Goizueta wrote, "will largely depend on the degree to which we can make it impossible for the consumer around the globe to escape Coca-Cola."
Again, politics took a backseat. When activists threatened a boycott of c.o.ke if it didn't divest from South Africa's repressive apartheid regime, c.o.ke brushed them off. It could ill afford to lose the country, which accounted for 70 percent of sales on the continent. When the Atlanta-based Southern Christian Leadership Conference (SCLC)-the civil rights group established by Martin Luther King, Jr.-joined the call, however, c.o.ke compromised by moving its concentrate plant supplying the bottlers to black-ruled Swaziland, and establishing a $10 million fund to support African-Americans administered by n.o.bel Prize winner Archbishop Desmond Tutu.
That mollified the SCLC, even as c.o.ke-and the apartheid government-continued to profit from its South African bottling franchises. For years after his release from prison, Nelson Mandela denied c.o.ke's offers of travel aid, and even required hotels to remove c.o.ke products from his sight during his stay. The company a.s.siduously courted the sainted leader, putting its highest-ranking African-American executive on the case. By 1993, c.o.ke was contributing heavily to Mandela's campaign to be elected president of a new South Africa, and he was flying around on one of c.o.ke's corporate jets. A year later, c.o.ke returned to South Africa, picking up where it had left off by a.s.suming ownership of the company it had contracted with after it departed.
By 1988, more than three-quarters of c.o.ke's profits came from outside the United States. That year, it topped $1 billion in profits for the first time in history. While it had taken a hundred years for it to reach that mark, it doubled its profits to $2 billion just five years later, in 1993, when it became the sixth most valuable company in the United States. When new CEO Doug Ivester took over in 1997, he wasted no time exploring ways to sc.r.a.pe more profits from foreign countries-including an attempt to pilot a new vending machine in Brazil that would vary its price based on the temperature. "This is a cla.s.sic situation of supply and demand," Ivester told a Brazilian newspaper reporter. In hot weather, "the utility of an ice-cold Coca-cola is very high. So it is fair that it should be more expensive." The comments resulted in an uproar, not only in Brazil but also in the United States, where they were reprinted and lambasted on late-night talk shows.
Lost in the same interview, however, was a statement at least as outrageous, and with much more lasting implications. Asked about health concerns regarding c.o.ke, Ivester brushed them off. Sugar, he said, was "a good source of energy, of vitality. . . . We have a very healthy product." If c.o.ke's contributions to obesity and disease were apparent in the United States, however, they'd become even more of an issue in the developing world, where a balanced diet is hard to come by even on a good day. Nowhere are those negative effects starker than in Mexico, and nowhere in Mexico is it starker than in Chiapas. It's here, just a few miles from Chamula, that the latest call for a boycott against the company has emerged.
Even though Mexico was one of the first countries to see c.o.ke served outside its homeland, it wasn't regularly drunk here until the 1950s, when c.o.ke began the ad blitz to wallpaper the country in red and white. Before then, even the poorest farmers ate a relatively healthy diet of corn and beans. A study two decades later found white bread and Coca-Cola were the two food items Mexico was one of the first countries to see c.o.ke served outside its homeland, it wasn't regularly drunk here until the 1950s, when c.o.ke began the ad blitz to wallpaper the country in red and white. Before then, even the poorest farmers ate a relatively healthy diet of corn and beans. A study two decades later found white bread and Coca-Cola were the two food items campesinos campesinos bought as soon as they could afford them-and sometimes even when they couldn't. "It is not uncommon, doctors who work in rural villages report, for a family to sell the few eggs and chickens it raises to buy c.o.ke for the father while the children waste away for lack of protein," wrote Richard J. Barnet and Ronald E. Muller in 1974 in bought as soon as they could afford them-and sometimes even when they couldn't. "It is not uncommon, doctors who work in rural villages report, for a family to sell the few eggs and chickens it raises to buy c.o.ke for the father while the children waste away for lack of protein," wrote Richard J. Barnet and Ronald E. Muller in 1974 in Global Reach Global Reach, one of the first books to look critically at the growing power of multinational corporations.
Along with the proliferation of advertising, c.o.ke followed the same early sales plan that it had in America, with enticements such as branded chairs, tables, and refrigerators for shopkeepers who sold above a certain quota. It also used more aggressive tactics, threatening shopkeepers if they sold any competing brands. In Mexico City in 2002, for example, c.o.ke distributors told a forty-something shopkeeper named Raquel Chavez they'd stop delivering c.o.ke to her store unless she got rid of a Peruvian import called Big Cola. Chavez reported them to the Federal Compet.i.tion Commission, which fined the Coca-Cola Export Corporation $68 million for unfair compet.i.tion. ("You may call the shots everywhere else, but I'm the boss in my store," she told the BBC.) c.o.ke's sales tactics have paid off in Mexico, however, raking in profits for its Mexican anchor bottler, Coca-Cola FEMSA, and its parent company, FEMSA. The latter company is a member of the Forbes International 500 list, with a value of nearly $6 billion. The company's profits tripled in the past decade following the acquisition of several smaller bottlers, including Venezuela-based Panamerican Beverages (Panamco). Between 2002 and 2007, FEMSA's stock price tripled, from $35 to more than $115 a share. Much of that wealth found its way to Atlanta-since in addition to making money on syrup sales, the Coca-Cola Company owns more than a 30 percent stake in Coca-Cola FEMSA.
The increase in c.o.ke sales was felt directly in Chiapas, where the first crates of Coca-Cola were brought up to Chamula by horse in the early 1960s. At first, the growth of c.o.ke in the region coincided with a welcome decrease in the consumption of homemade alcoholic beverages. Years ago, says City University of New York anthropologist June Nash, the men and boys of the highland villages drank copious amounts of pox pox-the homemade sugarcane rum seen in the Chamula church. In part, the drinking was pushed by the village elders, called caciques caciques-local political bosses who tightly controlled pox pox production and profited from its sale. production and profited from its sale.
When Nash lived in the nearby village of Amatenango in the 1960s, boys and men drank pox pox daily in both religious and civil ceremonies, holding compet.i.tions to see who could drink the most. Not surprisingly, the practice led to rampant alcoholism with serious health and social problems. "There are problems with Coca-Cola, but nothing compared with the alcoholism, which was debilitating in every way," says Nash. Some peasants even converted to Protestantism to exempt themselves from having to drink so much. Fearing they were losing control, the daily in both religious and civil ceremonies, holding compet.i.tions to see who could drink the most. Not surprisingly, the practice led to rampant alcoholism with serious health and social problems. "There are problems with Coca-Cola, but nothing compared with the alcoholism, which was debilitating in every way," says Nash. Some peasants even converted to Protestantism to exempt themselves from having to drink so much. Fearing they were losing control, the caciques caciques turned to a new drink that was just then beginning to penetrate the market: Coca-Cola. turned to a new drink that was just then beginning to penetrate the market: Coca-Cola.
In many communities, the same caciques caciques who monopolized production of who monopolized production of pox pox retained the concessions to c.o.ke and later Pepsi. In some, such as Amatenango, concessions were granted politically, with officials of the Inst.i.tutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) controlling c.o.ke and the Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD) controlling Pepsi. It was easy enough to subst.i.tute the new drinks for many of the same rituals that previously used retained the concessions to c.o.ke and later Pepsi. In some, such as Amatenango, concessions were granted politically, with officials of the Inst.i.tutional Revolutionary Party (PRI) controlling c.o.ke and the Party of the Democratic Revolution (PRD) controlling Pepsi. It was easy enough to subst.i.tute the new drinks for many of the same rituals that previously used pox pox (though in some cases, such as the church in Chamula, (though in some cases, such as the church in Chamula, pox pox is still maintained in limited quant.i.ties). Those owning the concessions of the soft drinks became rich, reaping huge profits in villages with little other commerce or industry, and pa.s.sing the concessions along to family members to create dynasties. Before long, however, the increasing consumption of soft drinks brought its own problems-tooth decay, diabetes, and obesity. "Ugh, they drink a lot of soft drinks, they really push it," says Nash. "They never used to have decayed teeth before, and you can really see it now." is still maintained in limited quant.i.ties). Those owning the concessions of the soft drinks became rich, reaping huge profits in villages with little other commerce or industry, and pa.s.sing the concessions along to family members to create dynasties. Before long, however, the increasing consumption of soft drinks brought its own problems-tooth decay, diabetes, and obesity. "Ugh, they drink a lot of soft drinks, they really push it," says Nash. "They never used to have decayed teeth before, and you can really see it now."
In an interview with American anthropologist Laura Jordan, the current owner of the concession to distribute Coca-Cola in Chamula and the surrounding area, Carlos Lopez Gomez, enthused about the popularity of soft drinks for the local people. "[It is] part of daily life," he said. "Like drinking water-every day. Instead of water, they learn to want soda. They want Coca-Cola."5 A Chamula city councillor for the minority party, the PRD, elaborates further. "Indigenous people, the number-one thing they consume is Coca-Cola, and the number two thing is Pepsi," says Cristobal Lopez Perez. So nervous was he about speaking about the beverage, he insisted on arranging the interview in the back room of a local human rights organization. Sitting at a cramped table wearing a cowboy hat and zip-up cardigan over a collared shirt, he paints a picture of cradle-to-grave consumption of which U.S. marketers could only dream. A Chamula city councillor for the minority party, the PRD, elaborates further. "Indigenous people, the number-one thing they consume is Coca-Cola, and the number two thing is Pepsi," says Cristobal Lopez Perez. So nervous was he about speaking about the beverage, he insisted on arranging the interview in the back room of a local human rights organization. Sitting at a cramped table wearing a cowboy hat and zip-up cardigan over a collared shirt, he paints a picture of cradle-to-grave consumption of which U.S. marketers could only dream.
"When a child is born, they give soda. When a woman is married, they give soda. When someone dies, they give soda," he says. The amount is directly related to the wealth of the family, ranging from three or four boxes up to one hundred depending on the occasion. No event, however, matches election time, when all candidates buy astounding amounts of c.o.ke for their supporters. For Lopez's council election, he bought five trailers, each with 180 boxes, totaling more than 20,000 bottles for just one candidate. On election day, he says, people bring straps to the polling booth to cart home the expected case of soda. "Whoever gives Coca-Cola has more of a possibility of winning," he says. "If you give another kind of soda, it's not as good."
No one is obligated to buy soda, says Lopez, but not not buying it is the easiest way to acquire social stigma in the village. Families who serve the locally made corn beverage buying it is the easiest way to acquire social stigma in the village. Families who serve the locally made corn beverage pozol pozol at parties are looked down upon. "People say, 'They shouldn't have invited me. I can make that at home.'" Lopez is one of the few people in the village who is critical of all of the soda consumption, which he blames for the poor health of the community. "There are many headaches, people have gastritis, they have sugar in the blood [diabetes]," he says. "We are just beginning to realize that this is not nourishing for our bodies, that it is making us sick." Asked if he's tried to broach the subject with his neighbors, he sighs. "It is not possible to change people today or tomorrow. I don't know when this is going to end. To change the mentality of people is very difficult." at parties are looked down upon. "People say, 'They shouldn't have invited me. I can make that at home.'" Lopez is one of the few people in the village who is critical of all of the soda consumption, which he blames for the poor health of the community. "There are many headaches, people have gastritis, they have sugar in the blood [diabetes]," he says. "We are just beginning to realize that this is not nourishing for our bodies, that it is making us sick." Asked if he's tried to broach the subject with his neighbors, he sighs. "It is not possible to change people today or tomorrow. I don't know when this is going to end. To change the mentality of people is very difficult."
Health problems in the villages of Chiapas have been exacerbated by recent changes in patterns of physical activities by the peasant population. As mining and oil interests have taken up arable land, men from the villages have increasingly gone to the United States to find work, leaving behind women and children to live a more sedentary lifestyle-using their money transfers from America to buy more junk food. Local indigenous health coalition COMPITCH has done surveys of communities in the highlands and jungles of Chiapas, finding that problems with obesity and diabetes are greater in communities closer to the roadways plied by delivery trucks for Coca-Cola and other processed foods. "We can't blame Coca-Cola," says the group's Juan Ignacio Dominguez, "but we can situate Coca-Cola as a detonating component. When we put together all these social factors, Coca-Cola is the last drip that makes the cup overflow." He shakes his head. "There is something that makes Coca-Cola really formidable for us. Maybe it has to do with the sugar," he says, laughing. "We are a very sweet culture." in the villages of Chiapas have been exacerbated by recent changes in patterns of physical activities by the peasant population. As mining and oil interests have taken up arable land, men from the villages have increasingly gone to the United States to find work, leaving behind women and children to live a more sedentary lifestyle-using their money transfers from America to buy more junk food. Local indigenous health coalition COMPITCH has done surveys of communities in the highlands and jungles of Chiapas, finding that problems with obesity and diabetes are greater in communities closer to the roadways plied by delivery trucks for Coca-Cola and other processed foods. "We can't blame Coca-Cola," says the group's Juan Ignacio Dominguez, "but we can situate Coca-Cola as a detonating component. When we put together all these social factors, Coca-Cola is the last drip that makes the cup overflow." He shakes his head. "There is something that makes Coca-Cola really formidable for us. Maybe it has to do with the sugar," he says, laughing. "We are a very sweet culture."
In fact, he may not be far off. Research by the Chiapas-based medical NGO Defensoria del Derecho a la Salud (Health Rights Defense) has found the taste for sugar is established at a very early age, with most women in indigenous villages serving their children soft drinks even below the age of three. "These three years in many ways define the future of the child, and it is when malnutrition and diabetes can be prevented," says the group's director, Dr. Marcos Arana. "If babies are exposed to a high intake of sugar, they will be conditioned to depend on sugar for the rest of their lives." While breast-feeding is still the norm for younger children, says Arana, there are still instances of mothers putting Coca-Cola into baby bottles.
Anecdotally, Arana says he has seen a steady increase in obesity and diabetes in the communities he serves. Official evidence, however, is hard to come by. While government statistics show Chiapas has the highest rates of obesity in the country, for example, it has one of the lowest rates of diabetes, which Arana says is due to an underdiagnosis of the disease. Compounding the problem is the lack of safe drinking water at homes and schools in highland communities. "The teachers know this and sometimes they are convinced by Coca-Cola to promote the consumption of soda in schools among the children," says Arana. As in the United States, many schools still have exclusivity contracts with c.o.ke or Pepsi-and despite phasing out sugary beverages in schools in the United States, they are still frequently sold here. "They do in other countries what they would not do in the United States," sighs Arana, a statement that represents a lot about c.o.ke's strategy around the world. Because the company's franchise bottlers aren't directly owned by the company, they don't have to live up to the same standards.
In addition to contracts in schools, c.o.ke also drives up soda sales by selling beverages for a cheaper price in indigenous communities. In the city of San Cristobal de Las Casas, for instance, a liter of c.o.ke sells for 10 pesos (about 90 cents), while just up the mountain in Chamula it is sold for half that. In the same shops, a 1.5-liter bottle of c.o.ke's water brand Ciel costs 10 pesos, making c.o.ke actually cheaper than its main ingredient. The most logical explanation for the difference is that the company is hoping that the taste for sugar will result in more sales over time.
Arana is part of a group of doctors who pushed for a soda tax to curb consumption nationwide. In 2002, in fact, the country imposed a 20 cent tax on all soft drinks made with high-fructose corn syrup, affecting c.o.ke and Pepsi but not local sodas made with sugar from sugarcane. (The rumor persists that c.o.ke in Mexico is made completely with natural cane sugar, which the Coca-Cola Company does nothing to dispel. However, that hasn't been the case for a decade, since the North American Free Trade Agreement flooded the market with cheap corn, and Mexican bottlers began using cheaper HFCS. In past years, Coca-Cola FEMSA has used up to 60 percent HFCS in Mexican c.o.ke. By 2009, that ratio was down to 30 percent, but with plans to raise it because of an increase in sugar prices.) When the tax was pa.s.sed, however, the United States promptly filed a dispute on c.o.ke's behalf in the World Trade Organization (WTO), arguing it was discriminatory against American products. The WTO ruled in the favor of the United States in 2005 and again in 2007, after which Mexico repealed the tax. An effort by Mexican president Felipe Calderon to impose a 5 cent tax on all soft drinks failed in the legislature, amid heavy lobbying from soft drink companies. Arana is hopeful that in the future another tax might succeed-or if not, then at least the government might be able to pa.s.s a law outlawing the selling of soft drinks at different prices, or prohibiting exclusive school beverage contracts.
The health issues surrounding soft drinks, however, are not the only issues here that have led to a backlash against the company. Down the mountain from Chamula and the highland villages, residents of the city of San Cristobal have raised questions about how the company produces the drinks themselves.
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Geckos scamper underfoot during the steep climb up Huitepec, a dormant volcano on the outskirts of San Cristobal de Las Casas. The path weaves its way through a forest of ancient-seeming oak trees, all twisted trunks and gnarly burrs with moss and vines clinging to their sides. It's easy to see why the mountain holds a special place in the folklore of the indigenous Maya, many of whom still believe the spirit of the place watches over them. Unlike the dry, piney hills around, Huitepec is lush and green, supporting not only white oaks but also a fragmentary cloud forest with an array of wildlife, including more than one hundred species of birds, squirrels, deer, and coyote.
The largest mountain in the hills encircling San Cris (as the munic.i.p.ality is known), Huitepec collects water from the rains that blow through the valley, then percolates the water through the volcanic soil and limestone into a huge underground aquifer that serves as the major munic.i.p.al water source. The apparent abundance, however, is an illusion-hiding a chronic shortage of water that plagues the surrounding communities. "During the dry season there is huge water scarcity here," says Erin Araujo, an American graduate student who has studied the water table, pausing for breath in a clearing near the top of the mountain. "Most people get their water only from the munic.i.p.al water supply, and during the dry season all of the rain that replenishes the aquifer has dried up." At those times, residents of San Cristobal are rationed-some limited to only a few hours of water a day in outlying communities, even as residents in the city center are allowed twenty-four-hour, seven-day access.
Even more egregious to some residents is the presence of a Coca-Cola bottling plant on the other side of the mountain, which always seems to have enough water for its beverages. c.o.ke's presence at the foot of Huitepec dates back to the late 1980s, when it first established a bodega here. Soon Coca-Cola FEMSA moved its bottling operations to San Cristobal from the state capital, Tuxtla Gutierrez, to take advantage of the more abundant water supply there. By 1994, the plant was churning out five thousand cases a day, ramping up production year after year. By 2004, it had doubled that to ten thousand cases a day, serving not only the entire state of Chiapas, but also part of the neighboring state of Tabasco. By 2008, it was serving part of Oaxaca as well.
According to government statistics, the company has the right to extract up to 500 million liters a year from the aquifer-an amount translating to 1.37 million liters a day. Coca-Cola FEMSA denied a request for an interview, asking that questions be transmitted through the Coca-Cola Company, which in turn directed them back to Coca-Cola FEMSA. A company spokesperson, however, defended the company's water usage to Laura Jordan, an American anthropologist who wrote her thesis on c.o.ke and corporate social responsibility in the Highlands in 2008. The plant's human resources director, Graciela Flores, told Jordan the company takes no more than 2 percent of the total water consumed by "all of San Cristobal"-at the same time providing a number of well-paying jobs to the community.
Those who live in the vicinity of the plant, however, see things differently. On the other side of the mountain, the c.o.ke plant squats in a ma.s.sive gray installation beneath Huitepec's bulk. On the rutted dirt road behind it, an elderly woman named Maria de la Asuncion Gomez Carpio sells fried snacks to school kids. "The water here used to be very abundant, but all of the springs here dried up since the plant came here twenty years ago," she says. Now she says residents in her neighborhood, which sits on one of the richest aquifers in Mexico, get water brought in by tanker trucks called pipas pipas-pipes-at the cost of $240 pesos ($22) a month.
Asked about employment the company provides to locals, she laughs. "No, they don't give employment to people with low education; you have to be educated to work there." Meanwhile, she says, the company has refused requests for a.s.sistance in repairing the road behind the plant. "They provide no benefit. On the contrary, they take from us." The story is repeated by several other residents in the vicinity of the plant, including Rosa Maria Reazola Estevane, who lives in a nice house at the top of the hill. "There used to be a lot of water," she says. "Now there is a scarcity. They are not paying anything, and they are just taking our water away. I am really p.i.s.sed off about it. I want them to leave."
From the looks of things, the company isn't just taking-it's also leaving a foul-smelling stream that flows from one side of the plant. In the central Mexican state of Tlaxcala, the outspoken mayor of the town of Apizaco, Reyes Ruiz, accused c.o.ke of polluting the land with a milky effluent that killed trees in a river a short way from the plant. In addition, as in San Cristobal, he has accused c.o.ke of decreasing the local aquifer and drying up farmland. FEMSA has denied the charges, pointing out that it stays within the 450 million gallons allowed by the National Water Commission, and that the plant accounts for less than 1 percent of the total water usage in the region. "We comply with the law," Marco Antonio Dehesa, project engineer with Coca-Cola FEMSA, repeatedly told researchers with the American nonprofit Gra.s.sroots International.
For all of the water that it takes from communities such as Apizaco and San Cristobal, however, Coca-Cola FEMSA pays them nothing for the privilege. That's because the company has negotiated contracts for the water extraction directly with the federal government in Mexico City, thanks to a law pa.s.sed with the help of a former c.o.ke executive who happened to be Mexico's president. Whatever influence c.o.ke has had with U.S. presidents from Eisenhower to Carter, c.o.ke FEMSA surpa.s.sed it in the unprecedented access to the halls of power it had through former Mexican president Vicente Fox. Back in the 1970s, Fox was director general of Coca-Cola Mexico, a division of the Coca-Cola Export Corporation that is fully owned by the Coca-Cola Company; during his tenure, he boosted c.o.ke's sales to topple Pepsi as the nation's best-selling soft drink.
"Working at Coca-Cola was my second university education," Fox told The New York Times The New York Times in 1999. "I learned strategy, marketing, financial management, optimization of resources. I learned not to accept anything but winning." Nicknamed "The Coca-Cola Kid" during his campaign, Fox used focus groups and heavy television advertising he learned from his c.o.ke days to win. He also drew heavily upon his former c.o.ke connections, including hiring a former c.o.ke executive as his finance director who raised millions from c.o.ke bottlers and other businesses to put him on top. After he became president in 2000, Fox had no compunction about helping out his former employer. He appointed another former c.o.ke director general, Cristobal Jaime Jaquez, national water commissioner; together, they pushed privatization of much of the country's water network and sold extraction rights directly to big agribusiness and other corporations. in 1999. "I learned strategy, marketing, financial management, optimization of resources. I learned not to accept anything but winning." Nicknamed "The Coca-Cola Kid" during his campaign, Fox used focus groups and heavy television advertising he learned from his c.o.ke days to win. He also drew heavily upon his former c.o.ke connections, including hiring a former c.o.ke executive as his finance director who raised millions from c.o.ke bottlers and other businesses to put him on top. After he became president in 2000, Fox had no compunction about helping out his former employer. He appointed another former c.o.ke director general, Cristobal Jaime Jaquez, national water commissioner; together, they pushed privatization of much of the country's water network and sold extraction rights directly to big agribusiness and other corporations.
Coca-Cola FEMSA, the anchor bottler in Mexico and the owner of the Chiapas plant, was one of the big winners of the new policy, according to an investigative news report in 2003. In all, FEMSA negotiated twenty-seven concessions to extract water from aquifers and rivers, along with another eight concessions to dump waste in public waters. For all of these, it paid a reported $29,000 in U.S. dollars-a pittance compared with its $650 million in annual profits. According to San Cristobal's former right-wing mayor, Victoria Olvera, the company has continued to pay next to nothing for the community's water, with an outlay of only 1.75 million pesos ($150,000) annually-or as little as three-hundredths of a cent per liter-to the federal government. "Nothing for the munic.i.p.ality. Nothing," Olvera told anthropologist Jordan. "They say, 'We generate employment. ' But there is not as much employment as the damage they cause us, and they could be doing us so much good if they could could pay that tax." pay that tax."
Even more than its effect on health of the local community, resentment over water use has turned many in the environs of San Cristobal against the company, making it a symbol of greed in an environment already hostile to American capitalism. Like France in the 1950s, Chiapas has become deeply distrustful of the motives of American corporations. After all, it's the home of the most famous revolution in the last twenty years.
They came out of the jungle on New Year's Day, 1994, wearing black ski masks and carrying a.s.sault rifles as they took control of the main square of San Cristobal de Las Casas. For years, San Cris has been a laid-back tourist town, blending Maya and gringo culture in the cafes and street festivals. Now the tourists locked in their hotels had no idea what to make of the hooded revolutionaries in their midst. Finally, their leader identified himself as Subcomandante Marcos. His comrades, he said, were Zapatistas, after the revolutionary peasant leader Emiliano Zapata, and here to demand land and rights for the indigenous people. It was no accident that the revolutionaries appeared on the day the North American Free Trade Agreement was implemented in the United States and Mexico, since Zapatistas saw the free-trade deal as a continuation of the policies that had allowed privatization and sale of their land to ranching, mining, and natural gas interests. out of the jungle on New Year's Day, 1994, wearing black ski masks and carrying a.s.sault rifles as they took control of the main square of San Cristobal de Las Casas. For years, San Cris has been a laid-back tourist town, blending Maya and gringo culture in the cafes and street festivals. Now the tourists locked in their hotels had no idea what to make of the hooded revolutionaries in their midst. Finally, their leader identified himself as Subcomandante Marcos. His comrades, he said, were Zapatistas, after the revolutionary peasant leader Emiliano Zapata, and here to demand land and rights for the indigenous people. It was no accident that the revolutionaries appeared on the day the North American Free Trade Agreement was implemented in the United States and Mexico, since Zapatistas saw the free-trade deal as a continuation of the policies that had allowed privatization and sale of their land to ranching, mining, and natural gas interests.
While the Zapatistas stemmed from the Marxist revolutionaries once common in Latin America, they didn't espouse the traditional communist ideology with a top-down command structure. Instead, they supported autonomous village groups that could stand outside Mexico's notoriously corrupt political structure. After clashes with the army in which several hundred people-mostly Zapatistas-were killed, the group renounced violence. Soon the tourists came back, and in greater numbers, as the Zapatistas became a cause celebre among lefty activists. Peace was short-lived, however, as the army raided several Zapatista bases, and paramilitary groups staged ma.s.sacres in several villages known to sympathize with the rebels.
When Coca-Cola Kid Vicente Fox won the presidential election in 2000, he tried to negotiate with the Zapatistas, compromising on a new law to protect indigenous rights and demilitarize Chiapas. After the law had been weakened, however, Marcos rejected it as a joke and the Zapatistas went back to the jungles, where they've remained ever since. Strangely enough, while the Zapatistas have fought exploitation by other foreign multinationals-most recently drug companies they accuse of driving them off their land in search of new medicinal plants-they've had no problem with c.o.ke. Even as Marcos has barred drugs and alcohol from rebel-controlled areas, he has encouraged consumption of Coca-Cola, whose trucks have reportedly been the only traffic allowed through the front lines during skirmishes with the army. "We have a way to get rid of c.o.ke," he once joked. "We will drink every last bottle."
The revolutionary spirit the Zapatistas kicked off, however, has spurred others to take opposition against the Coca-Cola Company, especially in San Cristobal, where c.o.ke's presence on Huitepec, the sacred mountain of the Maya, is too egregious for some to ignore. Since 2006, Zapatista rebels have manned a "peace camp" on Huitepec to guard its forest against cutting by logging interests. The real opposition to c.o.ke, however, has come in the city, where a coalition of neighborhood groups under the acronym COCIDEP (Comite Ciudadano para la Defensa Popular) has protested the water rationing faced by residents of outlying neighborhoods, refusing to pay for water and illegally turning their water back on when the water company shut it off. The group has also argued that c.o.ke's consumption should be limited, especially during dry season when there is scarcity. "We know Coca-Cola is extracting ma.s.sive amounts," says Cesar Morales, one of the group's leaders, as he sits in the back room of a local cafe. "They don't ask for public consent. All of the water is from underground-it's the same-so when you open one well, it affects the whole community."
Since c.o.ke FEMSA has negotiated a twenty-year contract directly with the federal government, however, COCIDEP has had no legal say-so to limit the company's extraction. Frustrated, the group has joined a local boycott of the company, urging its members to drink fruit juices and traditional indigenous beverages such as pozol pozol. While boycotts of c.o.ke may have worked for New York Jews in the 1960s or s