Last month when I was writing about Rubber, I learned about Fordlândia, a rubber plantation/utopia that Henry Ford built in the Brazilian jungle. My word count for that post was too high, so I left out the story. But it’s been rattling around in my head ever since, pinballing to the top every time I read another story about this administration’s obsession with Greenland. Plus, that Santayana quote, the mantra of historians, constantly reminds me to study the lessons of the past. Anybody remember maps which referred to the Belgian Congo? Ever hear of Minimata disease?
Corporations and governments–that is, corporations whose security adopts uniforms and carries a flag–often get the bright idea to get resources cheaply from places where the scrutiny is lax. Of course, corporations and governments aren’t entities unto themselves. It’s the leaders who come up with cockamamie schemes of exploration and exploitation, schemes which lead to environmental devastation, mutilations, genocide. Often, costs vastly outweigh the benefits.
I realize that the moral reprehensibility of those first three evils ought to sway the argument against exploitation, but there’s no moral reasoning, sometimes, with corporations, which suddenly become faceless when there is wrongdoing. I was nurtured at a tender age on cost-benefit analysis, and I sometimes find it makes a persuasive argument when other arguments won’t do. In that spirit, I’d like to offer a few examples from history as reason to pause before we start invading and strip-mining Greenland.
Victims of the Rubber Trade
First, consider the legacy of Leopold II of Belgium, a monarch who inspired the phrase, “The horror, the horror!” Leopold pressed the Germans and British to get together for a meeting on Africa, the Berlin Conference. He had his eye on central Africa, territory served by the Congo River and thought he might make his case to other countries. Well, honestly, his cousins. By 1884, the Saxe-Coburgs had intermarried so much that the royal houses of Britain, France, Germany, Prussia, and Belgium were all related. Thus, for Leopold II, cousin to Queen Victoria, the Berlin Conference was kind of a family meeting. Leopold’s father, Victoria’s uncle, had gained a lot of street cred advising the Brits and cooperating with the Germans, whose leader was Kaiser Wilhelm, Victoria’s son.
Thus, in 1884, the leaders of Europe met in Berlin to carve up Africa. There is some historical debate about that word “carve,” though the political cartoonists of the time thought it so. Technically, some colonial borders had already been set; some European countries already “owned” territory. The Berlin Conference was also called to discuss disallowing the use of those deadly newfangled machine guns by colonial armies because if the natives got a hold of them–as they had in Ethiopia–viva la revolution! The meeting was also about creating non-compete clauses; you take yours, I’ll take mine.
At the Berlin Conference, Leopold II proposed that he be granted a Belgian state within Africa. He had already established a corporation and wanted to formalize it. This would be a place where he would raise the native’s standard of living, enacting various philanthropic enterprises. His cousins agreed to “give him the territory,” which he called the Free State of the Congo.
The curious thing about L’État indépendant du Congo, the Congo Free State, was that free turned out to mean no international interference. Leopold was given a “free” hand to own and operate the territory as “sole owner.” It wasn’t actually a Belgian state, but Leopold’s personally, to handle as he saw fit.
While slavery had been abolished by most nations by that time, there were such things as slavery in effect, if not in fact. Because the territory was private, not government-owned, whatever “rules” might have applied to a Belgian colonist, limited though they may be, did not apply here. Explaining exploitation requires so many quotation marks! Needless to say, very little philanthropy ensued as Leopold systematically set about extracting as much ivory and rubber out of the place as he could. That is, he had his corporate executives, overseers like Henry Stanley, do so. Leopold II himself never visited the Congo.
The native “workers” were given quotas for extraction of rubber, with oversight handled by Force Publique, an army populated by Belgian officers at Leopold’s request. Territory was further sub-divided up among sub-corporations, such as the Anglo-British India Rubber Company (ABIR), which also brought its own security. Regardless of which entity was in charge, workers who failed to meet quotas could be executed, though that was fairly inefficient since it reduced the available labor force. The majority of time, failure to meet a quota resulted in loss of a hand or foot. The Force officers and security guards for ABIR were required to justify when rubber volume targets were missed, so they would “pay” with piles of chopped-off hands.
Along with casual mutilation, cannibalism was a frequent practice. Reports of cannibalism were widespread among workers, who represented rival tribes, but even more so among the Force Publique which hired locals to enact penalties and fight against incursions into the territory. Stories from the Congo-Arab War suggest that those killed in battle ended up on roasting spits as the Belgian officers turned away, “in disgust.”
The total death toll is hard to estimate and ranges from five to twenty million, possibly as much as half the population. Epidemics were also widespread and “blamed” for some of the loss, but there are claims that the “governing bodies”–overseers–either helped spread diseases or let them run unchecked. The trick with exploitation, if I can modestly put it this way, has always been to enforce the rules without killing off the labor supply. The “humanitarian disaster” as the encyclopedias euphemistically characterize the Congo Free state, was costly on all possible levels.
By the early 1900s, international criticism was also widespread. Conrad published his three-part series, Heart of Darkness, as a literary way to raise awareness of the infamous. Missionaries further documented the atrocities. Reform associations were created to pressure international governments. In one meeting, a British consuls noted: “The root of the evil lies in the fact that the government of the Congo is above all a commercial trust, that everything else is orientated towards commercial gain …” By 1908, the government of Belgium was pressured to step in and take the colony over from Leopold, to enforce some order and reduce the horrors. Their subsequent rule would be paternalistic but at least there were rules that didn’t involve mutilation and cannibalism.
Leopold’s death in 1909 ended the worst of the atrocities. Belgium was left with its international reputation severely damaged, and its internal politics in political upheaval. Despite the “cheap” source of labor, the shipping and security costs from the “operations” were high, and Belgium had to expend a significant amount to bring stability to the territory. There are still ongoing discussions of reparations, though at least as the 19th century dawned. Leopold did build a lot of fancy buildings, monuments, and parks in Belgian cities. So there was that. Meanwhile, by the early 1900s, production from commercial rubber plantations elsewhere had brought the price down, so further extraction of wild rubber was deemed too costly. As Leopold’s funeral procession made its way through the streets, it was soundly booed by the crowd, no doubt some wondering if they could hack off a hand or two.
Jungle Utopia
Henry Ford, at least, didn’t condone cannibalism, though rubber was also much on his mind. In 1928, Ford grew annoyed at the unstable price and supply of the rubber he needed for his tires. The British had created vast industrial rubber operations in Southeast Asia, during the rubber boom that followed Charles Goodyear’s re-discovery of vulcanized rubber (see my post on Rubber for the Mesoamerican invention of stabilization.) Ramped-up British commercial production in India had created periodic gluts in volume, which took out the need for sources like the Congo. However, over-planting in the Amazon had led to a fungus which wiped out most of the South American supply, and World War I further created instabilities in the supply chain. Ford wanted a more stable supply, without paying British prices, which might zoom during world wars, when production dwindled. His solution was to build his own rubber plantation.
In truth, Ford had something more in mind than rubber. He had a reputation for paying good wages and treating workers decently at his factory in Dearborn, Michigan. Of course, his pay, his rules, which is to say that Ford’s jingoism and racism fed his desire to impose his cultural values on his workers. In Dearborn, he often hired immigrants, like my grandfather, compelling them to learn English and to act like Americans. My Polish immigrant grandmother told us that Ford “HR” workers would come to the house to teach her how to be more American. Ford even held an annual “Melting Pot” ceremony where workers who had passed the HR team’s standards would walk through a “pot” as immigrants in order to emerge as true-blue, English-only-speaking, flag-waving, capitalist-supporting Americans.
What Henry really wanted was to create a model view of small-town America (not unlike what Disney did in Celebration, Florida). The workers would be “happy peasants,” and growth would be limited. He envisioned such a village in Alabama, but couldn’t get zoning approval, so he set his sites on Brazil. The Fordlândia”utopian” experiment would kill two birds with one stone: supply the rubber for his cars and civilize the Amazonians by teaching them the American way of life.
Of course, Fordlândia failed on two fronts. First, Ford was determined to use the Ford System for all things, so he brought automobile executives down south to design the plantation, rather than biologists or horticulturists. There was massive flooding, so they built terraces. They needed rubber soon, so they built too many trees too close together. The fungus and insects that took out other South American plantations was destined to tak over, and rubber production never grew enough to start to cover operating costs.
Equally problematic was the treatment of workers. Ford managers and workers convinced to come down to Brazil were paid a fraction of their earnings Dearborn because the local workers made pennies. Although at least they didn’t lose a hand for missing quotas. The American managers compelled workers to live in the American-style houses, and to tend to flowerbeds and garden plots. Employees taught traditional dances–traditional American dances. (Ford was the guy who got American P.E. classes to include square dancing, which he found wholesome in contrast to jazz and boogie woogie.)
Workers rioted. Managers would blow wads of cash on drunken sprees and prostitutes, i.e. local underpaid women. Ford’s multi-million dollar planned community failed on multiple levels and was abandoned within six years. Reports suggest that “not one drop of latex ever made it into a Ford tire.” So much for ensuring a cheap source of rubber.
Better Living Through Chemistry! aka Chisso-Minamata Disease
One last cautionary tale of corporate exploitation comes from Japan. As the 20th century began, the country of Japan was trying to grow rapidly, in population and in industrialization. Fertilizers were in heavy demand to increase crop yields and bring more food to boost the population. Chemicals for plastic, textiles, and food additives were also desired, one called acetaldehyde, in particular. The Chisso corporation, founded in 1906 by a Tokyo engineer, specialized in creating such chemicals. As they began producing the highly valued acetaldehyde, they used mercury as a catalyst.
The acetaldehyde factory was near the Minamata Bay and Minamata River in southwest Japan. Waste products from the chemical processing were… well, this was 1932 to 1968, so you can guess “the horror, the horror” that came next. They dumped toxic mercury into the bay. What is Japan’s #1 source of protein? Fish. From the waters outside Japan, like the bay and the river. Fish eat the mercury, people eat the fish.
It took 24 years of poison dumped into the ecosystem for the disease to be formally recognized and labeled as Minamata disease. Mercury affected the nerves, leading to numbness in the hands and feet, muscle weakness, loss of hearing and speech. Pregnant women gave birth to children who had a form of palsy. It was particularly hard on children, and mothers became caregivers and some of the most visible to protest and appeal for help.
Minamata was a company town, so the first child examined was at a Chisso company hospital. As doctors did a house-to-house inspection, they found case after case in 1956 and called it an epidemic. Investigators noticed that the cats also exhibited a form of the shaking, and some called it “cat dance disease.” Those with the worst cases ate a lot of shellfish. They were puzzled, until a visiting British specialist noted that the symptoms looked like mercury poisoning. In 1959, they tested the bay water. It was fully of mercury.
It took fourteen years, riots, protests, arbitration, and a very long lawsuit to pin the blame on the Chisso Corporation’s handling of their toxic waste products. At one point, the company brought in a “wastewater” treatment plant that didn’t actually treat the wastewater. At another time, they diverted the wastewater away from Minamata as part of an agreement, only for another area to start showing symptoms. Lawsuits continue against Chisso, now renamed JNC, holding them responsible for what is now called Chisso-Minamata disease.
Documentation
One side story about Minamata brings up an issue that knits these three examples together. In 1971, photojournalist W. Eugene Smith, whose war correspondence photos from WWII made him one of the most celebrated photographers of the 20th century, was persuaded to document Minamata disease. He met with one family and carefully posed the child, whose limbs were twisted, taking a bath in the arms of his mother. Tomiko and Mother in the Bath, published in a 1972 issue of Life, brought worldwide attention and pressure to Japan. It may have helped lead to the 1973 verdict against the company. For a long time, it was one of the most recognizable photos in the world.
In recent years, the family has declined requests to publicize the photo, feeling a bit of that their own suffering has been exploited. (I decided not to include the photo for this reason, though it is searchable.) Even so, a recent historical drama about Minamata was made, featuring Johnny Depp playing photographer Smith as he creates the famous photo. In typical Hollywood fashion, the movie appears to more about Smith’s battles with self-doubt and alcoholism rather than on the Japanese company’s heinous acts. Aside from the White Savior Syndrome, the movie appears to be well-done, and Depp’s performance was lauded. As is portrayed in the movie, Chisso corporation really did hire Japanese yakuza to beat up Smith. This was the second film on Minamata disease, after a Japanese documentary (Minamata) had covered the subject for Japanese audiences in 1971.
Documentaries and docu-pics, which resurface these stories (much as this post is doing), help as reminders of the folly of pressing for cheap resources. A prize-winning book by Adam Hochschild, King Leopold’s Ghost, fed a 2006 documentary on the Congo, while Ford’s jungle utopia was covered in Beyond Fordlândia(2017).
What these examples show is that those who attempt to corner the market for a cheap, mass-produced resource, without concern about the effects on the people or the environment, will earn universal scorn and a legacy of shame. But they do feed negative documentary filmmakers. I’m not sure that’s the end that those who covet Greenland had in mind.
