Intensive Care ....

Delhi airport.  Its Thursday.

We have said goodbye to James. We cry longingly on each others shoulders and seek professional advice for our combined loss.  Obviously I am using sarcasm to cover up the fact that this is almost true.

After taking all the responsibility for so long as group leader, organiser and Michael Blanche’s chief carer, Tony gets a well earned rest.  He has been immense.  We had a tipsy chat in November. I said I was going to Cambodia and India. He said he’d like to come ... thereafter he organised almost everything.  If it wasn’t for him I think I’d still be at Phnom Penh airport trying to work out how the electronic doors worked.

This was the part of the trip I “organised”.  This basically involved asking Ricky Thaper (treasurer and spokesman for the Poultry Federation of India) to organise things for me.  We meet Ricky ... he laughs at my jokes ... what a great guy!! 

We fly to Raipur, capital of the state of Chattisgarh.  I sit next to an elderly man with a hat.  He sings a lot. I join in when I can.  He insists we contact him during our visit.  I am not sure if this is a terrorist trap.

The next day we visit the ABIS group.  Owned by Mr Bahadur Ali, the business had 10,000 broiler chickens in 1985.  Now it turns over 2.5 million birds per cycle and there are 7 cycles per year.  It has quarter of a million breeding birds.  He has a 2,500 dairy cow herd and 1,500 buffalo. He has a huge feed mill. He produces pet food, fish feed and 5,000 tonnes of solvent.  The milk is packed and sold under his own label.  30 veterinarians work in the business ... everyone we meet is called “doctor”. The business has a 2,500 labour force.

The Group with one of the many Doctors and Ricky in the foreground

I’d seen vertical integration before but this seemed to also include horizontal, backwards, forwards and sideways integration too.  You sensed there were no barriers in ambition or, indeed, implementation.  There was no fear in growing the business.  It was like going to visit the aftermath of a huge business explosion.

At the end of our day we meet the main man - Mr Bahadur Ali - he walks in and there is an aura about him.  He is more comfortable speaking his native tongue ... which adds to the mystery.  His questions are incisive and very focused.  Weirdly, his questions are kind of answers in themselves as they seem to reveal what the important issues are on a particular subject.

He explains how he took his business from a humble beginning to one of the biggest agri-businesses in India.  From 1985 to 1996 he built the business’s effectiveness.  But growth was relatively slow. 1996 saw him attend the International Poultry Congress and that event seems to have transformed his whole business. His vision was radicalised ... to drive for scale and vertical integration.  Thereafter, the growth graph was close to being as vertical as his integration.  It rang a bell ... this was the graph a share milker in New Zealand drew me on the back of an envelope ... it was the graph a Kiwi equity partner now worth millions of dollars showed me on his computer ... the graph of an effective first generation business.  Frustratingly slow growth then .... ker-bam (if that is a word) ... a steep line upwards thereafter.

The ABIS group operate - as far as I could work out - on just over 100 acres.  I’ve seen intensive agricultural businesses before but this was another level.  I know its not quite a true benchmark figure - they rely on other farmers for a lot of raw material and some of the enterprises are beyond agriculture - but the business’s Output ... my calculator tells me ... is over £1.5 million per acre!

The wonder of labour - everytime a calf defecated there was someone on hand to clear it up

Mr Ali asks us about the potential for a serious sheep business in India.  I suddenly get a dose of verbal Delhi belly ... my words come straight from my head through my mouth without touching the sides.  I thought it would be a great idea ... introduce better genetics ... get hold of lots of land ... rely on scale ... on and on I went ... it was becoming interminable.  Mr Bahadar Ali asked what stocking rates we had in the UK for sheep.  4 ewes to the acre on decent permanent pasture, up to 7 on good stuff, I said ... I was unstoppable ... I thought he would be impressed.  The colleagues from ABIS looked at each other, paused and then laughed for a long time ... 4 ewes per acre versus £1.5 million turnover per acre.  

Being laughed at made me think.  Land in Chattisgarh would be worth around £30,000 per acre.  We don’t have values like that ... yet.  However, if the land price in the UK continues on its crazy path ... I’ll probably live to see the day they are.  We will still only have land that supports 4 ewes to the acre.  Maybe the Indians were right ... it is comical.  Intensification and integration are a lot more serious. They can feed the world. Taking this theory to its logical conclusion, maybe the sheep industry has no future on any land that can be used for any other conceivable purpose.  Its a cheap land enterprise and cheap land may never be again. Maybe the entire UK sheep industry will be forced to retreat to the hills ... spending the rest of its days with its begging bowl held high.

Bright Colours, Broad Brush ....

Taxi rank, Udaipur Airport, Rajasthan, India.  Its Monday.

The established farmers want an air-con taxi ... the new entrants want to spend as little money as possible (especially the one (clue: not Rona) who has lost his wallet). We would prefer to spend £10 less and wind the windows down.  The group splits: 3 to worship the air-con god with me and Rona on the budget deal.  It slowly dawns on me that 1800 rupees divided by two is more than 2400 rupees divided by three .... bugger!  

I smell smells in the warm air that rushes through my open window.  Yet its the bright colours that have most impact.  These colours are man made and worn by man but feel intrinsic to this land.  Ladies with saris of vivid pinks, yellows and reds; men have turbans of equal brilliance.  

The “established ones” laugh at us as they pass in their decadence ... then take amused pleasure in pointing out the aforementioned arithmetic when we arrive at Ranakpur two hours later.  I go in a huff for a total of 3 whole minutes.

We are staying in tents ... but nice ones.  Tony loses the drawing straws contest and has to endure my snoring ... yet again.  We are met by Ilse (she is German) and Hanwant who run LPPS, an organisation that aims to preserve sheep pastoral and camel herding traditions and rights.  They take us immediately to a sheep shearing “festival”.  The shepherds are dressed up for the occasion.  They chat, laugh and smoke as they part the wool, slowly and deliberately, from their sheep. This is not about economics but about brotherhood.

Smokin' Mike Blanche .... it was just tabacco ... I think

I tell them that I have 600 sheep and achieve a 150% lambing ... it is the first time anyone has been impressed with this .... I should come here more often.  For a few moments I am the Shepherd God ... in my own mind.

The next morning we are taken to see camels and their herders.  Hanwant honours us by presenting us with turbans from his Rajput (warrior) caste.  He has not accounted for the fact I have a head so big, my neck could theoretically snap at any minute. It is so huge scientists have recognised that it possesses its own gravitational force and that tiny moons orbit round it. The Turban sits awkwardly well above my cranium’s full circumference. 

The Rajasthani Massive ... Kevin doesn't have height issues ... he's just kneeling down

Again the herders are far less about money and far more about life ... about relationships with their animal charges and with each other.  They give us camel milk, warmed as it would have been warmed a millennium ago.  They proudly stuff Neem leaves up a camel’s rectum and then clamp the aforementioned orifice with a split stick.  I wince as my imagination allows me to go through the logistics of how this procedure could be completed ... with me as the patient. 

The clamping procedure - do not try this at home!  Nice turban colours though. 

In the afternoon we have a deep debate then go to a temple - Kevin provides the sound track with a full discography from Walt Disney’s Jungle Book.  In the evening we visit Ilse and Hanwant for dinner.  We see the camel poo paper being made and hear about the camel milk ice cream. They are innovating in order to preserve - rather than change - a way of life. We have yet another deep debate ... I'm starting to enjoy them in a masachistic kind of way.  

In the morning I have time for one more huff before we leave ... I must be on my man period.  I travelled Australia and New Zealand on my own.  Here I have four strong and admirable characters with me.  I learn much from all of them. They make me question things.  Sometimes - in business terms - I feel far, far behind them.  I think I am burdened to be like my fellow Rajasthani shepherds ... less about economics, more about brotherhood.  I fear I will always be short of money as I give up any possibility of wealth as a sacrifice ... to my very own ... God of Dreams. 

Camel milk actually tasted pretty good. Light and frothy ... mmm!

Either I've grown, or this is a small camel.  The unfortunate head size to turban circumference ratio / matrix dilemma, can be seen clearly here. 

Carry On Up the Punjab ....

Somewhere near Chandigarh, Punjab, India.  Its Saturday. The group now numbers five ... we’re not exactly famous but at least three of us have had lashings and lashings of ginger beer the night before.

We take a walk through Chandigarh centre to experience the shabby madness that seems to be standard in India’s urban centres. James gets his shoes polished.  I do too. James pays his polisher the equivalent of 20 times the normal rate .... everyone gets very excited ... a rather large and amused crowd has now gathered ... its all I can do to convince my man 7.5 times the correct rate is acceptable. I power walk ... hips wiggling vigourously ... away from the problem.

The initiation of the shoe shine incident ... before the crowd gathered

We are picked up by the sophisticated Kanwal.  Tony - our glorious leader - had found his farm stay on the internet. It turns out its like some sort of cyber gold rush ... the guy is brilliant.  We visit two dairy farms, inspect wheat and vegetables.  The Punjab is India’s Japati basket. 44% of the grains (rice and wheat) produced in India are produced here ... on 2 % of the country’s farm land.  Bare agricultural land values range from £30,000 to £60,000 per acre ... hope value (for future development) has a massive impact that drives up price even further.  The Green Belt around Chandigarh can command up to $500 million for 1 acre. 

Land in Punjab was subject to severe legislation after independance.  The maximum holding any individual could own was set at 25 acres. This together with subsequent splits via inheritance means farms are small (90% of farms in all of India are 5 acres or less) ... yet 3 crops of maize a year is easy in Punjab, one guy reckoned 4 was possible.  The first dairy farmer we meet tells how his grandfather dug a well in 1947 and only needed to go to 10 feet; his father then dug a well in 1962 and had to go deeper - 62 feet; then he himself had to dig a well in 2010 ... to get to water he had to bore to 500 feet.  Such is the challenge in the Punjab ... what the weather giveth, the weather (and extreme irrigation) now taketh away.  The significant move to dairy ... away from thirsty rice ... is a reaction to this challenge.

We meet the head of the village and all his family ... he has a big family.  We drink sugar lightly diluted with warm buffalo milk. We drink tap water.  We are an attraction. A child comes in and as if in awe of a deity,  swiftly kneels to touch Rona’s sandals then quickly departs.

The village leader and his family ... just after we'd drank tap water

We return to Kanwal’s house and meet his father.  He is a serene Sikh gentleman with a warm sense of humour.  We learn much just talking to the father and son team.  From their reading of my palm, I learn that I have had a midlife crisis and the future is not foretold ... I consider this does not represent new information. I then worry that there is no life after the mid life crisis thing and keep looking at my palm in case the line has formed yet.  They both get very excited by James’s hand, its so unusual I think they might wet themselves in some sort of synchronised urination display.  He is nicknamed golden hands for at least ten minutes.

We giggle on and off for another 24 hours ... we have deep debates ... we learn many new things about India and each other ... until on our last night we up the giggle intensity ... I giggle like I haven’t giggled for a long, long time.  My stomach hurts as I go to bed - its a happy hurt ... though it still could be the tap water. 

The Dogs That Bark at Elephants ....

Its not so much politics in Cambodia but rather power. Corruption is systemic and blatant ... so blatant there’s almost an honesty to it.  Some said that at least it was obvious rather than in the western world where its duplicitous and subtle. Another theory I got was if there were a change of government there would be even more because those in power now are already very wealthy.  Anyone new would have to build up wealth through yet more corruption.  

There is a stability provided by the current administration, but sights like the many brand new Range Rovers driving through Phnom Penh, suggest there are hundreds wealthy as well as millions poor.  This wealth is almost certainly not gleaned from moral business practice, built on compassion for their fellow man.  A bloke down the pub (always the best sources) told me half the aid coming into the country is “lost” but could probably be found again in the shape of the flash cars driving around its capital city. These drivers scare me.  They feel untouchable.  One person explained that there is a saying that the people are dogs and the ruling class, elephants.  Dogs might be able to bark at elephants but little else.  Elephants are untouchable, undefeatable, unstoppable. Thoughts of political improvement for its population are burdened by a hopelessness that seems so absolute and so conspicuous.

You consider temporarily that maybe its not so bad ... in the west we seem so self righteous that our way is the best way ... maybe democracy is over-rated ... maybe there is freedom in an absence of regulation.  Then you realise that there is no protection of people.  There are few rights.  The Economic Land Concessions in Cambodia that recently hit the headlines where 1 million hectares of land has been taken over by corporate firms is an example.  Many who “own” land, don’t.  The legal rights for land ownership are blurred in most instances.  It seems the small farmer in these cases get money for their farms but it is a surreal compulsory purchase - money or AK-47 - that’s the choice.

Economic Land Concessions represent the sound of ideologies clashing.  Cambodia can’t move on agriculturally without efficiencies in scale and technical expertise .... corporate farming is a quick fix ... the capitalist answer.  But individual people should have rights to what they have ... they should be respected and cherished not bullied and stolen from ... profit of the few can’t in anyway excuse the immediate suffering of the many.  There is a sadness and an intense injustice to it all. 

In a land where over 70% of the population have an income of $2 a day or less whilst the ruling class drive around in £75,000 lumps of metal, concealed by blacked out windows ... you start thinking there must be a better alternative species to belong to than human beings. 

Love You Long Time ...

Bay of Bengal (get to India, turn right and its the first sea on the left (... and right)), 35,000 feet up.  Its Friday.

We left Cambodia yesterday (travelling by bus through Thailand to Bangkok).  As usual I am confused. I loved the country and its people.  If I stop and think, I wonder whether it touched me more than I normally allow myself to be touched by land and strangers (that sounds a bit wrong, doesn’t it?)

I talked to a good number of locals about their past and their future; about their issues and their views.  Its easy for a daft Scotsman with spectacles to make skewed judgements based on minimal research ... but I always try and take the easy option. 

The agriculture is so labour intensive, its scary.  Most will work from dusk till dawn in a body position that homosapiens are really only designed to be in for short periods.  Time and effort are cheap here. There is so little money in it, success isn’t judged on profit or loss but malnutrition or health. The marvels of mechanisation ... of innovation ... of the power of the mind rather than simply the hands ... fall into a wondrous clarity in Cambodia. The examples are less complex, less forgotten and thus more compelling than in the UK.

You realise that breakthroughs in production methods are led by individuals for private gain ... yet whole communities and countries and continents benefit.  Innovation grows from need ... desperation even.  Innovation comes mostly from those with a contrasting rather than corresponding story to the traditional farming system. Innovation is a dish best served by the disadvantaged.  

We travelled through Thailand yesterday in 30 degrees of heat and you sensed a coldness compared to Cambodia.  There were far less smiles, a scarcity of laughter that I had become used to from the Khmer people.  You realise how vital smiles and jokes are in communication when normal communication is difficult.  I felt safe in Cambodia.  Phnom Penh wasn’t intimidating and I’ve felt a lot more threatened in Edinburgh.  British people seem angry compared to Cambodians, yet in comparison we don’t have much to be angry about. 

Despite being effectively a dictatorship ... it feels more free ... there is a refreshing lack of regulation and restriction.  Driving for example consists of buying a car, getting a family member to show you how to drive for a couple of hours, then off you go. You can get a licence but this seems optional. You drive on the right though this is definitely optional.  The spatial awareness of how your bumper might interact with another moving object feels like it comes from a special gene in Khmers that has been highly developed under the strict principles of Darwinism.  Back home (and even whilst away) I have just been through a prime example (SRDP grant applications) of how well meaning rules can become ever decreasing circles of restriction as they multiply and dig a deeper and deeper hole until you strike pettiness and stupidity (not that I’m sore about it, you understand).

Back in the UK we feel empowered ... in Cambodia they feel powerless.  Our public’s opinion carries weight in the minds of our political leaders ... in Cambodia those in power treat their people lightly.  Yet we are bound by regulation, rules and tied tight by bureaucracy.  In Cambodia a public with no voice and no money still have a strange freedom about them.

Goodbye Cambodia, even though we might never meet again ... I will always be your friend.

Extreme First Generation Farming, Dude ...

Koh Kong, Cambodia, 10 miles from Thai border.  Wednesday.

We meet a Khmer man called Paddy ... not certain this is his real name! He runs a bar, has a tuk tuk, smiles alot and is a cool dude.  He takes us to the river.  We meet Noy.  Noy is one more notch up on the cool dude numeric scale compared to Paddy ... which is saying something.

Noy speaks excellent English.  He takes us to a tiny village 30 minutes up river.  Each family has their farm of between 1 to 5 hectares. They grow melons, lemongrass, sugarcane, sandalwood and funny looking fruit that I don’t recognise.

The people live on very little here but the entrepreneurs amongst them harvest and sell their excess produce in Koh Kong market.  

There is one in particular who - having been prosecuted for growing marijuana elsewhere (!!) - moved into the village to start again.  He tried doing different things (crops, irrigation methods, fertiliser etc.). Some things were successful.  The other villagers started copying him.  Here was the innovator and driver of wealth creation not just for himself but indirectly a whole community .... I reflect that this might be the closest person to a new entrant I’ll come across in Cambodia.

We stop at a rickety bamboo bridge and we direct another question to Noy ... He answers ... These moments are special and sweet ... We realise he is a first generation farmer ... More questions follow and we realise he is an innovator ... We realise he has an education, an immense knowledge and a mind with its gates wide open. He told us that when he decided to farm, he came to a village ... asked about land ... and was pointed in a direction and told “help yourself”. I am so excited I consider wetting myself.

The Dude, Rona and me ... just before I wet myself

As we continue I also realise this is probably the most extreme first generation farmer I have met. You see, Noy was born in a refugee camp over the Thai border and stayed there until he was 12.  His English is excellent because the UN taught him the language in the camp. He doesn’t know what day he was born as everyone was disorientated as they fled from Cambodia. He never has a birthday.

The camp was hell. Thai soldiers guarded its perimeter with guns and unsmiling stares. No one was allowed to leave. Largely, made up of women and children, if a female strayed too far from the main group they were likely to be raped by the guards.  Food was something that was always given .... never found, harvested, purchased or sold.

I asked him why he wanted to farm ... his quick and definite response was a single word that came from a deep, deep place .... “Freedom”. 

How's Your Rice? ....

Kampong Chhnang, Two hours north of Phnom Penh.  Sunday.

We have started to get a little more insight into what issues are affecting the lives of modern day Cambodians. Malcolm - Tony’s cousin who’s lived here for 6 years - has been brilliant.  We have been so lucky to have his knowledge of the country.

We are staying in a farm-stay here. At one point I thought I was going to have to share a bed with Tony ... Tony thought he was going to share a bed with me ... we were both nervous.  In the end Tony blinked first and I was able to act as a lone MacDonalds Drive Thru for most of the mosquitos in the area.

We walked for about three hours through the paddy fields and the lotus.  We met farmers.  They spoke a different language and have a subsistence existence but they still reminded me of speaking to farmers in the UK.  Mostly laid back, liked a joke and a news.  The normal greeting is an almost singing, saying “How’s your rice?”.  Which reminded me of a  Scottish saying - “Foo’s yer Coos?”

The fields were mostly only appropriate for dry season rice.  The Meekon (which is miles away) overflows in the wet season (June to September ... its getting shorter) and the paddys we were walking sometimes were flooded with 5 metres of water.  Margins for a hectare (the average size of farm we were seeing) are poor and after a family is fed there isn’t a lot of cash coming in.  Loans are usually taken and when all crop is sold and the debt paid ... they are back at square one. Its the one slender thing, amidst the poverty and extremely basic living, I felt I had in common with them!

Dry season rice needs water pumped into the paddy fields; wet season crop relies on the natural rains ... the “working with nature” option is more profitable.  The farming craze in the area is Lotus.  Its leaves and petals can be eaten, its seed head used for decoration ... but my ignorance reckons this is a niche crop with limited life expectancy ... its definitely not rice.  They have to pump water into these fields 24 hours a day but expect a slightly better end price.

In the evening we had a 64 old lady farmer come and speak to us. She radiated an unstated wisdom but looked 94. She’d spent most of her waking life bent over in a paddy field.  It was a special hour listening to her.

Farming in Cambodia is hard beyond what I can fully appreciate.  The lack of mechanisation makes you realise how our own hands are not enough to progress.  The ingenuity, innovation and thought of those special people in the UK’s farming past ... the inventors, the early adopters, the thinkers ... the forces that have got us to where our industry is today ... should be worshiped on a daily basis. 

Hell Frozen Over ...

Tuol Sleng Prison ... codename: S-21 ... Phnom Penh. It’s Saturday morning.

Tuol Sleng was a tranquil school, a hub of education, that was converted to become hell on earth in 1975. The Pol Pot regime tortured and killed all those they took there (approximately 20,000). Only seven people got out alive.

I don’t think I’ve been to a more powerful place. We see photographs of the room we are standing in ... everything is the same except for the dead body in the photograph ... throat slit, fingers cut off. The photographs were taken by the Vietnamese immediately after storming the building in 1979. Other faces stare at me from the black and white ... faces that had to suffer like no one should, before they met their end.

The lady that shows us round explains how she lost her father, a brother and a sister to Pol Pot. How Phnom Penh was evacuated in 1975 and she, as a six year old, walked for two weeks to find safety. She explains that the torturers were largely children. They were brutalised and brainwashed in jungle camps before being sent to do evil upon their fellow people.

We walk the busy streets of a city once deserted ... and people smile ... we travel by tuk tuk ... and people wave. I realise all these people will have fathers, mothers, sisters, brothers, cousins or grandparents that died during the regime and the famine afterwards. 2 million died, 1 million fled the country ... out of a 7 million population. That’s the equivalent of 17 million dying in the UK today; and over 8 Million fleeing as refugees. But the smiles and waves have so much more meaning ... displaced people can still find a place for gentleness ... horror and sadness can be overcome ... me moaning about the lack of rungs on the farming ladder feels incredibly pathetic.