Delhi's bureaucrats bicker over cholera and the role of city drains and state sewers.
By Jason Overdorf
NEWSWEEK
Jun 28, 2008
India scores 120 on the green index and especially poorly in sanitation.
If anybody needed a reminder of how crippling bureaucracy can be, consider the campaign to clean up the sacred Yamuna River in Delhi. The river oozes through town like a putrid ribbon of black sludge. Its level of fecal bacteria is 10,000 times higher than what's deemed safe for bathing. After a half-billion-dollar, 15-year program to build 17 sewage treatment plants, raw sewage still spills into the river at the rate of 3.6 billion liters a day.
Lack of sanitation is one of India's many environmental problems. On Yale and Columbia's Environmental Performance Index, it scores a miserable 21 on sanitation, compared with 67 for the region and 48 for its income group. That helps push the country's overall ranking to 120th, below all its income peers except Angola and Cambodia. Like China, India tends to suffer the ills of over- and underdevelopment. On the one hand, its power-starved, industrializing economy has prevented it from making substantial progress in reducing greenhouse-gas emissions and has put further pressure on its ability to protect the biodiversity of its disappearing wilderness (in the EPI, the country fares poorly on both counts). On the other hand, desperate poverty leaves most of its population vulnerable to environment-related illnesses caused by water and air pollution, which together account for an estimated 20 percent of the disease burden. Illnesses related to air pollution alone cost India as much as $20 billion a year, according to The Energy and Resources Institute (TERI), a Delhi think tank headed by climate scientist and Nobel laureate R. K. Pachauri.
India's messy democracy is particularly ill equipped to handle the conflicting pressures of rapid growth and poverty. Although the national water policy was revised in 2002 to encourage community participation and decentralize water management, the country's byzantine bureaucracy ensures that it remains a "mere statement of intent," according to TERI. Responsibility for managing the country's water resources is fragmented among a dozen different ministries and departments without any coordination. "You have multiple agencies with no synergy between them and no interaction between them," says Chandra Bhushan, associate director of the Center for Science and Environment (CSE), a Delhi NGO. Thus, in states like Rajasthan and Karnataka, public water schemes launched by the Ministry of Rural Development didn't meet their targets because they weren't coordinated with the Ministry of Power's program for rural electrification.
These problems have come to a head in the Yamuna River. The state-government-controlled water board built the new wastewater treatment plants, but the municipal government has failed to clear garbage from the drains. As a result, so little wastewater reaches the plants that they can operate at about only 30 percent capacity. After a cholera epidemic in May, the state and municipal governments bickered over whether the state's leaky sewer pipes or the city's clogged sewer drains were to blame. "Having democracy at the top but not having good democratic institutions and institutional structures at the bottom is a fundamental problem," says Bhushan.
Whereas China's totalitarian government has an easier time enforcing its rules, corruption and lack of accountability plague India's efforts to enforce regulations and set priorities. Agricultural states like Punjab, where the water table is dropping dangerously fast, still offer farmers free or subsidized electricity to pump water for irrigation, encouraging them to grow water-intensive crops like rice and use inefficient irrigation techniques. Small businesses operating in old facilities and lacking the capital to invest in modern technologies are ill equipped to deal with the contaminants they produce and too numerous to be regulated by the central and state pollution-control boards. "The pollution-control boards that we have are poorly staffed; their technological capacity is inadequate. Combine that with poor salaries and some level of corruption, and you have a real problem," says Leena Srivastava, executive director of TERI.
Considering these fundamental shortcomings, it's easy to see why the Western obsession with carbon emissions rankles Indians. Even the EPI raps India's knuckles with a poor score on emissions per megawatt of electricity. Try telling that to the 500 million or so Indians who burn dung in their homes because they're not even connected to the grid.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/143694
Sunday, June 29, 2008
Sunday, May 18, 2008
rebel brides and ex-wives
As India gets more wealthy, arranged marriage is giving way to more love weddings, and divorces.
Jason Overdorf
NEWSWEEK (May 17, 2008)
Not long ago, 19-year-old Sreeja Konidela returned home to Hyderabad from Delhi to attend a family funeral—but didn't get the welcome she expected. Konidela, whose father, Chiranjeevi, is a megastar in the Telugu-language film industry, had been disowned for eloping with Shirish Bharadwaj, 23, who was from a different caste. The two had married on live television last October in a bid to keep Sreeja's father from interfering—they were afraid he'd accuse Bharadwaj of kidnapping her, a common tactic in such cases. But their TV wedding alerted police and a mob of angry fans, who trailed the couple from the temple to the registrar and scared them so badly they fled to Delhi. Now the lovers were back, but Konidela's relatives weren't interested in reconciliation. Instead, she says, they forced Bharadwaj to wait outside and tried to browbeat her into dumping him so she could marry a groom of her parents' choosing. "They just tried brainwashing me," she says. "So I got out of there as fast as I could."
The story electrified India, where a rapidly modernizing society is changing its views on marriage. Tales of rebellion are on the rise. Now that fresh college grads can start outearning their parents right away and the rising influence of Western culture is empowering women, more young couples are challenging tradition. So-called love marriages were rare a generation ago, but now account for 10 percent of urban weddings, according to a November study by Divya Mathur of the University of Chicago. An additional 19 percent in Mathur's survey chose their own spouses but confirmed their engagements with their parents—choosing what urban India awkwardly refers to as "love-cum-arranged" unions. Meanwhile, more and more couples are meeting online or through friends instead of at torturous, parent-chaperoned tea sessions. The revenue of online matchmakers more than doubled from $15 million in 2006 to $35 million in 2007, and more than 12 million Indians—about half the country's Internet users—now visit matrimonial sites.
The changes aren't producing only love and bliss, however: demographers say divorce rates doubled to about 7 percent from 1991 to 2001, when the latest Census was taken. Lawyers affirm that, at least among urban couples, they've since climbed much higher, though they're still very low by Western standards. "India is facing changing times," says Pinky Anand, a lawyer who represented Konidela and Bharadwaj when they sought protection in a Delhi court. "Modernization, urbanization, access to information and globalization—there are no holds barred."
Traditionally, under all of India's major religions, all marriages were arranged by the bride and groom's parents. Unions were considered religious contracts between families, designed to uphold the social order and cemented with the gift of a virgin daughter. They were not seen as private agreements between two people in love, says King's College anthropologist Perveez Mody. With strict injunctions against crossing caste boundaries, arranged marriages helped Hindus to prevent lower castes from gaining status and made it easier to restrict them to hereditary occupations. "Many women got married before puberty, and to keep a nubile girl in the house was a monumental sin," says Delhi-based sociologist Patricia Uberoi. After marriage, couples moved in with the husband's parents to form what is known here as the "joint family." New brides had few rights and answered to their mothers-in-law, their husbands' siblings and his brothers' wives (if they'd been in the family longer). Today class and religious divides remain very strong, so in many respects the old system persists. Parents still work the family network and advertise in newspapers to make advantageous matches for their children—often without informing their sons or daughters until the process is well underway.
Now, however, a complex mix of political, economic and social developments is putting pressure on the old methods. The caste hierarchy itself is under threat thanks to urbanization and civil-rights reforms. India's city population has increased from about 20 percent of the total in 1971 to more than 28 percent today—bringing a new anonymity that makes it more difficult to identify a person's caste. Similarly, quotas for the lower castes in education and government jobs, along with the shift to an industrial economy, have allowed the lower castes to break out of traditional occupations. At the same time, young people—particularly young women—have become better positioned to assert their independence and become more exposed to Western influences, as Hollywood begins to compete with Bollywood, and Vogue and Cosmo hit the newsstands. Today's top engineering graduates, moreover, can earn as much as $30,000 within a few years of starting work—more than most parents ever earned—and even call-center employees make enough to defy their parents. Many of these new lucrative careers also require young people to relocate outside their families' ambit. And although a recent study by Watson Wyatt Asia-Pacific shows that women make up only 18 percent of India's urban work force, they now account for 38 percent of enrollment in higher education, and the number of women in white-collar jobs is increasing. As a result, they now enjoy more power and greater awareness of their rights, as well as more unsupervised contact with men. Together, these shifts have caused a decline in the number of joint families, a relaxation of the rules that once gave husbands' parents (but not wives') a dominant role in their children's marriages, and an uptick in children choosing their own partners.
Society is struggling to cope with the shifts. While the weakening of tradition has made relationships more equal, it has also led to higher divorce rates, as women object to archaic constraints and loveless unions. This is true even in remote corners of the country; according to India Today magazine, about a tenth of all child marriages now end in divorce. Geeta Luthra, a New Delhi-based lawyer who works on divorce and other women's issues, says that men are often the ones to split up their marriages when their newly empowered wives refuse to do housework, play the good hostess or kowtow to her in-laws.
Love marriages, meanwhile, are also leading to serious conflict, especially among India's rural populations. In communities like the Jat caste of rural Haryana, Punjab and Uttar Pradesh, the murder of couples that elope has become disturbingly common; at least five such cases made headlines in the last month alone. "If a lower-caste man is involved with a higher-caste woman, he is invariably killed. And the girl, whether belonging to the higher caste or the lower, is also almost certainly eliminated," says Prem Chowdhry, author of "Contentious Marriages, Eloping Couples: Gender, Caste and Patriarchy in Northern India."
So far, the state's response to these changes has also been flawed. Officially, intercaste and interreligious marriages have been legal in India since 1872, almost 100 years before interracial marriages were legalized in all 50 American states. But over time, the law designed to facilitate these unions, known as the Special Marriage Act, has been twisted around to prevent love marriages. Under a 1954 amendment still on the books, couples are required to register their intent to marry with the court, provide the names and addresses of their parents and wait 30 days while the police verify that neither spouse-to-be is already married. Although in 2006 the Supreme Court directed police and other authorities nationwide to protect intercaste and interreligious couples from harassment, this filing requirement still helps parents locate runaway lovers and retrieve them, often by accusing the groom of kidnapping. (Since 2002, such charges have grown 30 percent faster than other crimes against women.) Though police acknowledge that in most of these cases the women have willingly fled with their future husbands, the cops nonetheless often track the couples down, throw the boyfriends (or husbands) in jail and return the women to their parents. Judges also often play a pernicious role, rejecting girls' testimony of consent or ignoring documents that prove she is of marriageable age.
India's divorce procedures similarly lag behind the times. The formal rules have become more liberal over the past 30 years—for example, by allowing Muslim women to sue for alimony and expanding the grounds for Christian divorce. Yet in practice, getting India's overburdened courts to process a divorce if one spouse objects can take up to 15 years. For women like 23-year-old Rani—a resident of provincial Muzaffarnagar, Uttar Pradesh—such waits can be unbearable. "I want to be divorced this minute!" she says. And because the glacial pace of courts often drives women to misuse laws against dowries and domestic violence to threaten their husbands into granting a quick settlement, the separation process can mean almost weekly trips to court and the police station, and constantly wondering whether one is going to be arrested and jailed.
Perhaps because of all these obstacles, even many of India's Westernized urban youth remain fairly conservative when it comes to love. Most still strive to find a partner who is roughly acceptable to their parents, even if not of their choosing. Often, when they do marry without their parents' blessing, they keep the marriage secret at first and continue living with their parents, only gradually introducing the new spouse as "a good friend," hoping to win over their parents before revealing the truth. If all goes well, a proper public ceremony then follows.
Even for those who do play by their parents' rules, however, things are slowly changing. Caste and class boundaries have expanded over time to permit more unions, and the old prohibition on the bride and groom's meeting before the wedding has been relaxed so that prospective spouses are now allowed to date or at least exchange phone calls before the big day.
The advent of online matchmaking has also helped. In the old days, young people often had no idea they'd entered the marriage market until photographs and résumés of prospects began arriving in the mail (parents aimed to avoid confrontation with their children by cluing them in as late as possible). Now as many as 40 percent of the profiles posted online on matrimonial sites are written by the candidates themselves, and industry experts say would-be brides and grooms—not their parents—make up a similar percentage of those viewing their pages. The result: today "the marriage decision is negotiated between parents and their adult children," says Delhi University sociologist Radhika Chopra.
One middle-class Delhi couple that wedded three years ago illustrates how such negotiations work. Arun and Deepti decided to get hitched in 2005 after dating secretly for a few years. When they approached their families, both sides objected. Though both are Brahmins, they belong to different subcastes, and Arun is from Bihar, considered a backward region, while Deepti grew up in Delhi; she is also better educated, speaks better English, and has a higher-paying job than Arun. But over time, sustained lobbying won over the families. "We both were ready to have a runaway marriage," says Deepti. "But we wanted our parents to agree. That is something which has not changed in India." Today, to show her respect, Deepti veils her face when she visits Arun's family in conservative Bihar, and Arun (a rare atheist) goes to temple to please Deepti's parents. Love, as they say, may still conquer all; but in India today, tradition remains nearly as powerful.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/137472
Jason Overdorf
NEWSWEEK (May 17, 2008)
Not long ago, 19-year-old Sreeja Konidela returned home to Hyderabad from Delhi to attend a family funeral—but didn't get the welcome she expected. Konidela, whose father, Chiranjeevi, is a megastar in the Telugu-language film industry, had been disowned for eloping with Shirish Bharadwaj, 23, who was from a different caste. The two had married on live television last October in a bid to keep Sreeja's father from interfering—they were afraid he'd accuse Bharadwaj of kidnapping her, a common tactic in such cases. But their TV wedding alerted police and a mob of angry fans, who trailed the couple from the temple to the registrar and scared them so badly they fled to Delhi. Now the lovers were back, but Konidela's relatives weren't interested in reconciliation. Instead, she says, they forced Bharadwaj to wait outside and tried to browbeat her into dumping him so she could marry a groom of her parents' choosing. "They just tried brainwashing me," she says. "So I got out of there as fast as I could."
The story electrified India, where a rapidly modernizing society is changing its views on marriage. Tales of rebellion are on the rise. Now that fresh college grads can start outearning their parents right away and the rising influence of Western culture is empowering women, more young couples are challenging tradition. So-called love marriages were rare a generation ago, but now account for 10 percent of urban weddings, according to a November study by Divya Mathur of the University of Chicago. An additional 19 percent in Mathur's survey chose their own spouses but confirmed their engagements with their parents—choosing what urban India awkwardly refers to as "love-cum-arranged" unions. Meanwhile, more and more couples are meeting online or through friends instead of at torturous, parent-chaperoned tea sessions. The revenue of online matchmakers more than doubled from $15 million in 2006 to $35 million in 2007, and more than 12 million Indians—about half the country's Internet users—now visit matrimonial sites.
The changes aren't producing only love and bliss, however: demographers say divorce rates doubled to about 7 percent from 1991 to 2001, when the latest Census was taken. Lawyers affirm that, at least among urban couples, they've since climbed much higher, though they're still very low by Western standards. "India is facing changing times," says Pinky Anand, a lawyer who represented Konidela and Bharadwaj when they sought protection in a Delhi court. "Modernization, urbanization, access to information and globalization—there are no holds barred."
Traditionally, under all of India's major religions, all marriages were arranged by the bride and groom's parents. Unions were considered religious contracts between families, designed to uphold the social order and cemented with the gift of a virgin daughter. They were not seen as private agreements between two people in love, says King's College anthropologist Perveez Mody. With strict injunctions against crossing caste boundaries, arranged marriages helped Hindus to prevent lower castes from gaining status and made it easier to restrict them to hereditary occupations. "Many women got married before puberty, and to keep a nubile girl in the house was a monumental sin," says Delhi-based sociologist Patricia Uberoi. After marriage, couples moved in with the husband's parents to form what is known here as the "joint family." New brides had few rights and answered to their mothers-in-law, their husbands' siblings and his brothers' wives (if they'd been in the family longer). Today class and religious divides remain very strong, so in many respects the old system persists. Parents still work the family network and advertise in newspapers to make advantageous matches for their children—often without informing their sons or daughters until the process is well underway.
Now, however, a complex mix of political, economic and social developments is putting pressure on the old methods. The caste hierarchy itself is under threat thanks to urbanization and civil-rights reforms. India's city population has increased from about 20 percent of the total in 1971 to more than 28 percent today—bringing a new anonymity that makes it more difficult to identify a person's caste. Similarly, quotas for the lower castes in education and government jobs, along with the shift to an industrial economy, have allowed the lower castes to break out of traditional occupations. At the same time, young people—particularly young women—have become better positioned to assert their independence and become more exposed to Western influences, as Hollywood begins to compete with Bollywood, and Vogue and Cosmo hit the newsstands. Today's top engineering graduates, moreover, can earn as much as $30,000 within a few years of starting work—more than most parents ever earned—and even call-center employees make enough to defy their parents. Many of these new lucrative careers also require young people to relocate outside their families' ambit. And although a recent study by Watson Wyatt Asia-Pacific shows that women make up only 18 percent of India's urban work force, they now account for 38 percent of enrollment in higher education, and the number of women in white-collar jobs is increasing. As a result, they now enjoy more power and greater awareness of their rights, as well as more unsupervised contact with men. Together, these shifts have caused a decline in the number of joint families, a relaxation of the rules that once gave husbands' parents (but not wives') a dominant role in their children's marriages, and an uptick in children choosing their own partners.
Society is struggling to cope with the shifts. While the weakening of tradition has made relationships more equal, it has also led to higher divorce rates, as women object to archaic constraints and loveless unions. This is true even in remote corners of the country; according to India Today magazine, about a tenth of all child marriages now end in divorce. Geeta Luthra, a New Delhi-based lawyer who works on divorce and other women's issues, says that men are often the ones to split up their marriages when their newly empowered wives refuse to do housework, play the good hostess or kowtow to her in-laws.
Love marriages, meanwhile, are also leading to serious conflict, especially among India's rural populations. In communities like the Jat caste of rural Haryana, Punjab and Uttar Pradesh, the murder of couples that elope has become disturbingly common; at least five such cases made headlines in the last month alone. "If a lower-caste man is involved with a higher-caste woman, he is invariably killed. And the girl, whether belonging to the higher caste or the lower, is also almost certainly eliminated," says Prem Chowdhry, author of "Contentious Marriages, Eloping Couples: Gender, Caste and Patriarchy in Northern India."
So far, the state's response to these changes has also been flawed. Officially, intercaste and interreligious marriages have been legal in India since 1872, almost 100 years before interracial marriages were legalized in all 50 American states. But over time, the law designed to facilitate these unions, known as the Special Marriage Act, has been twisted around to prevent love marriages. Under a 1954 amendment still on the books, couples are required to register their intent to marry with the court, provide the names and addresses of their parents and wait 30 days while the police verify that neither spouse-to-be is already married. Although in 2006 the Supreme Court directed police and other authorities nationwide to protect intercaste and interreligious couples from harassment, this filing requirement still helps parents locate runaway lovers and retrieve them, often by accusing the groom of kidnapping. (Since 2002, such charges have grown 30 percent faster than other crimes against women.) Though police acknowledge that in most of these cases the women have willingly fled with their future husbands, the cops nonetheless often track the couples down, throw the boyfriends (or husbands) in jail and return the women to their parents. Judges also often play a pernicious role, rejecting girls' testimony of consent or ignoring documents that prove she is of marriageable age.
India's divorce procedures similarly lag behind the times. The formal rules have become more liberal over the past 30 years—for example, by allowing Muslim women to sue for alimony and expanding the grounds for Christian divorce. Yet in practice, getting India's overburdened courts to process a divorce if one spouse objects can take up to 15 years. For women like 23-year-old Rani—a resident of provincial Muzaffarnagar, Uttar Pradesh—such waits can be unbearable. "I want to be divorced this minute!" she says. And because the glacial pace of courts often drives women to misuse laws against dowries and domestic violence to threaten their husbands into granting a quick settlement, the separation process can mean almost weekly trips to court and the police station, and constantly wondering whether one is going to be arrested and jailed.
Perhaps because of all these obstacles, even many of India's Westernized urban youth remain fairly conservative when it comes to love. Most still strive to find a partner who is roughly acceptable to their parents, even if not of their choosing. Often, when they do marry without their parents' blessing, they keep the marriage secret at first and continue living with their parents, only gradually introducing the new spouse as "a good friend," hoping to win over their parents before revealing the truth. If all goes well, a proper public ceremony then follows.
Even for those who do play by their parents' rules, however, things are slowly changing. Caste and class boundaries have expanded over time to permit more unions, and the old prohibition on the bride and groom's meeting before the wedding has been relaxed so that prospective spouses are now allowed to date or at least exchange phone calls before the big day.
The advent of online matchmaking has also helped. In the old days, young people often had no idea they'd entered the marriage market until photographs and résumés of prospects began arriving in the mail (parents aimed to avoid confrontation with their children by cluing them in as late as possible). Now as many as 40 percent of the profiles posted online on matrimonial sites are written by the candidates themselves, and industry experts say would-be brides and grooms—not their parents—make up a similar percentage of those viewing their pages. The result: today "the marriage decision is negotiated between parents and their adult children," says Delhi University sociologist Radhika Chopra.
One middle-class Delhi couple that wedded three years ago illustrates how such negotiations work. Arun and Deepti decided to get hitched in 2005 after dating secretly for a few years. When they approached their families, both sides objected. Though both are Brahmins, they belong to different subcastes, and Arun is from Bihar, considered a backward region, while Deepti grew up in Delhi; she is also better educated, speaks better English, and has a higher-paying job than Arun. But over time, sustained lobbying won over the families. "We both were ready to have a runaway marriage," says Deepti. "But we wanted our parents to agree. That is something which has not changed in India." Today, to show her respect, Deepti veils her face when she visits Arun's family in conservative Bihar, and Arun (a rare atheist) goes to temple to please Deepti's parents. Love, as they say, may still conquer all; but in India today, tradition remains nearly as powerful.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/137472
Monday, May 05, 2008
the pom-pom girls save the world
Baulk at the bimbo? When it's Americana, India will learn, this too shall be.
(Outlook India, May 12, 2008)
JASON OVERDORF
Not long ago, a columnist for the New York Times celebrated the arrival of the Washington Redskins cheerleaders in the Indian Premier League by remarking that this hallowed event must surely signal that India now more than ever looks to America, rather than Britain or Europe, as its model for cultural development. Apparently, while you are still playing cricket—a kind of baseball with a flat bat—you are now doing it in a satisfyingly snazzed-up American way.
As a red-blooded Yankee with a more than passing love for the steroid-pumped spectacle of the US National Football League (the one with armour and the funny-looking ball), as well as the more historic American standbys of Mom, baseball, hot dogs and apple pie, I felt my eyes well with sentimental tears. Not since the foul-mouthed hulks from Vince McMahon's World Wrestling Entertainment toured India has American culture had so representative an emissary as the humble and hardworking cheerleader.
Keep your Ramanujan and your 6,00,000 engineers a year. So you invented zero. Discovered it. Whatever. It's a number for losers anyway. For statistical and mathematical gimcrackery, we'll take our guys any day. Consider P.T. Barnum, the circus promoter who calculated, "There's a sucker born every minute." Or, of course, Earl Whipple, who invented the giant foam finger, aid to sports fans everywhere, that eloquently proclaims "We're Number One!" Anyway, what's math compared with Reality TV? Most of your software geeks are even now cracking open cans of Budweiser, and watching large-bosomed women wolf down plates of worms on Fear Factor. Yes, readers, I will say it. American culture has converted "pop" into a celebration of the dumb. Today's Elvis is Britney Spears. Genius!
Naturally, I was stunned to discover that not all Indians have greeted our scantily-clad emissaries with my own enthusiasm. Some members of Parliament have rashly sought to ban them, others to curb their freedom of expression by imprisoning them in pants. Clearly, this is both prudish and undemocratic. Worse, even, than rejecting our nukes.
It is obvious from America's present ascendancy in economic and political affairs that the dumb-beats-smart phenomenon is not limited to sports and entertainment—stupidity and vulgarity triumph over reason and good taste in all arenas. To prove this to the world, we elected George W. Bush, a former cheerleader. Twice! It is now time for you to fall in line. You're starting to get the hang of stupidity. So far you are doing very well with Indian Idol and Nach Baliye, and Bollywood has mastered the art of stealing Hollywood plotlines and denuding them of their last vestiges of intelligence. You even refer to Vijay Mallya as "doctor". Why baulk at the bimbos?
Most Americans—who, to be quite honest, remain perplexed about why Christopher Columbus was looking for India in the first place—are blissfully ignorant of this blatant slap in the face. But were they to read of it, perhaps at the end of an amusing story about a eunuch who has run for mayor or a village woman who has married an elephant, it would only confirm their convictions that we are embroiled in a battle more perilous than the one we fought against communism. The truth is, we can't help but feel we are beset on all sides, because we are! No matter which backward country to which we bring the joys of freedom and democracy—processed food, bleach blondes, and some other stuff to do with civil rights and powerful detergents and whatnot—the people greet our sharp-dressed marketing executives and our fresh-faced soldiers the same way: with suspicion and distrust. When even our cheerleaders—who did for the ballerina what Velveeta cheese spread did for brie—receive such a reception, it is no surprise we're always wondering, "Why do they hate us so?" Ours is an utterly thankless task.
Perhaps a bit of background is needed, if the cheerleader is to make a comeback in an India worthy of KFC. Once upon a time, American sports were primitive and wholesome, like cricket, and there were no cheerleaders for the professional teams. (Now only Major League Baseball remains sadly bimboless). Cheerleading began at the University of Minnesota in 1898. Through what now seems an obvious oversight, the squads were all-male until 1923. But as it evolved, a dearth of athletic activities for women made cheerleading into a sort of substitute sport for the fairer sex. The original purpose, that is the leading of the crowd in cheers ("Rah, rah, ree! Kick 'em in the knee! Rah, rah, rass! Kick 'em in the other knee!") has long since been forgotten. The crowd is better at organising its own cheers anyway, and the players have money and performance-enhancing drugs to keep them motivated. But high school cheerleaders—like Olivia Newton John's character Sandy in Grease, or more recently the characters played by Mena Suvari in American Beauty and Hayden Panettiere in Heroes—have become iconic representations of America's youthful exuberance: contortionist Lolitas in tiny skirts, fresh and innocent...or maybe not.
Still more progress was made in the Farrah Fawcett 1970s by the cheerleaders for the NFL's Dallas Cowboys ("America's Team") who scrapped the virginal facade and made cheerleading unapologetically sexy. In tiny white hot pants, white cowboy boots and cowboy hats, they merged the worldly glamour of the Coffee, Tea or Me era airhostess with Playboy's liberated (but still pliant) bombshell. Now, professional cheerleaders look and perform less like wholesome girls filled with school spirit than like the entertainers known in America as "exotic dancers". You may not understand, but this transformation has reached its peak in India, where they play a wonderful double role—first as women with remarkable (if surgically enhanced) bodies, and second as the white, blonde temptresses of the West—in encouraging India's much ballyhooed rise.
I dare say this important reinforcement of femininity—cheering for men, rather than playing on a team yourself—has been no less important than the Barbie Doll. But it is faltering in America, due to a foolish new emphasis on women's athletics. Not long ago, for instance, when a mother in Texas committed first-degree murder to make sure her daughter made the cheerleading squad, the court was not sympathetic. The judges failed to see she was defending a vital American tradition that is now under serious threat.
Today, it is mostly in nostalgic films and TV shows that the cheerleaders are the most beautiful and popular girls, ruling the school together with the male athletes in their varsity letterman jackets, tormenting the smart kids by pushing their heads down the toilet and similar time-honoured pastimes. In real life, sad changes are afoot. At the school I attended, for instance, the pretty girls turned up their noses at cheerleading, letting those who were plain and slightly overweight fill in the ranks. The guys who played guitar and could dance—even some "straight A students", what we call the kids who ace all the exams—had more girlfriends than the football players. Something has to be done to stop this perversion of the natural order of things.
Thankfully, as it did with the Miss Universe pageant, India has stepped forward to shoulder the burden, casting off benighted traditions like purdah and socialism. It is high time somebody said it. Like the editorial staff of the Indian Express, who last week decried the joyless opposition to the "shiny, happy girls who inject a bit of pep into the IPL".So brave it was, it reminded me of a red-white-and-blue declaration along similar lines: we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
(Outlook India, May 12, 2008)
JASON OVERDORF
Not long ago, a columnist for the New York Times celebrated the arrival of the Washington Redskins cheerleaders in the Indian Premier League by remarking that this hallowed event must surely signal that India now more than ever looks to America, rather than Britain or Europe, as its model for cultural development. Apparently, while you are still playing cricket—a kind of baseball with a flat bat—you are now doing it in a satisfyingly snazzed-up American way.
As a red-blooded Yankee with a more than passing love for the steroid-pumped spectacle of the US National Football League (the one with armour and the funny-looking ball), as well as the more historic American standbys of Mom, baseball, hot dogs and apple pie, I felt my eyes well with sentimental tears. Not since the foul-mouthed hulks from Vince McMahon's World Wrestling Entertainment toured India has American culture had so representative an emissary as the humble and hardworking cheerleader.
Keep your Ramanujan and your 6,00,000 engineers a year. So you invented zero. Discovered it. Whatever. It's a number for losers anyway. For statistical and mathematical gimcrackery, we'll take our guys any day. Consider P.T. Barnum, the circus promoter who calculated, "There's a sucker born every minute." Or, of course, Earl Whipple, who invented the giant foam finger, aid to sports fans everywhere, that eloquently proclaims "We're Number One!" Anyway, what's math compared with Reality TV? Most of your software geeks are even now cracking open cans of Budweiser, and watching large-bosomed women wolf down plates of worms on Fear Factor. Yes, readers, I will say it. American culture has converted "pop" into a celebration of the dumb. Today's Elvis is Britney Spears. Genius!
Naturally, I was stunned to discover that not all Indians have greeted our scantily-clad emissaries with my own enthusiasm. Some members of Parliament have rashly sought to ban them, others to curb their freedom of expression by imprisoning them in pants. Clearly, this is both prudish and undemocratic. Worse, even, than rejecting our nukes.
It is obvious from America's present ascendancy in economic and political affairs that the dumb-beats-smart phenomenon is not limited to sports and entertainment—stupidity and vulgarity triumph over reason and good taste in all arenas. To prove this to the world, we elected George W. Bush, a former cheerleader. Twice! It is now time for you to fall in line. You're starting to get the hang of stupidity. So far you are doing very well with Indian Idol and Nach Baliye, and Bollywood has mastered the art of stealing Hollywood plotlines and denuding them of their last vestiges of intelligence. You even refer to Vijay Mallya as "doctor". Why baulk at the bimbos?
Most Americans—who, to be quite honest, remain perplexed about why Christopher Columbus was looking for India in the first place—are blissfully ignorant of this blatant slap in the face. But were they to read of it, perhaps at the end of an amusing story about a eunuch who has run for mayor or a village woman who has married an elephant, it would only confirm their convictions that we are embroiled in a battle more perilous than the one we fought against communism. The truth is, we can't help but feel we are beset on all sides, because we are! No matter which backward country to which we bring the joys of freedom and democracy—processed food, bleach blondes, and some other stuff to do with civil rights and powerful detergents and whatnot—the people greet our sharp-dressed marketing executives and our fresh-faced soldiers the same way: with suspicion and distrust. When even our cheerleaders—who did for the ballerina what Velveeta cheese spread did for brie—receive such a reception, it is no surprise we're always wondering, "Why do they hate us so?" Ours is an utterly thankless task.
Perhaps a bit of background is needed, if the cheerleader is to make a comeback in an India worthy of KFC. Once upon a time, American sports were primitive and wholesome, like cricket, and there were no cheerleaders for the professional teams. (Now only Major League Baseball remains sadly bimboless). Cheerleading began at the University of Minnesota in 1898. Through what now seems an obvious oversight, the squads were all-male until 1923. But as it evolved, a dearth of athletic activities for women made cheerleading into a sort of substitute sport for the fairer sex. The original purpose, that is the leading of the crowd in cheers ("Rah, rah, ree! Kick 'em in the knee! Rah, rah, rass! Kick 'em in the other knee!") has long since been forgotten. The crowd is better at organising its own cheers anyway, and the players have money and performance-enhancing drugs to keep them motivated. But high school cheerleaders—like Olivia Newton John's character Sandy in Grease, or more recently the characters played by Mena Suvari in American Beauty and Hayden Panettiere in Heroes—have become iconic representations of America's youthful exuberance: contortionist Lolitas in tiny skirts, fresh and innocent...or maybe not.
Still more progress was made in the Farrah Fawcett 1970s by the cheerleaders for the NFL's Dallas Cowboys ("America's Team") who scrapped the virginal facade and made cheerleading unapologetically sexy. In tiny white hot pants, white cowboy boots and cowboy hats, they merged the worldly glamour of the Coffee, Tea or Me era airhostess with Playboy's liberated (but still pliant) bombshell. Now, professional cheerleaders look and perform less like wholesome girls filled with school spirit than like the entertainers known in America as "exotic dancers". You may not understand, but this transformation has reached its peak in India, where they play a wonderful double role—first as women with remarkable (if surgically enhanced) bodies, and second as the white, blonde temptresses of the West—in encouraging India's much ballyhooed rise.
I dare say this important reinforcement of femininity—cheering for men, rather than playing on a team yourself—has been no less important than the Barbie Doll. But it is faltering in America, due to a foolish new emphasis on women's athletics. Not long ago, for instance, when a mother in Texas committed first-degree murder to make sure her daughter made the cheerleading squad, the court was not sympathetic. The judges failed to see she was defending a vital American tradition that is now under serious threat.
Today, it is mostly in nostalgic films and TV shows that the cheerleaders are the most beautiful and popular girls, ruling the school together with the male athletes in their varsity letterman jackets, tormenting the smart kids by pushing their heads down the toilet and similar time-honoured pastimes. In real life, sad changes are afoot. At the school I attended, for instance, the pretty girls turned up their noses at cheerleading, letting those who were plain and slightly overweight fill in the ranks. The guys who played guitar and could dance—even some "straight A students", what we call the kids who ace all the exams—had more girlfriends than the football players. Something has to be done to stop this perversion of the natural order of things.
Thankfully, as it did with the Miss Universe pageant, India has stepped forward to shoulder the burden, casting off benighted traditions like purdah and socialism. It is high time somebody said it. Like the editorial staff of the Indian Express, who last week decried the joyless opposition to the "shiny, happy girls who inject a bit of pep into the IPL".So brave it was, it reminded me of a red-white-and-blue declaration along similar lines: we hold these truths to be self-evident, that all men are created equal, that they are endowed by their Creator with certain unalienable Rights, that among these are Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.
Thursday, May 01, 2008
india on the fly
Fishing for the legendary Mahseer in the Himachal foothills of the Himalayas
By Jason Overdorf
DESTINASIAN (May 2008)
MY FEET MUST BE BLEEDING, I KEPT THINKING. I COULDN’T know for sure because I was wading barefoot across a freezing Himalayan river in my underwear, and Prahalad, my leather-soled fishing guide, wouldn’t stop long enough for me to check. But there was no turning back. I was in the middle of the river now, and I really, really wanted to catch one of the golden mahseer that I hoped to find on the opposite bank. Besides, Prahalad had a viselike grip on my hand. And he had my pants.
The mahseer (Hindi for “great fish”) has a storied reputation from the days of the Raj, when India’s British colonizers introduced sport fishing to the subcontinent. Jim Corbett, the famous hunter, considered wrestling the mahseer more exciting, even, than stalking man-eating leopards and tigers. And Rudyard Kipling went so far as to write that the mahseer was a game fish “beside whom the tarpon is as a herring, and he who lands him can say he is a fisherman.”
To Atlantic anglers, those are provocative words. But they’re not unfounded. The
mahseer is one of the world’s largest scaly freshwater fish, capable of growing more
than a meter long and weighing up to 90 kilograms—though the record for one taken
with rod and reel, set in 1946, is 54 kilos. A beautiful fish with green and gold scales the size of silver dollars, the mahseer bears a resemblance to the Chinese carp (a distant relative) and the prized tarpon. An opportunistic predator, the Himalayan variety will strike flies and spinning lures, as well as live bait. It hits like a ton of bricks and fights like hell, too—sometimes snapping an 18-kilo test line like it’s cotton string. The golden mahseer, found in the rivers of the
Himalayas, is swifter and lighter than the monstrous humpback mahseer of south
India’s Cauvery River. But experts say the golden mahseer is more aggressive. It’s also harder to catch. As dams mushroom in the Indian Himalayas and local villagers
empty the best pools, you have to trek deeper and deeper into tiger country to land one of these legendary fish.
This spring, I traveled from Delhi up the old Grand Trunk Road with my 64-year-old father to try to hook one. The trip was organized by Himalayan Outback, a three-year-old company started by a young Indian outfitter named Misty Dhillon, whom a number of graybearded mahseer fanatics have called “the future of Indian angling.” Compared with those of the United States, Europe, or even South America, India’s sport-fishing industry is virtually nonexistent. After the British left India, interest in sport
fishing waned, and a rapidly expanding—and hungry—population stripped the rivers of fish. Something of a revival began in 1977, when Britons Robert Howitt, Andrew Clark, and Martin Clark made a comprehensive survey of India’s rivers as part of their
so-called Transworld Fishing Expedition. A few years later, Howitt convinced the Indian government to protect a section of the Cauvery River from overzealous meat fishermen, giving rise to events like the Mahseer Maharaja World Cup and a steady influx of international anglers. But the golden mahseer of the Himalayas is only now starting to get the same kind of attention, and Misty Dhillon is a good part of the reason why. A quick Internet search on the mahseer shows that he’s written dozens of articles about fishing in the Himalayas, and doggedly farmed them out to every forum, Web site, and discussion board he could find. Today he’s one of a handful of Himalayan outfitters (perhaps the only one) who makes the lion’s share of his revenue from catch-and-release fishing.
“A lot of companies here say they’re angling specialists, but they really sustain their businesses through wildlife tours or rafting,” he says. “We’ve focused on angling, and all our clientele is pretty much angling right now.”
Misty is also leading an effort to prove that the golden mahseer, unlike its fat-bellied cousin down south, will take a fly. “People used to say that you can never catch this fish on a fly, but I believed that you could,” he says, adding that he began experimenting with his own fly lures a few years ago. “That was important, because fly fishermen are the ones who have the money and the passion to be able to afford to come to these wild areas. Now, pretty much all of our work is fly fishing.”
The survival of the golden mahseer could well be at stake. India is hard at work on dozens of hydroelectric projects in the Himalayas, and locals still fill their larders using dynamite, gill nets, bleaching powder, and truck batteries—practices that kill every fish in the water, big or small. As a result, the mahseer has already disappeared from waters in heavily populated areas like the Thumaria, Deoha, and Dhora reservoirs, according to a recent report by the Wildlife Institute of India.
Outfitters like Misty have so far proven to be the best defense. By leasing the fishing rights to sections of rivers like the Yamuna, Ramganga, Ganges, and Alaknanda, angling and rafting companies have assumed responsibility for curbing pollution and poaching. “In prime habitats—our clients want to go to the finest areas—companies like us are doing a lot of education,” Misty told me. “Our main strength is that our staff is all local. When they go to the villages and say, ‘Look guys, if you dynamite you’ll probably make 500 rupees for every 10 fish that you kill, but if
you get a job with Himalayan Outback, you stand a chance of making a lot more money,’ it really means something. Where we are operating, people are actually seeing the benefits.” So far, no detailed studies have been undertaken to track the results. But the condition of the rivers near outfitters’ fishing beats and rafting camps suggests that the scheme is working.
For our trip, my dad and I hiked about two hours into the Himalayan foothills of Himachal Pradesh to reach Misty’s fishing camp on a tributary of the Yamuna—a location that he wants to keep secret from his competitors. “It’s a fishing expedition in the real sense of the word, unlike, say, Alaska, where you’re flown into a remote section of river and you’re fishing out of a lodge,” he’d told me before I left. “Here, you’re trekking and experiencing a lot of local culture. It’s more of a real expedition.”
Even with porters carrying our gear, it was a pretty tough slog up and down the steep, narrow trail that the local villagers use to walk to the nearest road, and now and then I asked myself whether I had overestimated my dad’s physical limits. But Misty was right about the beauty of the place. The psychological fatigue of seven hours swerving around trucks, minicabs, and bullock carts on the Grand Trunk Road evaporated in the crisp air, and looking down at the snaking, green-and-blue river from the track, I made a mental note to escape the noise and dust of Delhi more
often. The year before, my dad and I had made a trip out to central Oregon to fish for trout on the Deschutes River; Misty’s “secret” tributary was just as beautiful.
The fishing camp was comfortable enough, if rustic. Accommodations were canvas, army-style tents large enough to stand up in. There was a shower tent with heated bucket water for bathing and another tent with a freshly dug latrine, a pile of dirt, and a shovel. No 400-threadcount sheets; no electricity. But the beds were soft enough that I never failed to get less than nine hours of sleep, completely dead to the world after the sun went down. We never had to lift a finger, and the camp staff looked after us as expertly as a moderatepriced Indian hotel. A cook equipped with a propane stove, two dogsbodies, and running water from a hose attached to a mountain spring a few hundred meters up the hill managed some fairly impressive culinary feats for the bush, though I will say that “continental” fare should be struck from the menu by all trekking, rafting, and fishing companies throughout India (as well as most hotels). Spaghetti bolognese was never meant to be hammered out of ground mutton and sprinkled with chips of goat bone.
The only problem was one frequently encountered on this sort of expedition: no fish. I’d been to the Ramganga River in April the year before—not for a fishing trip, unfortunately—and I’d seen entire schools of mahseer hunting in the shadows along the bank. No such luck this time; February to May is supposed to be a strong season, but the winter had been unusually long, and a week of sporadic rainstorms had lowered the water temperature even further. Despite our best efforts, fishing hard for four or five hours a day over the course of two days (one day was wasted as we hunkered down to weather a freezing drizzle, finally declaring it a write-off and returning to our sleeping bags), we never felt a tug, never glimpsed a ripple, and certainly never hooked a fish.
That’s probably why I agreed to cross the river, against my better judgment, even though I hadn’t thought to bring along a pair of wading shoes. As with all stupid decisions, I knew it was a mistake before I started out. But I blundered along anyway, and before long I was hip-deep in ice-cold water, dead certain that I was
doggedly turning my half-numb feet into hamburger. And I still didn’t get a nibble.
The only upside? When I finally hobbled back to camp, my miraculously unscathed feet
were toasty warm for the first time on the trip. Come to think of it, they were burning hot.
GETTING THERE
Most of the mahseer fishing camps in the Himalayan foothills are in Himachal Pradesh or Uttaranchal, a 7- to 10-hour drive from Delhi. For Himalayan Outback’s Camp Mahseer—the fishing spot featured in this article—the outfitters will meet guests at the New Delhi airport and travel with them by train (a comfortable three-hour trip
on the Shatabdi Express) to Ambala, from where you’ll travel another hour by car to the trailhead. From there, it’s about a 90-minute trek to the campsite; this takes you over some steep hills, so even with porters carrying your gear you need to be moderately fit.
WHEN TO GO
The official seasons for golden mahseer fishing are October– December and February–June, depending to some degree on the timing of the monsoon. Like salmon, the Himalayan mahseer migrates to spawn, traveling upriver once or twice a year, during which time they have little interest in feeding. The major migration takes place in
July and August, during the peak of the monsoon and snowmelt, when the rivers are at their highest levels. Weather-wise, February through early May is the most comfortable period for fishing.
FISHING OPTIONS
Himalayan Outback (91-987/ 280-6359; himalayanoutback.com) offers a six-day Classic
Fishing Adventure at Camp Mahseer, on its secret Yamuna tributary, from US$200 per
person per day, depending on the season. The outfitter can also arrange a variety of
different float trips on the Ganges, Yamuna, Alaknanda, Ramganga, and Mahakali rivers, ranging from 5 to 15 days.
Another reputable operator, Otter Reserves (91-124/256- 4794; otterreserves.com)
focuses on fishing beats in Pancheshwar (on India’s border with Nepal) and the Ramganga Valley, outside Corbett National Park in Uttaranchal. Camp conditions and offerings are similar to those offered by Himalayan Outback.
For more comfortable accommodations, consider Vanghat River Lodge (91-971/924-3939; vanghat.com; doubles from US$70 plus US$50 per day of fishing), which has five spacious cottages on the Ramganga River. –JO
By Jason Overdorf
DESTINASIAN (May 2008)
MY FEET MUST BE BLEEDING, I KEPT THINKING. I COULDN’T know for sure because I was wading barefoot across a freezing Himalayan river in my underwear, and Prahalad, my leather-soled fishing guide, wouldn’t stop long enough for me to check. But there was no turning back. I was in the middle of the river now, and I really, really wanted to catch one of the golden mahseer that I hoped to find on the opposite bank. Besides, Prahalad had a viselike grip on my hand. And he had my pants.
The mahseer (Hindi for “great fish”) has a storied reputation from the days of the Raj, when India’s British colonizers introduced sport fishing to the subcontinent. Jim Corbett, the famous hunter, considered wrestling the mahseer more exciting, even, than stalking man-eating leopards and tigers. And Rudyard Kipling went so far as to write that the mahseer was a game fish “beside whom the tarpon is as a herring, and he who lands him can say he is a fisherman.”
To Atlantic anglers, those are provocative words. But they’re not unfounded. The
mahseer is one of the world’s largest scaly freshwater fish, capable of growing more
than a meter long and weighing up to 90 kilograms—though the record for one taken
with rod and reel, set in 1946, is 54 kilos. A beautiful fish with green and gold scales the size of silver dollars, the mahseer bears a resemblance to the Chinese carp (a distant relative) and the prized tarpon. An opportunistic predator, the Himalayan variety will strike flies and spinning lures, as well as live bait. It hits like a ton of bricks and fights like hell, too—sometimes snapping an 18-kilo test line like it’s cotton string. The golden mahseer, found in the rivers of the
Himalayas, is swifter and lighter than the monstrous humpback mahseer of south
India’s Cauvery River. But experts say the golden mahseer is more aggressive. It’s also harder to catch. As dams mushroom in the Indian Himalayas and local villagers
empty the best pools, you have to trek deeper and deeper into tiger country to land one of these legendary fish.
This spring, I traveled from Delhi up the old Grand Trunk Road with my 64-year-old father to try to hook one. The trip was organized by Himalayan Outback, a three-year-old company started by a young Indian outfitter named Misty Dhillon, whom a number of graybearded mahseer fanatics have called “the future of Indian angling.” Compared with those of the United States, Europe, or even South America, India’s sport-fishing industry is virtually nonexistent. After the British left India, interest in sport
fishing waned, and a rapidly expanding—and hungry—population stripped the rivers of fish. Something of a revival began in 1977, when Britons Robert Howitt, Andrew Clark, and Martin Clark made a comprehensive survey of India’s rivers as part of their
so-called Transworld Fishing Expedition. A few years later, Howitt convinced the Indian government to protect a section of the Cauvery River from overzealous meat fishermen, giving rise to events like the Mahseer Maharaja World Cup and a steady influx of international anglers. But the golden mahseer of the Himalayas is only now starting to get the same kind of attention, and Misty Dhillon is a good part of the reason why. A quick Internet search on the mahseer shows that he’s written dozens of articles about fishing in the Himalayas, and doggedly farmed them out to every forum, Web site, and discussion board he could find. Today he’s one of a handful of Himalayan outfitters (perhaps the only one) who makes the lion’s share of his revenue from catch-and-release fishing.
“A lot of companies here say they’re angling specialists, but they really sustain their businesses through wildlife tours or rafting,” he says. “We’ve focused on angling, and all our clientele is pretty much angling right now.”
Misty is also leading an effort to prove that the golden mahseer, unlike its fat-bellied cousin down south, will take a fly. “People used to say that you can never catch this fish on a fly, but I believed that you could,” he says, adding that he began experimenting with his own fly lures a few years ago. “That was important, because fly fishermen are the ones who have the money and the passion to be able to afford to come to these wild areas. Now, pretty much all of our work is fly fishing.”
The survival of the golden mahseer could well be at stake. India is hard at work on dozens of hydroelectric projects in the Himalayas, and locals still fill their larders using dynamite, gill nets, bleaching powder, and truck batteries—practices that kill every fish in the water, big or small. As a result, the mahseer has already disappeared from waters in heavily populated areas like the Thumaria, Deoha, and Dhora reservoirs, according to a recent report by the Wildlife Institute of India.
Outfitters like Misty have so far proven to be the best defense. By leasing the fishing rights to sections of rivers like the Yamuna, Ramganga, Ganges, and Alaknanda, angling and rafting companies have assumed responsibility for curbing pollution and poaching. “In prime habitats—our clients want to go to the finest areas—companies like us are doing a lot of education,” Misty told me. “Our main strength is that our staff is all local. When they go to the villages and say, ‘Look guys, if you dynamite you’ll probably make 500 rupees for every 10 fish that you kill, but if
you get a job with Himalayan Outback, you stand a chance of making a lot more money,’ it really means something. Where we are operating, people are actually seeing the benefits.” So far, no detailed studies have been undertaken to track the results. But the condition of the rivers near outfitters’ fishing beats and rafting camps suggests that the scheme is working.
For our trip, my dad and I hiked about two hours into the Himalayan foothills of Himachal Pradesh to reach Misty’s fishing camp on a tributary of the Yamuna—a location that he wants to keep secret from his competitors. “It’s a fishing expedition in the real sense of the word, unlike, say, Alaska, where you’re flown into a remote section of river and you’re fishing out of a lodge,” he’d told me before I left. “Here, you’re trekking and experiencing a lot of local culture. It’s more of a real expedition.”
Even with porters carrying our gear, it was a pretty tough slog up and down the steep, narrow trail that the local villagers use to walk to the nearest road, and now and then I asked myself whether I had overestimated my dad’s physical limits. But Misty was right about the beauty of the place. The psychological fatigue of seven hours swerving around trucks, minicabs, and bullock carts on the Grand Trunk Road evaporated in the crisp air, and looking down at the snaking, green-and-blue river from the track, I made a mental note to escape the noise and dust of Delhi more
often. The year before, my dad and I had made a trip out to central Oregon to fish for trout on the Deschutes River; Misty’s “secret” tributary was just as beautiful.
The fishing camp was comfortable enough, if rustic. Accommodations were canvas, army-style tents large enough to stand up in. There was a shower tent with heated bucket water for bathing and another tent with a freshly dug latrine, a pile of dirt, and a shovel. No 400-threadcount sheets; no electricity. But the beds were soft enough that I never failed to get less than nine hours of sleep, completely dead to the world after the sun went down. We never had to lift a finger, and the camp staff looked after us as expertly as a moderatepriced Indian hotel. A cook equipped with a propane stove, two dogsbodies, and running water from a hose attached to a mountain spring a few hundred meters up the hill managed some fairly impressive culinary feats for the bush, though I will say that “continental” fare should be struck from the menu by all trekking, rafting, and fishing companies throughout India (as well as most hotels). Spaghetti bolognese was never meant to be hammered out of ground mutton and sprinkled with chips of goat bone.
The only problem was one frequently encountered on this sort of expedition: no fish. I’d been to the Ramganga River in April the year before—not for a fishing trip, unfortunately—and I’d seen entire schools of mahseer hunting in the shadows along the bank. No such luck this time; February to May is supposed to be a strong season, but the winter had been unusually long, and a week of sporadic rainstorms had lowered the water temperature even further. Despite our best efforts, fishing hard for four or five hours a day over the course of two days (one day was wasted as we hunkered down to weather a freezing drizzle, finally declaring it a write-off and returning to our sleeping bags), we never felt a tug, never glimpsed a ripple, and certainly never hooked a fish.
That’s probably why I agreed to cross the river, against my better judgment, even though I hadn’t thought to bring along a pair of wading shoes. As with all stupid decisions, I knew it was a mistake before I started out. But I blundered along anyway, and before long I was hip-deep in ice-cold water, dead certain that I was
doggedly turning my half-numb feet into hamburger. And I still didn’t get a nibble.
The only upside? When I finally hobbled back to camp, my miraculously unscathed feet
were toasty warm for the first time on the trip. Come to think of it, they were burning hot.
GETTING THERE
Most of the mahseer fishing camps in the Himalayan foothills are in Himachal Pradesh or Uttaranchal, a 7- to 10-hour drive from Delhi. For Himalayan Outback’s Camp Mahseer—the fishing spot featured in this article—the outfitters will meet guests at the New Delhi airport and travel with them by train (a comfortable three-hour trip
on the Shatabdi Express) to Ambala, from where you’ll travel another hour by car to the trailhead. From there, it’s about a 90-minute trek to the campsite; this takes you over some steep hills, so even with porters carrying your gear you need to be moderately fit.
WHEN TO GO
The official seasons for golden mahseer fishing are October– December and February–June, depending to some degree on the timing of the monsoon. Like salmon, the Himalayan mahseer migrates to spawn, traveling upriver once or twice a year, during which time they have little interest in feeding. The major migration takes place in
July and August, during the peak of the monsoon and snowmelt, when the rivers are at their highest levels. Weather-wise, February through early May is the most comfortable period for fishing.
FISHING OPTIONS
Himalayan Outback (91-987/ 280-6359; himalayanoutback.com) offers a six-day Classic
Fishing Adventure at Camp Mahseer, on its secret Yamuna tributary, from US$200 per
person per day, depending on the season. The outfitter can also arrange a variety of
different float trips on the Ganges, Yamuna, Alaknanda, Ramganga, and Mahakali rivers, ranging from 5 to 15 days.
Another reputable operator, Otter Reserves (91-124/256- 4794; otterreserves.com)
focuses on fishing beats in Pancheshwar (on India’s border with Nepal) and the Ramganga Valley, outside Corbett National Park in Uttaranchal. Camp conditions and offerings are similar to those offered by Himalayan Outback.
For more comfortable accommodations, consider Vanghat River Lodge (91-971/924-3939; vanghat.com; doubles from US$70 plus US$50 per day of fishing), which has five spacious cottages on the Ramganga River. –JO
Thursday, April 17, 2008
want a gun? get a vasectomy
JASON OVERDORF
Toronto Globe and Mail
(April 17, 2008)
SHIVPURI, India — Shivraj Singh already had three sons and a daughter, but what he really wanted next was a gun, so he got a vasectomy.
The 45-year-old Indian farmer is one of several men who recently took advantage of a creative population control program started in the gun-loving state of Madhya Pradesh. Under the scheme, men with vasectomy certificates can jump to the front of the waiting list for gun licences - so coveted around here that around 10,000 people apply every year even though fewer than 500 are awarded.
India, which has seen its population triple to 1.1 billion people since the 1940s, has long been striving to reduce the birth rate from the present five children per couple to 2.1. According to the Family Planning Association of India, sterilization is the country's most common form of birth control, but because of masculine pride, vasectomies are far less popular than female tubal ligations, even though the latter procedure is more fraught with complications.
"Among the uneducated, ladies think that if their husband gets the operation, then he might have trouble working," says Vimal Dwivedi, medical adviser to the FPA branch in Gwalior, the nearest large city. "And the men think that they might have problems with impotence."
Go under the knife, get a gun. Family planning officials in a remote part of India where everyone wants a gun have come up with novel way to promote vasectomies: You can't get a permit to fire bullets unless you get an operation to make sure you're shooting blanks. Photo by:
Enlarge Image
Go under the knife, get a gun. Family planning officials in a remote part of India where everyone wants a gun have come up with novel way to promote vasectomies: You can't get a permit to fire bullets unless you get an operation to make sure you're shooting blanks. Photo by: Jason Overdorf (Jason Overdorf/The Globe and Mail)
The Globe and Mail
Guns are helping to fight that ignorance. "Over the last eight years, the number of vasectomy operations has never crossed double digits," says Manish Srivastav, the 50-year-old district magistrate who came up with the guns for sterilization scheme. "Last year we had only eight, and the year before that just one." This year there were 174.
In rural, male-dominated societies such as Shivpuri, India's population has spiralled out of control because every family wants a son, and couples keep trying until they get one, sometimes resorting to selective abortions, which have brought the ratio of men to women down to 750 women for every 1,000 men in Shivpuri, well below the normal level of about 1,000 women for every 1050 men.
But the gun culture in this arid, rocky country, which adjoins a mazelike network of deep ravines called the Chambal River Valley, may be strong enough to overcome that. Gangs of bandits, known locally as dacoits, have preyed on the Chambal for centuries, robbing, killing and kidnapping villagers and townspeople, then disappearing into canyon hideouts.
Most are like Rambabu Gadaria, who was gunned down by police last year after a long reign of terror in Shivpuri. A ruthless kidnapper and extortionist whose unkempt beard fell past the third button of his shirt, he massacred 13 villagers who dared to oppose him in 2004.
In that atmosphere, self-defence is a strong motivator. "My village is near the forest, in an area that's infested with bandits," says Mr. Singh, who plans to buy a 12-gauge shotgun now that he's infertile.
Last year, a gang of bandits tramped out of the jungle while Mr. Singh was working in his field and stuck their homemade pistols and ancient shotguns in his face. He didn't have much cash, but they took the submersible pump he relied on to irrigate his crops and the motorized tiller he used to plow his fields.
Once they hear through the grapevine he has a gun, he says, they won't return.
But protection is only part of the reason firearms are popular here. Perhaps because of the romance associated with dacoits - sometimes viewed as proletariat rebels - or simply because a man's sense of his masculinity here is deeply tied to his ability to stand up for himself, owning a gun has also become a potent symbol of virility, power and izzat - or honour.
That is helping to encourage younger men to seek vasectomies, and to have the procedure before they have too many children.
"I'll march with my gun on my shoulder when I go to weddings and fire into the air to celebrate," says Devanand Sharma, who had the operation at just 26 after he'd had a son and a daughter. "People will look at me and think that I'm a big man. My honour will increase and I'll feel more important."
Special to The Globe and Mail
Toronto Globe and Mail
(April 17, 2008)
SHIVPURI, India — Shivraj Singh already had three sons and a daughter, but what he really wanted next was a gun, so he got a vasectomy.
The 45-year-old Indian farmer is one of several men who recently took advantage of a creative population control program started in the gun-loving state of Madhya Pradesh. Under the scheme, men with vasectomy certificates can jump to the front of the waiting list for gun licences - so coveted around here that around 10,000 people apply every year even though fewer than 500 are awarded.
India, which has seen its population triple to 1.1 billion people since the 1940s, has long been striving to reduce the birth rate from the present five children per couple to 2.1. According to the Family Planning Association of India, sterilization is the country's most common form of birth control, but because of masculine pride, vasectomies are far less popular than female tubal ligations, even though the latter procedure is more fraught with complications.
"Among the uneducated, ladies think that if their husband gets the operation, then he might have trouble working," says Vimal Dwivedi, medical adviser to the FPA branch in Gwalior, the nearest large city. "And the men think that they might have problems with impotence."
Go under the knife, get a gun. Family planning officials in a remote part of India where everyone wants a gun have come up with novel way to promote vasectomies: You can't get a permit to fire bullets unless you get an operation to make sure you're shooting blanks. Photo by:
Enlarge Image
Go under the knife, get a gun. Family planning officials in a remote part of India where everyone wants a gun have come up with novel way to promote vasectomies: You can't get a permit to fire bullets unless you get an operation to make sure you're shooting blanks. Photo by: Jason Overdorf (Jason Overdorf/The Globe and Mail)
The Globe and Mail
Guns are helping to fight that ignorance. "Over the last eight years, the number of vasectomy operations has never crossed double digits," says Manish Srivastav, the 50-year-old district magistrate who came up with the guns for sterilization scheme. "Last year we had only eight, and the year before that just one." This year there were 174.
In rural, male-dominated societies such as Shivpuri, India's population has spiralled out of control because every family wants a son, and couples keep trying until they get one, sometimes resorting to selective abortions, which have brought the ratio of men to women down to 750 women for every 1,000 men in Shivpuri, well below the normal level of about 1,000 women for every 1050 men.
But the gun culture in this arid, rocky country, which adjoins a mazelike network of deep ravines called the Chambal River Valley, may be strong enough to overcome that. Gangs of bandits, known locally as dacoits, have preyed on the Chambal for centuries, robbing, killing and kidnapping villagers and townspeople, then disappearing into canyon hideouts.
Most are like Rambabu Gadaria, who was gunned down by police last year after a long reign of terror in Shivpuri. A ruthless kidnapper and extortionist whose unkempt beard fell past the third button of his shirt, he massacred 13 villagers who dared to oppose him in 2004.
In that atmosphere, self-defence is a strong motivator. "My village is near the forest, in an area that's infested with bandits," says Mr. Singh, who plans to buy a 12-gauge shotgun now that he's infertile.
Last year, a gang of bandits tramped out of the jungle while Mr. Singh was working in his field and stuck their homemade pistols and ancient shotguns in his face. He didn't have much cash, but they took the submersible pump he relied on to irrigate his crops and the motorized tiller he used to plow his fields.
Once they hear through the grapevine he has a gun, he says, they won't return.
But protection is only part of the reason firearms are popular here. Perhaps because of the romance associated with dacoits - sometimes viewed as proletariat rebels - or simply because a man's sense of his masculinity here is deeply tied to his ability to stand up for himself, owning a gun has also become a potent symbol of virility, power and izzat - or honour.
That is helping to encourage younger men to seek vasectomies, and to have the procedure before they have too many children.
"I'll march with my gun on my shoulder when I go to weddings and fire into the air to celebrate," says Devanand Sharma, who had the operation at just 26 after he'd had a son and a daughter. "People will look at me and think that I'm a big man. My honour will increase and I'll feel more important."
Special to The Globe and Mail
Saturday, April 05, 2008
the negotiator
Kamal Nath has become not only the voice of India in trade circles, but an advocate of the developing world.
Jason Overdorf
Newsweek Web Exclusive
April 5, 2008
Kamal Nath is India's Minister of Commerce & Industry, a position that due to India's rising prominence in global trade—both as a coveted market and a growing power in agricultural and industrial production—makes him an important figure in international affairs. Since assuming office as commerce minister in 2004, he's become the voice of the globe's developing countries in World Trade Organization negotiations. He brings the same perspective to the World Economic Forum meetings in Davos and similar high-powered international conferences. He spoke with NEWSWEEK 's Jason Overdorf. Excerpts:
NEWSWEEK: What differences have you seen in the world's power elite, as represented by the attendees at Davos, the WTO negotiations, and similar events?
Kamal Nath: The constituents at the head table have changed. Where the WTO is concerned, the most important thing is that the manner of negotiations has changed. In the last round of the WTO, there were just 10-to-12 countries who got together, and the other countries never had a voice. It was decided by 12 countries, and everybody else had to fall in line. Today, in the consensus building process, developing countries have not only a voice, but a loud voice.
Why do you think that is?
With the changing global economic architecture, the mass of economic activity is shifting. At Davos, twenty years ago or even ten years ago, the invitees were mainly from the US and Europe, and it was for interaction between them. Today, many of those who are coming from Europe or the United States are coming for interaction with those from the East.
Do you also find that government actors are losing prominence and private actors are becoming bigger players?
As the GDP of countries—the growth of GDP in developing countries—gets more and more driven by the private sector, obviously the private sector assumes a voice which is pretty loud.
From your own agenda, I know you represent India, so that's obviously your main focus, but what else do you see as your role in these forums?
In these forums, it's not only the concerns of India, but the concerns of other developing countries also, which helps keeps the coordination among developing countries so that fragmentation does not happen.
You've emerged as one of the main negotiators for developing countries. Do you find that in these forums, forming relationships with the other attendees becomes very important in pushing your agenda forward?
A personal relationship is an important ingredient in negotiations, and there's an element of trust and greater sensitivity to fairness. And it can be very frank.
Apart from negotiating for the interests of the developing world in trade negotiations...
That is one part of my job. The other part has been really the India story—the investment story and the credibility of India. WTO is only one part, a very small part. For example, I went to Chicago for a trade policy meeting, and there were people there from agriculture, commerce, treasury. I asked them, how do you see the agriculture position globally. I know you share many views. How do you see agriculture in the world? And they said, you know we are very worried, we are thinking of putting reserve land in the US into agriculture.... These are things that are very important.
Now private players are playing a much more important role in shaping international policy, aren't they?
The biggest example is that every president or prime minister that comes to India is coming with a business delegation. He's coming with his trade minister, his industries minister—that's why I'm so stressed, because I'm the one who has to deal with it. Same thing with our prime minister. When he goes to another country, he goes with a trade delegation. It's an understanding that the business communitY are the players. The government can be the facilitator, but the players in economic growth are different. The government is only a facilitator and an enabler.
Does it raise concerns that the perspective of the poor will be lost in our rush to create more capital?
I don't think so. I think that the level of those who are in power think beyond their own profit. They also recognize that the growth of their economies and their country is necessary for the growth of their own company.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/130670
Jason Overdorf
Newsweek Web Exclusive
April 5, 2008
Kamal Nath is India's Minister of Commerce & Industry, a position that due to India's rising prominence in global trade—both as a coveted market and a growing power in agricultural and industrial production—makes him an important figure in international affairs. Since assuming office as commerce minister in 2004, he's become the voice of the globe's developing countries in World Trade Organization negotiations. He brings the same perspective to the World Economic Forum meetings in Davos and similar high-powered international conferences. He spoke with NEWSWEEK 's Jason Overdorf. Excerpts:
NEWSWEEK: What differences have you seen in the world's power elite, as represented by the attendees at Davos, the WTO negotiations, and similar events?
Kamal Nath: The constituents at the head table have changed. Where the WTO is concerned, the most important thing is that the manner of negotiations has changed. In the last round of the WTO, there were just 10-to-12 countries who got together, and the other countries never had a voice. It was decided by 12 countries, and everybody else had to fall in line. Today, in the consensus building process, developing countries have not only a voice, but a loud voice.
Why do you think that is?
With the changing global economic architecture, the mass of economic activity is shifting. At Davos, twenty years ago or even ten years ago, the invitees were mainly from the US and Europe, and it was for interaction between them. Today, many of those who are coming from Europe or the United States are coming for interaction with those from the East.
Do you also find that government actors are losing prominence and private actors are becoming bigger players?
As the GDP of countries—the growth of GDP in developing countries—gets more and more driven by the private sector, obviously the private sector assumes a voice which is pretty loud.
From your own agenda, I know you represent India, so that's obviously your main focus, but what else do you see as your role in these forums?
In these forums, it's not only the concerns of India, but the concerns of other developing countries also, which helps keeps the coordination among developing countries so that fragmentation does not happen.
You've emerged as one of the main negotiators for developing countries. Do you find that in these forums, forming relationships with the other attendees becomes very important in pushing your agenda forward?
A personal relationship is an important ingredient in negotiations, and there's an element of trust and greater sensitivity to fairness. And it can be very frank.
Apart from negotiating for the interests of the developing world in trade negotiations...
That is one part of my job. The other part has been really the India story—the investment story and the credibility of India. WTO is only one part, a very small part. For example, I went to Chicago for a trade policy meeting, and there were people there from agriculture, commerce, treasury. I asked them, how do you see the agriculture position globally. I know you share many views. How do you see agriculture in the world? And they said, you know we are very worried, we are thinking of putting reserve land in the US into agriculture.... These are things that are very important.
Now private players are playing a much more important role in shaping international policy, aren't they?
The biggest example is that every president or prime minister that comes to India is coming with a business delegation. He's coming with his trade minister, his industries minister—that's why I'm so stressed, because I'm the one who has to deal with it. Same thing with our prime minister. When he goes to another country, he goes with a trade delegation. It's an understanding that the business communitY are the players. The government can be the facilitator, but the players in economic growth are different. The government is only a facilitator and an enabler.
Does it raise concerns that the perspective of the poor will be lost in our rush to create more capital?
I don't think so. I think that the level of those who are in power think beyond their own profit. They also recognize that the growth of their economies and their country is necessary for the growth of their own company.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/130670
storm warning
The world could be one crop failure away from an actual food crisis. Market panic has already started.
By George Wehrfritz and Jason Overdorf
(Newsweek, April 5, 2008)
When all goes well, thunderheads tower above India's southwestern state of Kerala in early June, drenching the region's vital rice fields and ensuring a bountiful harvest. From there the summer monsoon plods northward to soak the baking plains and irrigate vital breadbasket regions that feed 1.1 billion people before arriving at the foot of the Himalayas in August. Forecasting this complex meteorological process has always been an obsession within India, but this year the world will be watching. Changes in the monsoon cycle can shrink India's total grain harvest by up to 20 percent, creating a shortfall of 30 million metric tons. During India's last crop failure, in 2002, the country had a massive reserve to fall back on. "Now," says Usha Tuteja, an agricultural economist at Delhi University, "we don't have enough buffer stocks to make up for one bad year."
India isn't the only danger zone today. A major storm battering the Philippines or Bangladesh at the wrong moment, a pest or plant-disease outbreak in Vietnam, or floods along China's Yangtze River like those that occurred in the mid-1990s would put serious strains on global grain reserves already depleted to levels not seen since the 1970s. Global markets are behaving as if a food shock is imminent.
In recent months the commodity prices of rice, wheat and corn has jumped 50 percent or more, pushing retail prices to levels unseen in a generation and prompting grain-exporting countries to curtail trade to suppress domestic inflation. On March 20, the World Food Program issued an emergency appeal for more funding to keep aid moving to the world's poorest countries. Last week World Bank president Robert Zoellick called for urgent global action on the part of rich nations "or many more people will suffer or starve."
Experts blame a variety of factors for today's food crunch. Poor harvests in Europe since 2005 and Australia's ongoing drought have crimped the pipeline of staple grains to world markets. Soaring demand for bio-fuels in response to $100-per-barrel oil is diverting crops. And the rise of Asia's twin giants—China and India—is turning them both into market-moving grain hogs. Add to that climate change and a decline in agricultural investment as a percentage of GDP worldwide, and there's little mystery to why food security is a pressing issue from Tokyo to Abidjan. "We're paying the price of complacency," says biologist Robert Zeigler, head of the Philippines-based International Rice Research Institute.
The immediate crisis is one of confidence. As governments with grain surpluses tighten their grip on reserves, countries that rely on imported staples are scrambling to secure supplies. Driven partly by speculation, commodities markets have seen the per-ton cost of rice, wheat and corn surge by 50 percent or more since mid-2007. There are real supply issues, to be sure. But experts blame governments that inhibit grain flows, speculators betting on price spikes and fearful consumers who buy 10 sacks instead of one at the local markets for making the problem worse than it needs to be. When the United Nations' World Food Program issued an "extraordinary emergency appeal" to fill a $500 million funding gap last month, executive director Josette Sheeran said it was the first ever issued over a "market-generated crisis."
Unfortunately the government response is making the market squeeze worse. Richard Barichello, an economist at the University of British Columbia, argues that countries that have recently slapped new controls on exports—including India, Vietnam, Egypt and Cambodia—are putting politics ahead of economics. "It's a beggar-thy-neighbor policy," he says, that reduces incentives for farmers to grow more and leads to black marketeering.
The underlying problem with global food supplies is stark. After spiking dramatically in the 1970s following the introduction of scientific farming techniques during the Green Revolution, crop yields are now rising by less than 1 percent per year, which is half the annual increase in worldwide demand for grain and well below global population growth, now at 1.3 percent. The problem was largely invisible until 2000, when poor Asian harvests and surging regional demand conspired to draw down global grain stocks from 37 percent to 17 percent of annual consumption in three years—erasing a surplus that took a decade to accumulate.
Today's shortage punishes poor nations disproportionately. In countries with low per capita incomes, food is often the largest single component of household spending—up to 80 percent, compared with just 15 percent for the average American or European family. On the United Nations' list of countries most vulnerable to food shocks (according to their demand for imported food), Indonesia, the Philippines and Bangladesh rank first, second and fourth, respectively—and China and India make the top 10 due to their huge populations of rural poor. As grain prices push higher, "a lot of people are going to be forced to tighten their belts when they don't have any notches left," says environmentalist Lester Brown, founder and president of the Earth Policy Institute in Washington. "The people who will be most affected are those who are on the lower rungs of the global economic ladder."
An emergency is now unfolding in what the United Nations calls "low-income food-deficit countries." Most are in Africa, including Congo, Sudan and Kenya. According to the U.N. Food and Agriculture Organization's latest forecast, those nations will import 2 percent fewer cereals in 2007-08 but pay 35 percent more for its food bill "for the second consecutive year." It warned that if the WFP did not receive emergency funding by May 1, it might be forced to cut back aid to 73 million people.
The crisis has put rural development back on the global agenda. "We're coming off 15 years of neglect in research, technological development and [infrastructure] investment in agriculture," says Zeigler, who advocates a second Green Revolution aimed at boosting crop yields above demand growth for grains. In a speech in Washington last week, Zoellick called for a "New Deal for Global Food Policy" and said the bank would nearly double loans for agricultural development to Africa. Mitigating the global food shortage is expected to dominate discussions at the World Bank and International Monetary Fund's spring meeting this week in Washington.
Poor countries are now vulnerable not because food is unavailable but because they can't afford it. "If in a country like India there is a monsoon failure or some crisis in agriculture, the global food situation will become very, very precarious," says Devinder Sharma, an agriculture analyst in New Delhi. With demand from India and China on global markets, he warns that "the world will not have any food grains left for anybody else." That's a theory nobody hopes will be tested any time soon. Which is why the monsoon skies over Kerala are worth watching closely this year.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/130641
By George Wehrfritz and Jason Overdorf
(Newsweek, April 5, 2008)
When all goes well, thunderheads tower above India's southwestern state of Kerala in early June, drenching the region's vital rice fields and ensuring a bountiful harvest. From there the summer monsoon plods northward to soak the baking plains and irrigate vital breadbasket regions that feed 1.1 billion people before arriving at the foot of the Himalayas in August. Forecasting this complex meteorological process has always been an obsession within India, but this year the world will be watching. Changes in the monsoon cycle can shrink India's total grain harvest by up to 20 percent, creating a shortfall of 30 million metric tons. During India's last crop failure, in 2002, the country had a massive reserve to fall back on. "Now," says Usha Tuteja, an agricultural economist at Delhi University, "we don't have enough buffer stocks to make up for one bad year."
India isn't the only danger zone today. A major storm battering the Philippines or Bangladesh at the wrong moment, a pest or plant-disease outbreak in Vietnam, or floods along China's Yangtze River like those that occurred in the mid-1990s would put serious strains on global grain reserves already depleted to levels not seen since the 1970s. Global markets are behaving as if a food shock is imminent.
In recent months the commodity prices of rice, wheat and corn has jumped 50 percent or more, pushing retail prices to levels unseen in a generation and prompting grain-exporting countries to curtail trade to suppress domestic inflation. On March 20, the World Food Program issued an emergency appeal for more funding to keep aid moving to the world's poorest countries. Last week World Bank president Robert Zoellick called for urgent global action on the part of rich nations "or many more people will suffer or starve."
Experts blame a variety of factors for today's food crunch. Poor harvests in Europe since 2005 and Australia's ongoing drought have crimped the pipeline of staple grains to world markets. Soaring demand for bio-fuels in response to $100-per-barrel oil is diverting crops. And the rise of Asia's twin giants—China and India—is turning them both into market-moving grain hogs. Add to that climate change and a decline in agricultural investment as a percentage of GDP worldwide, and there's little mystery to why food security is a pressing issue from Tokyo to Abidjan. "We're paying the price of complacency," says biologist Robert Zeigler, head of the Philippines-based International Rice Research Institute.
The immediate crisis is one of confidence. As governments with grain surpluses tighten their grip on reserves, countries that rely on imported staples are scrambling to secure supplies. Driven partly by speculation, commodities markets have seen the per-ton cost of rice, wheat and corn surge by 50 percent or more since mid-2007. There are real supply issues, to be sure. But experts blame governments that inhibit grain flows, speculators betting on price spikes and fearful consumers who buy 10 sacks instead of one at the local markets for making the problem worse than it needs to be. When the United Nations' World Food Program issued an "extraordinary emergency appeal" to fill a $500 million funding gap last month, executive director Josette Sheeran said it was the first ever issued over a "market-generated crisis."
Unfortunately the government response is making the market squeeze worse. Richard Barichello, an economist at the University of British Columbia, argues that countries that have recently slapped new controls on exports—including India, Vietnam, Egypt and Cambodia—are putting politics ahead of economics. "It's a beggar-thy-neighbor policy," he says, that reduces incentives for farmers to grow more and leads to black marketeering.
The underlying problem with global food supplies is stark. After spiking dramatically in the 1970s following the introduction of scientific farming techniques during the Green Revolution, crop yields are now rising by less than 1 percent per year, which is half the annual increase in worldwide demand for grain and well below global population growth, now at 1.3 percent. The problem was largely invisible until 2000, when poor Asian harvests and surging regional demand conspired to draw down global grain stocks from 37 percent to 17 percent of annual consumption in three years—erasing a surplus that took a decade to accumulate.
Today's shortage punishes poor nations disproportionately. In countries with low per capita incomes, food is often the largest single component of household spending—up to 80 percent, compared with just 15 percent for the average American or European family. On the United Nations' list of countries most vulnerable to food shocks (according to their demand for imported food), Indonesia, the Philippines and Bangladesh rank first, second and fourth, respectively—and China and India make the top 10 due to their huge populations of rural poor. As grain prices push higher, "a lot of people are going to be forced to tighten their belts when they don't have any notches left," says environmentalist Lester Brown, founder and president of the Earth Policy Institute in Washington. "The people who will be most affected are those who are on the lower rungs of the global economic ladder."
An emergency is now unfolding in what the United Nations calls "low-income food-deficit countries." Most are in Africa, including Congo, Sudan and Kenya. According to the U.N. Food and Agriculture Organization's latest forecast, those nations will import 2 percent fewer cereals in 2007-08 but pay 35 percent more for its food bill "for the second consecutive year." It warned that if the WFP did not receive emergency funding by May 1, it might be forced to cut back aid to 73 million people.
The crisis has put rural development back on the global agenda. "We're coming off 15 years of neglect in research, technological development and [infrastructure] investment in agriculture," says Zeigler, who advocates a second Green Revolution aimed at boosting crop yields above demand growth for grains. In a speech in Washington last week, Zoellick called for a "New Deal for Global Food Policy" and said the bank would nearly double loans for agricultural development to Africa. Mitigating the global food shortage is expected to dominate discussions at the World Bank and International Monetary Fund's spring meeting this week in Washington.
Poor countries are now vulnerable not because food is unavailable but because they can't afford it. "If in a country like India there is a monsoon failure or some crisis in agriculture, the global food situation will become very, very precarious," says Devinder Sharma, an agriculture analyst in New Delhi. With demand from India and China on global markets, he warns that "the world will not have any food grains left for anybody else." That's a theory nobody hopes will be tested any time soon. Which is why the monsoon skies over Kerala are worth watching closely this year.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/130641
Saturday, February 16, 2008
small. it's the new big.
Poor countries are getting rich, gas costs are rising and our planet is heating up. The result: a new breed of 21st-century cars that are cooler, cheaper and more compact than ever.
By Keith Naughton
NEWSWEEK
Updated: 11:39 AM ET Feb 16, 2008
When gas prices shot up last summer, Millie Richardson had had it with her minivan. So the Lawrenceville, New Jersey, mom traded in her Dodge Caravan for a $17,000 Nissan Versa, a subcompact car that gets more than 30 miles per gallon. Richardson, 55, likes spending less at the pump, but she's most excited about how roomy her little car is. "My son is 6 foot 6, and he drove it," she marvels. "So it's small, but it's big—does that make sense?" What makes even more sense to Richardson, though, is this $2,500 car she's heard about that was introduced in India last month: the Tata Nano. Though there are no plans yet to bring it to America, Richardson is ready when they do. "Oh, boy, would I ever love to drive one," she says. "I would look at it as a disposable car. We have so many things in our lives now that are disposable—why not disposable cars? It would be so cheap, you could always afford a new one."
Around the automotive world, small is the new big. Driven by growing earning power in emerging markets, and rising gasoline prices and global-warming concerns in developed countries, small-car sales are hitting high gear. By 2012, forecasters expect consumers around the world to buy a record 38 million small cars annually, up 65 percent from a decade earlier. In Western Europe, the market for microcars—the tiniest runabouts on the road—is projected to rise nearly 50 percent by 2011 from 2004 levels. Even in the United States, land of the large, sales of small cars are expected to grow 25 percent by 2012 to a record 3.4 million, while SUVs and pickup trucks continue to tank. Last year subcompact sales soared 33.7 percent in the United States, driven by hot sellers like the tiny Toyota Yaris and the Mini Cooper. And Daimler had 30,000 orders in hand before it even launched its three-meter-long Smart Fortwo model in the U.S. last month. "This is not a fad," says Smart USA president Dave Schembri. "It's a trend."
But the car generating the most buzz hasn't even hit the road yet: the Nano. A car for the price of a laptop computer is transformational. Before it even goes on sale later this year, the Nano is changing the rules of the road for the auto industry and society itself. Millions of emerging-market commuters can now own four-wheel transportation, creating unheard-of mobility for the masses. But the Nano and its expected rivals will also lead to more traffic congestion, more global warming, more highway fatalities and more demand for oil. As the world approaches 1 billion vehicles on the road, the Nano and its ilk raise a daunting prospect for society: global gridlock. If the rest of the world begins buying cars at the same rate as America, the global parking lot will swell to 5.6 billion vehicles, figures Sean McAlinden of the Center for Auto Research in Ann Arbor, Michigan. "The Nano is the 21st-century equivalent of the Model T," says Global Insight auto analyst John Wolkonowicz. "The Nano will put the Third World on wheels, and that will have far-reaching implications. It's going to affect every citizen of the world."
It's already shaking up the industry. All the major car companies dispatched teams to the New Delhi Motor Show in January to snap photos and build a dossier on the new Nano. The little car from India could lead to an overhaul in the global auto industry, which was always geared to earn big profits from big cars. Now the car czars will have to learn to make a business out of selling lots of little cars that make less money, instead of relying on big rigs to make most of their money. Detroit is going through a wrenching overhaul as it retools its product line to offer more small gas sippers and fewer big guzzlers. General Motors, which last week reported a record $38.7 billion loss for 2007, can't make money at home, but turns a tidy profit in Asia selling smaller cars. "The whole story in the auto industry today is that the profits are shifting to the developing markets," says Renault- Nissan CEO Carlos Ghosn, who is working with the Indian motorcycle maker Bajaj to try to develop a $3,000 car to go against the Nano. "I'm very bullish on the $3,000 car. We're not trying to do it in Japan or Paris; we're asking Bajaj to do it. We don't know how to do a car like this, but for them it's a natural evolution."
Consumers see it as natural, too. A new generation, weaned on mini mobile phones and iPods, equates small with high tech, not cheap. "For the first time in the history of the auto industry, we have a generation that's connected globally," says J. Mays, chief designer for Ford Motor Co., which in 2010 will begin importing its stylish Fiesta subcompact from Europe. "They see an iPod or a Nokia phone or a $1,200 woman's handbag and think, 'Just because it's small doesn't mean it can't be fantastic'."
This is where the West parts company with the Nano. Today's car buyers in developed nations expect small cars to have all the accouterments they enjoyed in their XL rides. The hot-selling Mini Cooper is a prime example: sporty and stylish, it's loaded with luxurious items like a 10-speaker stereo, leather seats and an optional voice-activated navigation system, and it's priced accordingly. The well-appointed new Mini Clubman S starts at $24,600—or roughly the price of 10 Nanos. "People like the Mini Cooper because it's so well designed and well equipped; there's nothing spartan about it," says Mini U.S. chief Jim McDowell. "I don't think American consumers are looking for a car with less safety features and fewer windshield wipers."
Indeed, the Nano, which has only one windshield wiper, has more in common with the bare-bones econo-boxes that baby boomers drove during the '70s energy crisis. The children of the boomers wouldn't know what to make of a car like that. "To Gen Y kids, something without power windows or door locks is not a real car," says Jim Lentz, president of Toyota's U.S. sales arm. "Most wouldn't know what this crank thing in the door does. It's like a rotary phone."
What this new generation does get is small as a way to reduce its carbon car-print. After all, these little runabouts are powered by tiny engines that burn less gasoline and spew fewer greenhouse gases. The irony, though, is that as millions of small cars clog the planet, they'll only add to global warming and increase demand for oil. GM chairman Rick Wagoner recently warned that the world is already consuming 1,000 barrels of oil per second, and demand is on track to rise 70 percent more by 2030. The motorization of emerging economies is driving that demand. By 2015, 100 million households in the developing world will be able to afford cars priced between the Nano and the $6,000 Renault Logan, predicts the Boston Consulting Group. Governments are already grappling with how to put the brakes on runaway energy use. In the United States, George W. Bush just signed legislation that will boost mandatory mileage on new cars to an average of 35mpg by 2020, up from about 25mpg today. In Europe, regulators are looking at requiring cars to reduce emissions of carbon dioxide (the prime global-warming gas) by up to 25 percent by 2012.
But the West can enact all the green-leaning laws it wants. That won't stop the emerging world's yearning for the freedom of the open road. And that growing automotive appetite could create a climate calamity, environmentalists warn. "Even if they are very clean cars, collectively it will lead to emissions that will only add to local pollution," Indian climatologist Rajendra K. Pachauri tells NEWSWEEK. Pachauri, chairman of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change—which shared the Nobel Peace Prize with Al Gore last year—is critical of the climate consequences of the Nano: "Before we unleash this kind of animal on the streets of India, we ought to explore the public-transportation options." To rein in car ownership, Pachauri suggests that drivers pay a carbon toll to gain access to the roads. The Nano, he says, "is clearly a carbon-intensive option. We need to impose a price on that carbon."
Others hope the rise of the small car in emerging economies will accelerate alternative-fuel vehicles elsewhere. "We'll be driving $40,000 electric vehicles or hydrogen-powered cars while people in India and China are using the remaining gasoline," says Wolkonowicz. "This push for alternate-fuel vehicles in the developed world is not coming a moment too soon, because the motorization of the Third World is coming at a very rapid pace."
That came clearly into focus when Indian motor mogul Ratan Tata upstaged the Detroit Auto Show by rolling out his "people's car" in New Delhi on Jan. 10. Introducing his car to the theme from "2001: A Space Odyssey," Tata hyped its "disruptive innovation" as the equivalent of the Wright brothers' first flight. At first glance, the stubby little car doesn't look like much: no radio or air conditioning, a top speed of about 95 kilometers per hour and a motorcycle-like engine. What has captured the world's attention is the Nano's spartan simplicity. There are no tubes in the tires, to save weight and money. To ease assembly, body panels are glued instead of welded. The wheels are hooked onto the body in a fashion that one rival compared to a child's little red wagon. "We look closely at anything we regard as a breakthrough," says GM product-planning VP John Smith, with photos and diagrams of the Nano spread out in his Detroit office. "You can look at these, but I can't let you have them."
Rivals eager to develop their own low-cost small cars find they simply can't look away from the Nano, even as they dismiss it as far too crude for Western tastes. "It's not so much the vehicle itself," says Chrysler trend watcher Steve Bartoli, "it's the thought process that went into it that's more provocative." Until Tata rolled out his new model, nobody believed anyone could produce a $2,500 car. Now they're jumping on the Nano wagon. Chrysler is looking at developing a racy little car called the Dodge Hornet with China's Chery Automobile. GM vice chairman Bob Lutz says his company could engineer a Nano competitor with its Chinese partner Wuling. And GM is already working on a new car that would rival Renault's $6,000 Logan, says Smith. In fact, GM recently canceled plans for a new line of big V-8 engines and is pouring that money into developing small cars. "We're spending a lot of money on the low end of the business," says Smith.
Europeans are following suit. Coming soon is Volkswagen's Up!, a funky four-seater that's about three and a half meters long. Last year, Fiat launched a remake of the classic Cinquecento (a.k.a. the Fiat 500). Peugeot already offers its tiny 107 city car, developed with Toyota, which sells a similar model called the Aygo (as in "I go"). On the high end, BMW is launching its diminutive 1 Series sedan in the United States starting at $29,375, making it the smallest Beemer on U.S. highways. "We are at a crossroads," says consultant Peter Schmidt of Automotive Industry Data in Britain. "An increasing proportion of the car-buying public has discovered a conscience."
One key country hasn't bought into small-is-cool: China. SUV sales rose 51 percent in China last year, big Buicks and VWs are all the rage and small cars go begging. Ratan Tata predicted that an automaker in China would be the first to match the Nano's $2,500 price, but analysts doubt that. "In China, image is more important than function," says China auto analyst Michael Dunne of J.D. Power and Associates. "Nobody wants to be seen on the bottom of the totem pole."
The biggest roadblock facing small cars is fear about safety. Chery's QQ suffered a PR setback when a video circulated on YouTube of a horrific crash in which the tiny car was crushed between two buses and the driver burned to death. A NEWSWEEK REPORTER TEST-drove a Chevy Aveo subcompact in Detroit last week and felt dwarfed by the SUVs. U.S. statistics on highway fatalities show the smallest cars have death rates 2.5 times higher than the biggest cars. In Europe, small cars, which are driven mostly at slower speeds in cities, have lower death rates, but are in more crashes than big cars. "It comes down to physics," says Adrian Lund, president of the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety. "If you're in a smaller vehicle out there, you're at greater risk."
To overcome small-car phobia, automakers are working to burnish their safety bona fides. In every Smart car showroom in the United States, for example, you'll find the car's reinforced steel skeleton on display. Called its "tridion cell," the steel cage protects occupants in a crash. The sales staff also shows prospective buyers violent crash-test videos and talks up the car's four airbags and electronic stability control. "In America," says Smart USA president Schembri, "you have to address this issue."
The more features automakers can stuff into small cars—be they safety, style or stereos—the better for the bottom line. This is the formula Japan and Europe have used to develop a lucrative small-car market. Typically, an automaker earns about a 5 percent profit on a car. That comes to about $125 on a Nano, $1,250 on a Mini Cooper or, better yet, $2,000 or more on a BMW 1 Series convertible. Putting premium-priced mileage misers on the road could help save the planet without bankrupting the world's automakers. The problem comes in convincing drivers in America and China—the world's two largest auto markets—that they should pay more for less. "Space and weight equal value for most buyers" in America and China, says analyst McAlinden. "It's a dollar-per-pound concept."
We may like to think that the recent spike in small-car sales is driven by altruism. But auto execs says it's a pocketbook issue: U.S. gas prices doubled this decade, and Western Europe is now paying about $2 per liter, up nearly 25 cents from just two years ago. "The worst thing that could happen to us now is if gas prices fell back, because that would take the pressure off," says Ford executive chairman Bill Ford Jr. "We've all started down this path now." And there's no turning back. Forecasters predict oil prices, global warming and emerging-market desire for cars will continue to rise. As long as those factors drive demand, small cars will rule the road.
--with Jason Overdorf in New Delhi
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/112729
By Keith Naughton
NEWSWEEK
Updated: 11:39 AM ET Feb 16, 2008
When gas prices shot up last summer, Millie Richardson had had it with her minivan. So the Lawrenceville, New Jersey, mom traded in her Dodge Caravan for a $17,000 Nissan Versa, a subcompact car that gets more than 30 miles per gallon. Richardson, 55, likes spending less at the pump, but she's most excited about how roomy her little car is. "My son is 6 foot 6, and he drove it," she marvels. "So it's small, but it's big—does that make sense?" What makes even more sense to Richardson, though, is this $2,500 car she's heard about that was introduced in India last month: the Tata Nano. Though there are no plans yet to bring it to America, Richardson is ready when they do. "Oh, boy, would I ever love to drive one," she says. "I would look at it as a disposable car. We have so many things in our lives now that are disposable—why not disposable cars? It would be so cheap, you could always afford a new one."
Around the automotive world, small is the new big. Driven by growing earning power in emerging markets, and rising gasoline prices and global-warming concerns in developed countries, small-car sales are hitting high gear. By 2012, forecasters expect consumers around the world to buy a record 38 million small cars annually, up 65 percent from a decade earlier. In Western Europe, the market for microcars—the tiniest runabouts on the road—is projected to rise nearly 50 percent by 2011 from 2004 levels. Even in the United States, land of the large, sales of small cars are expected to grow 25 percent by 2012 to a record 3.4 million, while SUVs and pickup trucks continue to tank. Last year subcompact sales soared 33.7 percent in the United States, driven by hot sellers like the tiny Toyota Yaris and the Mini Cooper. And Daimler had 30,000 orders in hand before it even launched its three-meter-long Smart Fortwo model in the U.S. last month. "This is not a fad," says Smart USA president Dave Schembri. "It's a trend."
But the car generating the most buzz hasn't even hit the road yet: the Nano. A car for the price of a laptop computer is transformational. Before it even goes on sale later this year, the Nano is changing the rules of the road for the auto industry and society itself. Millions of emerging-market commuters can now own four-wheel transportation, creating unheard-of mobility for the masses. But the Nano and its expected rivals will also lead to more traffic congestion, more global warming, more highway fatalities and more demand for oil. As the world approaches 1 billion vehicles on the road, the Nano and its ilk raise a daunting prospect for society: global gridlock. If the rest of the world begins buying cars at the same rate as America, the global parking lot will swell to 5.6 billion vehicles, figures Sean McAlinden of the Center for Auto Research in Ann Arbor, Michigan. "The Nano is the 21st-century equivalent of the Model T," says Global Insight auto analyst John Wolkonowicz. "The Nano will put the Third World on wheels, and that will have far-reaching implications. It's going to affect every citizen of the world."
It's already shaking up the industry. All the major car companies dispatched teams to the New Delhi Motor Show in January to snap photos and build a dossier on the new Nano. The little car from India could lead to an overhaul in the global auto industry, which was always geared to earn big profits from big cars. Now the car czars will have to learn to make a business out of selling lots of little cars that make less money, instead of relying on big rigs to make most of their money. Detroit is going through a wrenching overhaul as it retools its product line to offer more small gas sippers and fewer big guzzlers. General Motors, which last week reported a record $38.7 billion loss for 2007, can't make money at home, but turns a tidy profit in Asia selling smaller cars. "The whole story in the auto industry today is that the profits are shifting to the developing markets," says Renault- Nissan CEO Carlos Ghosn, who is working with the Indian motorcycle maker Bajaj to try to develop a $3,000 car to go against the Nano. "I'm very bullish on the $3,000 car. We're not trying to do it in Japan or Paris; we're asking Bajaj to do it. We don't know how to do a car like this, but for them it's a natural evolution."
Consumers see it as natural, too. A new generation, weaned on mini mobile phones and iPods, equates small with high tech, not cheap. "For the first time in the history of the auto industry, we have a generation that's connected globally," says J. Mays, chief designer for Ford Motor Co., which in 2010 will begin importing its stylish Fiesta subcompact from Europe. "They see an iPod or a Nokia phone or a $1,200 woman's handbag and think, 'Just because it's small doesn't mean it can't be fantastic'."
This is where the West parts company with the Nano. Today's car buyers in developed nations expect small cars to have all the accouterments they enjoyed in their XL rides. The hot-selling Mini Cooper is a prime example: sporty and stylish, it's loaded with luxurious items like a 10-speaker stereo, leather seats and an optional voice-activated navigation system, and it's priced accordingly. The well-appointed new Mini Clubman S starts at $24,600—or roughly the price of 10 Nanos. "People like the Mini Cooper because it's so well designed and well equipped; there's nothing spartan about it," says Mini U.S. chief Jim McDowell. "I don't think American consumers are looking for a car with less safety features and fewer windshield wipers."
Indeed, the Nano, which has only one windshield wiper, has more in common with the bare-bones econo-boxes that baby boomers drove during the '70s energy crisis. The children of the boomers wouldn't know what to make of a car like that. "To Gen Y kids, something without power windows or door locks is not a real car," says Jim Lentz, president of Toyota's U.S. sales arm. "Most wouldn't know what this crank thing in the door does. It's like a rotary phone."
What this new generation does get is small as a way to reduce its carbon car-print. After all, these little runabouts are powered by tiny engines that burn less gasoline and spew fewer greenhouse gases. The irony, though, is that as millions of small cars clog the planet, they'll only add to global warming and increase demand for oil. GM chairman Rick Wagoner recently warned that the world is already consuming 1,000 barrels of oil per second, and demand is on track to rise 70 percent more by 2030. The motorization of emerging economies is driving that demand. By 2015, 100 million households in the developing world will be able to afford cars priced between the Nano and the $6,000 Renault Logan, predicts the Boston Consulting Group. Governments are already grappling with how to put the brakes on runaway energy use. In the United States, George W. Bush just signed legislation that will boost mandatory mileage on new cars to an average of 35mpg by 2020, up from about 25mpg today. In Europe, regulators are looking at requiring cars to reduce emissions of carbon dioxide (the prime global-warming gas) by up to 25 percent by 2012.
But the West can enact all the green-leaning laws it wants. That won't stop the emerging world's yearning for the freedom of the open road. And that growing automotive appetite could create a climate calamity, environmentalists warn. "Even if they are very clean cars, collectively it will lead to emissions that will only add to local pollution," Indian climatologist Rajendra K. Pachauri tells NEWSWEEK. Pachauri, chairman of the Intergovernmental Panel on Climate Change—which shared the Nobel Peace Prize with Al Gore last year—is critical of the climate consequences of the Nano: "Before we unleash this kind of animal on the streets of India, we ought to explore the public-transportation options." To rein in car ownership, Pachauri suggests that drivers pay a carbon toll to gain access to the roads. The Nano, he says, "is clearly a carbon-intensive option. We need to impose a price on that carbon."
Others hope the rise of the small car in emerging economies will accelerate alternative-fuel vehicles elsewhere. "We'll be driving $40,000 electric vehicles or hydrogen-powered cars while people in India and China are using the remaining gasoline," says Wolkonowicz. "This push for alternate-fuel vehicles in the developed world is not coming a moment too soon, because the motorization of the Third World is coming at a very rapid pace."
That came clearly into focus when Indian motor mogul Ratan Tata upstaged the Detroit Auto Show by rolling out his "people's car" in New Delhi on Jan. 10. Introducing his car to the theme from "2001: A Space Odyssey," Tata hyped its "disruptive innovation" as the equivalent of the Wright brothers' first flight. At first glance, the stubby little car doesn't look like much: no radio or air conditioning, a top speed of about 95 kilometers per hour and a motorcycle-like engine. What has captured the world's attention is the Nano's spartan simplicity. There are no tubes in the tires, to save weight and money. To ease assembly, body panels are glued instead of welded. The wheels are hooked onto the body in a fashion that one rival compared to a child's little red wagon. "We look closely at anything we regard as a breakthrough," says GM product-planning VP John Smith, with photos and diagrams of the Nano spread out in his Detroit office. "You can look at these, but I can't let you have them."
Rivals eager to develop their own low-cost small cars find they simply can't look away from the Nano, even as they dismiss it as far too crude for Western tastes. "It's not so much the vehicle itself," says Chrysler trend watcher Steve Bartoli, "it's the thought process that went into it that's more provocative." Until Tata rolled out his new model, nobody believed anyone could produce a $2,500 car. Now they're jumping on the Nano wagon. Chrysler is looking at developing a racy little car called the Dodge Hornet with China's Chery Automobile. GM vice chairman Bob Lutz says his company could engineer a Nano competitor with its Chinese partner Wuling. And GM is already working on a new car that would rival Renault's $6,000 Logan, says Smith. In fact, GM recently canceled plans for a new line of big V-8 engines and is pouring that money into developing small cars. "We're spending a lot of money on the low end of the business," says Smith.
Europeans are following suit. Coming soon is Volkswagen's Up!, a funky four-seater that's about three and a half meters long. Last year, Fiat launched a remake of the classic Cinquecento (a.k.a. the Fiat 500). Peugeot already offers its tiny 107 city car, developed with Toyota, which sells a similar model called the Aygo (as in "I go"). On the high end, BMW is launching its diminutive 1 Series sedan in the United States starting at $29,375, making it the smallest Beemer on U.S. highways. "We are at a crossroads," says consultant Peter Schmidt of Automotive Industry Data in Britain. "An increasing proportion of the car-buying public has discovered a conscience."
One key country hasn't bought into small-is-cool: China. SUV sales rose 51 percent in China last year, big Buicks and VWs are all the rage and small cars go begging. Ratan Tata predicted that an automaker in China would be the first to match the Nano's $2,500 price, but analysts doubt that. "In China, image is more important than function," says China auto analyst Michael Dunne of J.D. Power and Associates. "Nobody wants to be seen on the bottom of the totem pole."
The biggest roadblock facing small cars is fear about safety. Chery's QQ suffered a PR setback when a video circulated on YouTube of a horrific crash in which the tiny car was crushed between two buses and the driver burned to death. A NEWSWEEK REPORTER TEST-drove a Chevy Aveo subcompact in Detroit last week and felt dwarfed by the SUVs. U.S. statistics on highway fatalities show the smallest cars have death rates 2.5 times higher than the biggest cars. In Europe, small cars, which are driven mostly at slower speeds in cities, have lower death rates, but are in more crashes than big cars. "It comes down to physics," says Adrian Lund, president of the Insurance Institute for Highway Safety. "If you're in a smaller vehicle out there, you're at greater risk."
To overcome small-car phobia, automakers are working to burnish their safety bona fides. In every Smart car showroom in the United States, for example, you'll find the car's reinforced steel skeleton on display. Called its "tridion cell," the steel cage protects occupants in a crash. The sales staff also shows prospective buyers violent crash-test videos and talks up the car's four airbags and electronic stability control. "In America," says Smart USA president Schembri, "you have to address this issue."
The more features automakers can stuff into small cars—be they safety, style or stereos—the better for the bottom line. This is the formula Japan and Europe have used to develop a lucrative small-car market. Typically, an automaker earns about a 5 percent profit on a car. That comes to about $125 on a Nano, $1,250 on a Mini Cooper or, better yet, $2,000 or more on a BMW 1 Series convertible. Putting premium-priced mileage misers on the road could help save the planet without bankrupting the world's automakers. The problem comes in convincing drivers in America and China—the world's two largest auto markets—that they should pay more for less. "Space and weight equal value for most buyers" in America and China, says analyst McAlinden. "It's a dollar-per-pound concept."
We may like to think that the recent spike in small-car sales is driven by altruism. But auto execs says it's a pocketbook issue: U.S. gas prices doubled this decade, and Western Europe is now paying about $2 per liter, up nearly 25 cents from just two years ago. "The worst thing that could happen to us now is if gas prices fell back, because that would take the pressure off," says Ford executive chairman Bill Ford Jr. "We've all started down this path now." And there's no turning back. Forecasters predict oil prices, global warming and emerging-market desire for cars will continue to rise. As long as those factors drive demand, small cars will rule the road.
--with Jason Overdorf in New Delhi
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/112729
Saturday, February 09, 2008
jewels in their crown
Indian investors have pulled a post-colonial table turn, snapping up some of Britain's best brands.
By William Underhill
NEWSWEEK
Updated: 12:02 PM ET Feb 9, 2008
A recent Indian TV commercial for a mouth-freshening chew provides surprising insight into the business climate on the Subcontinent. The scene is modern-day London, and a young Indian tycoon passes a billboard for the East India Company, the giant British trading firm that dominated India's fortunes for almost 200 years. His immediate reaction: buy the company (in hopes of enticing aspirational Indians to buy the product, as well).
If the East India Company was still around, it's likely an Indian firm would be looking into an acquisition. Flush with cash, corporate India is on an investment spree, and Britain, the old colonial master, last year became the favorite target. Indian investment in Britain has more than doubled in the past three years, surpassing the U.K.'s own investment into India. Indians are now the second-biggest investors in London—home to 19 percent of the national economy—topped only by acquisitive Americans. "I don't think that even 20 years ago anyone would have visualized this," says Subir Gokam, chief economist at the Indian ratings agency Crisil. "We'd still have been imagining ourselves as a Third World country subordinate to the U.S., Britain and everyone else."
On a mission to India last month Prime Minister Gordon Brown spoke of a new "partnership of equals," one that the British hope will include freer trade with India, which despite its stellar growth, can still look more protectionist than peers such as China. While the only headline-making British buy in India last year was Vodafone's $11 billion purchase of a controlling stake in the Indian cell-phone outfit Hutchison Essar, Indian businesses have been snapping up a clutch of iconic British brands, including Tetley, Whyte & Mackay whisky, and Corus, a last fragment of British Steel, acquired by Tata last year for $12 billion. For good measure, Tata now looks set to take carmakers Jaguar and Land Rover off the hands of Ford.
Meanwhile, India's superrich flock to buy expat homes in the poshest areas of London. According to estate agent Savills, which staged its first road show in India last year, in 2007 Indian buyers bought more than 10 percent of London properties sold for £4 million or more, topping even the Russians.
The attraction to Britain has little to do with post-colonial revenge. Start with the presence of at least 1.3 million residents of Indian descent, a shared legal system and familiar language. And Britain is unusually open to big acquisitions by foreigners, of all nationalities. Indian-born steel baron Lakshmi Mittal ran into a firestorm of local criticism when he set out to acquire the French steelmaker Arcelor in 2006. In Britain, the Indian purchase of Corus passed almost without comment. "The relationship has never been better," says Alan Rosling, a director of India's multinational Tata Sons: "As an investor from India there are few places as open, as welcoming and as hassle-free for investing as Britain."
And that's the rub. If Britain is open to foreign investors, India remains decidedly cautious. Legal hurdles to foreign investment remain highest in key sectors like financial services or retailing, where British companies are strongest.
Gordon Brown may be trying to encourage better bilateral trade relations with political carrots, such as emphatic support for a permanent seat for India on the U.N. Security Council. But with elections due within the next 15 months, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh is unlikely to push through contentious reforms. "Change will happen very slowly," says Julius Sen, an expert on international trade at the London School of Economics. "There is a perception in India that international investors will just go for the low-hanging fruit." The cliché isn't entirely without merit; while Indian banks maintain a network of low-profit rural branches, it's unlikely a British incomer would. India's micro-stores would likely be driven out of business by Western behemoths.
Indians argue that there has been significant dismantling of trade barriers already. "It's now more a matter of which sectors you can't invest in, rather than which you can," says Mukesh Rajani, who runs the Indian desk of PriceWaterhouseCoopers in London. Andy Scott of the Confederation of British Industry notes that unlike in totalitarian China, "in India you pay the price of democracy," a price that involves concessions to public anxiety over the impact of foreign investment. A robust political system in which leaders have to trouble themselves with election outcomes may be the Raj's last great bequest to India; British business will have to live with the consequences.
--with Jason Overdorf in New Delhi
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/109546
By William Underhill
NEWSWEEK
Updated: 12:02 PM ET Feb 9, 2008
A recent Indian TV commercial for a mouth-freshening chew provides surprising insight into the business climate on the Subcontinent. The scene is modern-day London, and a young Indian tycoon passes a billboard for the East India Company, the giant British trading firm that dominated India's fortunes for almost 200 years. His immediate reaction: buy the company (in hopes of enticing aspirational Indians to buy the product, as well).
If the East India Company was still around, it's likely an Indian firm would be looking into an acquisition. Flush with cash, corporate India is on an investment spree, and Britain, the old colonial master, last year became the favorite target. Indian investment in Britain has more than doubled in the past three years, surpassing the U.K.'s own investment into India. Indians are now the second-biggest investors in London—home to 19 percent of the national economy—topped only by acquisitive Americans. "I don't think that even 20 years ago anyone would have visualized this," says Subir Gokam, chief economist at the Indian ratings agency Crisil. "We'd still have been imagining ourselves as a Third World country subordinate to the U.S., Britain and everyone else."
On a mission to India last month Prime Minister Gordon Brown spoke of a new "partnership of equals," one that the British hope will include freer trade with India, which despite its stellar growth, can still look more protectionist than peers such as China. While the only headline-making British buy in India last year was Vodafone's $11 billion purchase of a controlling stake in the Indian cell-phone outfit Hutchison Essar, Indian businesses have been snapping up a clutch of iconic British brands, including Tetley, Whyte & Mackay whisky, and Corus, a last fragment of British Steel, acquired by Tata last year for $12 billion. For good measure, Tata now looks set to take carmakers Jaguar and Land Rover off the hands of Ford.
Meanwhile, India's superrich flock to buy expat homes in the poshest areas of London. According to estate agent Savills, which staged its first road show in India last year, in 2007 Indian buyers bought more than 10 percent of London properties sold for £4 million or more, topping even the Russians.
The attraction to Britain has little to do with post-colonial revenge. Start with the presence of at least 1.3 million residents of Indian descent, a shared legal system and familiar language. And Britain is unusually open to big acquisitions by foreigners, of all nationalities. Indian-born steel baron Lakshmi Mittal ran into a firestorm of local criticism when he set out to acquire the French steelmaker Arcelor in 2006. In Britain, the Indian purchase of Corus passed almost without comment. "The relationship has never been better," says Alan Rosling, a director of India's multinational Tata Sons: "As an investor from India there are few places as open, as welcoming and as hassle-free for investing as Britain."
And that's the rub. If Britain is open to foreign investors, India remains decidedly cautious. Legal hurdles to foreign investment remain highest in key sectors like financial services or retailing, where British companies are strongest.
Gordon Brown may be trying to encourage better bilateral trade relations with political carrots, such as emphatic support for a permanent seat for India on the U.N. Security Council. But with elections due within the next 15 months, Prime Minister Manmohan Singh is unlikely to push through contentious reforms. "Change will happen very slowly," says Julius Sen, an expert on international trade at the London School of Economics. "There is a perception in India that international investors will just go for the low-hanging fruit." The cliché isn't entirely without merit; while Indian banks maintain a network of low-profit rural branches, it's unlikely a British incomer would. India's micro-stores would likely be driven out of business by Western behemoths.
Indians argue that there has been significant dismantling of trade barriers already. "It's now more a matter of which sectors you can't invest in, rather than which you can," says Mukesh Rajani, who runs the Indian desk of PriceWaterhouseCoopers in London. Andy Scott of the Confederation of British Industry notes that unlike in totalitarian China, "in India you pay the price of democracy," a price that involves concessions to public anxiety over the impact of foreign investment. A robust political system in which leaders have to trouble themselves with election outcomes may be the Raj's last great bequest to India; British business will have to live with the consequences.
--with Jason Overdorf in New Delhi
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/109546
Saturday, February 02, 2008
walk this way
A pathbreaking tourism iniative in Kumaon
A few years ago, Satri, a village near Binsar in the Uttarakhand foothills of the Himalayas, was dying. Only three families remained, and all the men had gone to nearby towns for work, leaving their mothers and sisters behind. The advent of the Internet meant that even the postman hardly bothered to make the hilly, two-hour hike to Satri from the nearest road. Then, one afternoon, an oddball group trooped over the ridge with a bizarre proposal: Tourists who'd never known life without water and electricity on demand and a shopping mall around the corner would pay good money to rough it out, miles from anywhere, and learn about how the villagers lived. It was, the whole village agreed, a preposterous idea. “It took us around three years to get the villagers to believe in the project. Then they built the guesthouses within a year,” says Himanshu Pande, one of the founders of Village Ways.
When I marched into Satri at the end of a three-day hike through the foothills arranged by Village Ways—the oddballs who cooked up the idea of bringing tourists to Satri and other remote villages—the place was thriving. The men had come back from jobs in nearby towns to work as cooks, guides and porters, and the women, Satri's greatest asset, smiled and joked with an easy, outgoing confidence they've acquired through managing the guesthouse the villagers built here two years ago. Money has rolled in, too. Sher Singh, the local guide who accompanied me and my photographer, was there to report that the village had earned Rs. 72,000 from the tourist trade over the past two months. Neighbouring villages associated with the project, too, had earned upwards of Rs. 60,000.
The reason is simple. The area surrounding Binsar, in the shadow of Nanda Devi, offers spectacular beauty. The pine forest is silent and deep, amid the evergreens rhododendron bloom in a bloodflash of crimson, and on a clear day you can see the majestic snow caps of the high peaks from the crest of nearly every rise. But the hills grow smaller every year. Once sleepy hamlets like Binsar and Bhimtal are now chock-a-block with hotels, guesthouses and restaurants—most of them built, apparently, by blind bricklayers imported from some vast totalitarian state where the cinderblock is considered a work of art. Cars and trucks roar up and down the steep curves without a moment's rest, and garish signs advertising multicuisine restaurants and “ayurvedic” massage assault from all directions. A good rule of thumb: If you can drive to it, it's already been ruined. Satri and other picturesque villages of the area like Kathdhara, Gonap, Risal, and Dalar, which can only be reached on foot due to their location within the Binsar Sanctuary, are therefore the only unspoiled places left.
After waking up to a fine breakfast at the Khali Estate, a quaint, comfortable Raj-era resort that acts as a sort of base camp for Village Ways, Tribhuvan (our photographer) and I set out for our first day of walking. From a sunny spot on the road with a good view of the snowcaps, we dropped quickly down into the dark forest, following the lead of our guide, Sher Singh, a handsome man with a neat moustache. The ground was springy with moisture, but not wet, and there was an impressive silence. A mile or so along, a partridge broke cover and fluttered up beneath our feet, the startling whupwhup of its wings setting my heart going at the same rhythm. It was vigorous walking, mostly downhill, and, not surprisingly, the footing was good. Village Ways spent the better part of a year mapping and building these trails, to make them safe and navigable, of course, but also to create a network of paths that could facilitate tourists of different levels of fitness. “It wasn't easy to make all these different routes,” Sher Singh told me. “But now we can walk from here to the village in one hour or in four hours, depending on the guest.” Naturally, we always took the shortest route.
We stopped at three of the five participating villages, Kathdhara, Gonap and Satri, each one smaller and more pleasant than the last. Coming into Kathdhara, we stopped in the trail above and looked down over the bright green terraces where the farmers were growing wheat, mustard, lentils and spinach in oval steps down the hillside. In another twenty minutes, we'd hiked down to the guesthouse, passing great piles of saffron-colored pine needles, stacked like hay to dry for later use as kindling and bedding for livestock. We ate lunch beside a lemon tree with the Pancha Chulli range before us in the distance, spent a bit of time chatting with the locals, and then we marched on. In Gonap, we built a bonfire out of the football-sized Himalayan pine cones and watched the sunset, then ate a day-laborer's enormous, starchy meal—dal, aloo gobi, aloo tomatr, roti and rice—and sacked out. Frankly, I was exhausted. Either I'm getting old or I'm not as fit as I like to think or the cold air sapped my strength, but there was no shout-singing of Yellow Submarine and no ribald adventurer's tales that night: I was out cold by 8:30. (Note to the energetic: Village life is pretty tame). Don't get me wrong. It was paradise. But I was having a little trouble getting used to it.
The second day proved to be our longest walk—“We were trekking for three hours!” Tribhuvan exclaimed when he flopped down in a doorway at the end of it—and the most rewarding, because it ended in Satri. It's no mystery why Satri is everybody's favorite village. The place only has three families, but it's like a factory for beautiful women, all of whom are constantly smiling and laughing. No lie: These girls make the boy monks in Ladakh seem glum, and even grandma, deeply lined and missing more than a few teeth, looks better than anybody in Bollywood. Apparently, though, whatever it is that makes the women beautiful and happy also makes people crazy (or maybe it's not getting to marry one of the beautiful women?) because most of the houses in the village are empty. Before Village Ways started, bringing not only a source of income but also entertainment and a steady train of news and supplies, the few villagers left here thought they would have to abandon their homes and move to town. Thanks to Pande and his partners at Village Ways, that now looks unlikely to happen.
The key to making the Village Ways project sustainable—in other words, to making sure it remains a going concern without damaging the land or the local community—was to make the villagers themselves the owners of the guesthouses, Dinesh Pande, a local activist who advised Village Ways on the project, told me. Burned once by the state and the forest department when their land was declared part of the Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary, the local people would not have been keen to accept yet another domineering landlord. And the borrow-build-operate model that financed the construction of the guesthouses—Village Ways provided 40 percent of the money with a grant, 60 percent with an interest-free loan, and the villagers themselves did the building--gives them a much deeper commitment to the project than they'd have to a hotelier who simply cut them a paycheck.
The local end of management, too, is collaborative. Every village has a democratically elected Gram Paryatan Samiti (village tourism committee), and one member from each of these committees represents the village in a project-wide decision-making body called the Paryatan Vikas Samiti (tourism development committee), which allocates jobs and makes other essential decisions. The Gram Paryatan Samitis supervised the construction of the five Village Ways guesthouses, which on the advice of their city-bred collaborators, were built by local craftsmen in the traditional style the villagers used for their own houses. Built with stone and mud mortar, the guesthouses have flush toilets and showers, but solar power provides electricity and hot water. Now, the Gram Paryatan Samitis manage the guesthouses' day-to-day operation and finances—including making payments on the 10-year loan from Village Ways. The Gram Paryatan Samitis also administer a village development fund, which receives 20 percent of the guesthouse income and is used to finance projects that will benefit the entire community. Whether or not Village Ways has provided them the villagers welcome the results, I found when I chatted with residents of Kathdhara, Gonap and Satri. "Now, at least 25 percent of the migration out has stopped, and the only people who leave are those who get good jobs,” said 78-year-old Amar Singh, a retired policeman who lives in Gonap. "If we continue to get more tourists," he said, "we might get a motorable road. We might get more development."
For the duration of the day's hike, I wondered whether the villages I was visiting were truly 'sustainable,' and if Gonap was a rural paradise, or a people zoo. Then I walke into Satri, and Kiran, a teenaged village belle, garlanded me with a string of mustard flowers.
Was there a flirtatious sparkle in her eye, I thought? Perhaps I am not so old after all.
And so the fate of the countryside, fragile as it is, slipped easily from my mind. Fleeting, maybe, but this was paradise.
A few years ago, Satri, a village near Binsar in the Uttarakhand foothills of the Himalayas, was dying. Only three families remained, and all the men had gone to nearby towns for work, leaving their mothers and sisters behind. The advent of the Internet meant that even the postman hardly bothered to make the hilly, two-hour hike to Satri from the nearest road. Then, one afternoon, an oddball group trooped over the ridge with a bizarre proposal: Tourists who'd never known life without water and electricity on demand and a shopping mall around the corner would pay good money to rough it out, miles from anywhere, and learn about how the villagers lived. It was, the whole village agreed, a preposterous idea. “It took us around three years to get the villagers to believe in the project. Then they built the guesthouses within a year,” says Himanshu Pande, one of the founders of Village Ways.
When I marched into Satri at the end of a three-day hike through the foothills arranged by Village Ways—the oddballs who cooked up the idea of bringing tourists to Satri and other remote villages—the place was thriving. The men had come back from jobs in nearby towns to work as cooks, guides and porters, and the women, Satri's greatest asset, smiled and joked with an easy, outgoing confidence they've acquired through managing the guesthouse the villagers built here two years ago. Money has rolled in, too. Sher Singh, the local guide who accompanied me and my photographer, was there to report that the village had earned Rs. 72,000 from the tourist trade over the past two months. Neighbouring villages associated with the project, too, had earned upwards of Rs. 60,000.
The reason is simple. The area surrounding Binsar, in the shadow of Nanda Devi, offers spectacular beauty. The pine forest is silent and deep, amid the evergreens rhododendron bloom in a bloodflash of crimson, and on a clear day you can see the majestic snow caps of the high peaks from the crest of nearly every rise. But the hills grow smaller every year. Once sleepy hamlets like Binsar and Bhimtal are now chock-a-block with hotels, guesthouses and restaurants—most of them built, apparently, by blind bricklayers imported from some vast totalitarian state where the cinderblock is considered a work of art. Cars and trucks roar up and down the steep curves without a moment's rest, and garish signs advertising multicuisine restaurants and “ayurvedic” massage assault from all directions. A good rule of thumb: If you can drive to it, it's already been ruined. Satri and other picturesque villages of the area like Kathdhara, Gonap, Risal, and Dalar, which can only be reached on foot due to their location within the Binsar Sanctuary, are therefore the only unspoiled places left.
After waking up to a fine breakfast at the Khali Estate, a quaint, comfortable Raj-era resort that acts as a sort of base camp for Village Ways, Tribhuvan (our photographer) and I set out for our first day of walking. From a sunny spot on the road with a good view of the snowcaps, we dropped quickly down into the dark forest, following the lead of our guide, Sher Singh, a handsome man with a neat moustache. The ground was springy with moisture, but not wet, and there was an impressive silence. A mile or so along, a partridge broke cover and fluttered up beneath our feet, the startling whupwhup of its wings setting my heart going at the same rhythm. It was vigorous walking, mostly downhill, and, not surprisingly, the footing was good. Village Ways spent the better part of a year mapping and building these trails, to make them safe and navigable, of course, but also to create a network of paths that could facilitate tourists of different levels of fitness. “It wasn't easy to make all these different routes,” Sher Singh told me. “But now we can walk from here to the village in one hour or in four hours, depending on the guest.” Naturally, we always took the shortest route.
We stopped at three of the five participating villages, Kathdhara, Gonap and Satri, each one smaller and more pleasant than the last. Coming into Kathdhara, we stopped in the trail above and looked down over the bright green terraces where the farmers were growing wheat, mustard, lentils and spinach in oval steps down the hillside. In another twenty minutes, we'd hiked down to the guesthouse, passing great piles of saffron-colored pine needles, stacked like hay to dry for later use as kindling and bedding for livestock. We ate lunch beside a lemon tree with the Pancha Chulli range before us in the distance, spent a bit of time chatting with the locals, and then we marched on. In Gonap, we built a bonfire out of the football-sized Himalayan pine cones and watched the sunset, then ate a day-laborer's enormous, starchy meal—dal, aloo gobi, aloo tomatr, roti and rice—and sacked out. Frankly, I was exhausted. Either I'm getting old or I'm not as fit as I like to think or the cold air sapped my strength, but there was no shout-singing of Yellow Submarine and no ribald adventurer's tales that night: I was out cold by 8:30. (Note to the energetic: Village life is pretty tame). Don't get me wrong. It was paradise. But I was having a little trouble getting used to it.
The second day proved to be our longest walk—“We were trekking for three hours!” Tribhuvan exclaimed when he flopped down in a doorway at the end of it—and the most rewarding, because it ended in Satri. It's no mystery why Satri is everybody's favorite village. The place only has three families, but it's like a factory for beautiful women, all of whom are constantly smiling and laughing. No lie: These girls make the boy monks in Ladakh seem glum, and even grandma, deeply lined and missing more than a few teeth, looks better than anybody in Bollywood. Apparently, though, whatever it is that makes the women beautiful and happy also makes people crazy (or maybe it's not getting to marry one of the beautiful women?) because most of the houses in the village are empty. Before Village Ways started, bringing not only a source of income but also entertainment and a steady train of news and supplies, the few villagers left here thought they would have to abandon their homes and move to town. Thanks to Pande and his partners at Village Ways, that now looks unlikely to happen.
The key to making the Village Ways project sustainable—in other words, to making sure it remains a going concern without damaging the land or the local community—was to make the villagers themselves the owners of the guesthouses, Dinesh Pande, a local activist who advised Village Ways on the project, told me. Burned once by the state and the forest department when their land was declared part of the Binsar Wildlife Sanctuary, the local people would not have been keen to accept yet another domineering landlord. And the borrow-build-operate model that financed the construction of the guesthouses—Village Ways provided 40 percent of the money with a grant, 60 percent with an interest-free loan, and the villagers themselves did the building--gives them a much deeper commitment to the project than they'd have to a hotelier who simply cut them a paycheck.
The local end of management, too, is collaborative. Every village has a democratically elected Gram Paryatan Samiti (village tourism committee), and one member from each of these committees represents the village in a project-wide decision-making body called the Paryatan Vikas Samiti (tourism development committee), which allocates jobs and makes other essential decisions. The Gram Paryatan Samitis supervised the construction of the five Village Ways guesthouses, which on the advice of their city-bred collaborators, were built by local craftsmen in the traditional style the villagers used for their own houses. Built with stone and mud mortar, the guesthouses have flush toilets and showers, but solar power provides electricity and hot water. Now, the Gram Paryatan Samitis manage the guesthouses' day-to-day operation and finances—including making payments on the 10-year loan from Village Ways. The Gram Paryatan Samitis also administer a village development fund, which receives 20 percent of the guesthouse income and is used to finance projects that will benefit the entire community. Whether or not Village Ways has provided them the villagers welcome the results, I found when I chatted with residents of Kathdhara, Gonap and Satri. "Now, at least 25 percent of the migration out has stopped, and the only people who leave are those who get good jobs,” said 78-year-old Amar Singh, a retired policeman who lives in Gonap. "If we continue to get more tourists," he said, "we might get a motorable road. We might get more development."
For the duration of the day's hike, I wondered whether the villages I was visiting were truly 'sustainable,' and if Gonap was a rural paradise, or a people zoo. Then I walke into Satri, and Kiran, a teenaged village belle, garlanded me with a string of mustard flowers.
Was there a flirtatious sparkle in her eye, I thought? Perhaps I am not so old after all.
And so the fate of the countryside, fragile as it is, slipped easily from my mind. Fleeting, maybe, but this was paradise.
Friday, February 01, 2008
stolen kidneys
Indian investigators suspect as many as 500 illegal transplants have been performed.
By Jason Overdorf
Newsweek Web Exclusive
Updated: 5:41 PM ET Feb 1, 2008
Mohammad Salim Khan, 33, was squatting on a corner where unemployed day laborers congregate, looking for work, in the Uttar Pradesh town of Meerut, when a bearded man offered him a three-month job in Delhi that would pay about $3 a day. Khan jumped at the chance. But when he eventually reached Delhi, the promised job never materialized. Instead, Khan was taken to a house in Gurgaon where two men held him at gunpoint and knocked him out with an injection of sedatives. When he woke up hours later, he had a horrible pain in his abdomen, and a man in a surgical mask was leaning over him. "Your kidney has been removed," the man said. "Don't tell anyone after you leave here. Not your friends or family or relatives or anyone. If you say anything, one of our guys will find you and shoot you."
It sounds like a sci-fi movie or an urban legend. But Indian police, who broke into the house where Khan was being held not long after his surgery, say that organized gangs who steal, or buy, kidneys and other organs for illegal transplant operations are an all-too-common reality here, where some 320 million people survive on less than $1 a day. The authorities believe that this ring—which was allegedly run by a man calling himself Dr. Amit Kumar, though he was not a doctor of medicine—may have performed as many as 500 illegal transplants without being detected over the past eight or nine years. The criminal network apparenlty involved four doctors, five nurses, 20 paramedics, three private hospitals, 10 pathology clinics and five diagnostic centers, police believe, and drew patients from as far afield as the Canada, Greece and the United States. Authorities are trying to talk to U.S. patients who may be involved, saying the patients will not be in trouble and that they are only seeking further information on the doctors involved.
Christened "Dr. Horror" and "Dr. Dracula" by Indian tabloids, the man who allegedly ran the Gurgaon-based racket had been arrested on a similar charge in Mumbai in 1994, but police allege that he jumped bail, changed his name from Dr. Santosh Raut to Dr. Amit Kumar and set up a new operation in Delhi. His Gurgaon clinic was raided by the police in 2000, and police reportedly failed to investigate after television and newspaper exposes alleged that Kumar was performing illegal surgeries. "In the maximum number of these cases, they [the accused] are under trial for many years, and there are very few convictions," said Bhuwen Ribhu, a lawyer and activist who specializes in cases of human trafficking. "It is quite sad. Even when the person is arrested, he gets bail within three or four months and continues as he was doing before." Comparing this case to a 2006 scandal in which police ignored complaints from poor parents, allowing a serial child murderer to go on killing for months, Ribhu adds, "In most of these incidents, I'm sure the police [are] not even registering cases."
The Gurgaon ring was broken because a former victim who had joined the gang as a recruiter approached the police with his story, but a leak allowed Kumar to escape before the police raid, and despite a national and international manhunt he remains at large. So far, police have arrested only one of the four main doctors, as well as a nurse, cook, driver and other minor figures in the gang. However, officials suspect that several private hospitals in Delhi and its suburbs may have known about the illegal transplants—or at least have avoided asking too many questions. "Due to its scale, we believe more members of the Delhi medical fraternity must have been aware of what was going on," Gurgaon police commissioner Mahinder Lal told reporters.
Similar organ-theft rings have been unearthed across the country in the past. But if these estimates can be confirmed by testimony and evidence, this would be the largest illegal-transplant network uncovered to date in India—and even so it may be just a fraction of the cases.
"It is clear that a large number [of transplants] are not being documented within the system, which means that they are being done elsewhere," said Dr. Amit Verma, chief operating officer of a Delhi hospital run by Fortis Healthcare that is one of only a few institutions to use an independent screening committee to evaluate potential donors. "For a country of our size, and for the number of renal failures that we have, we should be doing at least a thousand times the number of transplants that we do officially." Indian surgeons perform 3,000-4,000 legally documented kidney transplants per year, in part because India has strict laws that mandate that organ donors must be close relatives to the recipient.
Those laws help create a huge gap between supply and demand, and illegal transplants go on because the legal system is ill-equipped—and some say unwilling—to deal with the problem. "Most of these cases are never reported," said Manjit Ahlawat, joint commissioner of the Gurgaon police. "The person who wants a kidney benefits, and the person whose kidney has been taken benefits, because he gets a lot of money, so nobody files a complaint." He believes that the three donors that the police found in Gurgaon were likely promised large sums of money—by their desperate standards—and in exchange for their organs. Now, they must claim that they were compelled by force, because otherwise they could be prosecuted as criminals. "If they admit that they did this willingly, they will be arrested, too," Ahlawat said.
Apart from evidence derived from the interrogation of suspects and five foreigners whom the police believe were waiting for transplants and the testimony of Khan and other men whose kidneys were allegedly stolen, the police recovered letters and e-mail messages from 48 foreigners inquiring about transplants from Dr. Kumar's office. According to Gurgaon police, touts canvassed Delhi and other cities to recruit donors, focusing on the poor and unemployed. Some were allegedly asked if they wanted to sell a kidney for $1,000 to $2,500.
Khan, an unemployed laborer who earns about $2 a day when he is lucky enough to find work, says that the offer of a steady job was simply too good to pass up, and even though he was kept waiting for almost two weeks in a house with a couple guys with rifles stationed outside it, he didn't complain because he was well fed and they promised he would be paid for his time. Only when the blood test was administered did he begin to catch on. "I asked why I needed a blood test, and one of the guys pointed his gun at me and told me not to ask pointless questions if I wanted to live," he said, casually leaning against the wall on the balcony outside the isolation ward at Gurgaon Civil Hospital. Lifting up his shirt, he reveals a puckered, 10-inch incision in his side, stitched together with broad exes of black surgical thread. "When I heard that my kidney had been removed, for a long time I was in shock," he reflects. Khan, who supports five children, his mother and two sisters, has no marketable skills, and doctors say that he will no longer be able to perform the backbreaking labor that he's used to doing. "I keep thinking about how I will live now." He says he received no payment for his kidney.
Naseem Mohammad, a 25-year-old laborer from Ahmedabad, in Gujarat, has a similar story. He was waiting for work at a labor market near the Old Delhi Railway Station when a man approached him with an offer for a three-month painting contract. He was taken to a house in Uttar Pradesh for two weeks, where his recruiters told him that they were waiting for a tender to be passed before the work could begin. "I didn't try to run, because I still thought I was going to get the job," he said outside the isolation ward. "Then one day they didn't give me anything to eat. They tested my blood. Then they gave me an injection. I asked them what was in it and why they were giving it to me, and they told me it was for my own good. Then I passed out." When he woke up, his kidney was gone. "I've gone before like this with people for 15-20 days work," he said. "Nothing like this has ever happened. Once I went to Mehrauli with a labor contractor to do road work. I didn't know this will happen. I'm in shock after this. What will I do?" He, too, says he received no money for his stolen organ.
Whether they volunteered and were cheated of their payoff or were drugged and robbed of their kidneys, there is no doubt Khan and Mohammed were victims of an inescapable, suffocating poverty that made them--like millions of others--vulnerable to all kinds of exploitation.
"They were easy prey," said Gurgaon deputy police commissioner Rakesh Arya.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/107448
By Jason Overdorf
Newsweek Web Exclusive
Updated: 5:41 PM ET Feb 1, 2008
Mohammad Salim Khan, 33, was squatting on a corner where unemployed day laborers congregate, looking for work, in the Uttar Pradesh town of Meerut, when a bearded man offered him a three-month job in Delhi that would pay about $3 a day. Khan jumped at the chance. But when he eventually reached Delhi, the promised job never materialized. Instead, Khan was taken to a house in Gurgaon where two men held him at gunpoint and knocked him out with an injection of sedatives. When he woke up hours later, he had a horrible pain in his abdomen, and a man in a surgical mask was leaning over him. "Your kidney has been removed," the man said. "Don't tell anyone after you leave here. Not your friends or family or relatives or anyone. If you say anything, one of our guys will find you and shoot you."
It sounds like a sci-fi movie or an urban legend. But Indian police, who broke into the house where Khan was being held not long after his surgery, say that organized gangs who steal, or buy, kidneys and other organs for illegal transplant operations are an all-too-common reality here, where some 320 million people survive on less than $1 a day. The authorities believe that this ring—which was allegedly run by a man calling himself Dr. Amit Kumar, though he was not a doctor of medicine—may have performed as many as 500 illegal transplants without being detected over the past eight or nine years. The criminal network apparenlty involved four doctors, five nurses, 20 paramedics, three private hospitals, 10 pathology clinics and five diagnostic centers, police believe, and drew patients from as far afield as the Canada, Greece and the United States. Authorities are trying to talk to U.S. patients who may be involved, saying the patients will not be in trouble and that they are only seeking further information on the doctors involved.
Christened "Dr. Horror" and "Dr. Dracula" by Indian tabloids, the man who allegedly ran the Gurgaon-based racket had been arrested on a similar charge in Mumbai in 1994, but police allege that he jumped bail, changed his name from Dr. Santosh Raut to Dr. Amit Kumar and set up a new operation in Delhi. His Gurgaon clinic was raided by the police in 2000, and police reportedly failed to investigate after television and newspaper exposes alleged that Kumar was performing illegal surgeries. "In the maximum number of these cases, they [the accused] are under trial for many years, and there are very few convictions," said Bhuwen Ribhu, a lawyer and activist who specializes in cases of human trafficking. "It is quite sad. Even when the person is arrested, he gets bail within three or four months and continues as he was doing before." Comparing this case to a 2006 scandal in which police ignored complaints from poor parents, allowing a serial child murderer to go on killing for months, Ribhu adds, "In most of these incidents, I'm sure the police [are] not even registering cases."
The Gurgaon ring was broken because a former victim who had joined the gang as a recruiter approached the police with his story, but a leak allowed Kumar to escape before the police raid, and despite a national and international manhunt he remains at large. So far, police have arrested only one of the four main doctors, as well as a nurse, cook, driver and other minor figures in the gang. However, officials suspect that several private hospitals in Delhi and its suburbs may have known about the illegal transplants—or at least have avoided asking too many questions. "Due to its scale, we believe more members of the Delhi medical fraternity must have been aware of what was going on," Gurgaon police commissioner Mahinder Lal told reporters.
Similar organ-theft rings have been unearthed across the country in the past. But if these estimates can be confirmed by testimony and evidence, this would be the largest illegal-transplant network uncovered to date in India—and even so it may be just a fraction of the cases.
"It is clear that a large number [of transplants] are not being documented within the system, which means that they are being done elsewhere," said Dr. Amit Verma, chief operating officer of a Delhi hospital run by Fortis Healthcare that is one of only a few institutions to use an independent screening committee to evaluate potential donors. "For a country of our size, and for the number of renal failures that we have, we should be doing at least a thousand times the number of transplants that we do officially." Indian surgeons perform 3,000-4,000 legally documented kidney transplants per year, in part because India has strict laws that mandate that organ donors must be close relatives to the recipient.
Those laws help create a huge gap between supply and demand, and illegal transplants go on because the legal system is ill-equipped—and some say unwilling—to deal with the problem. "Most of these cases are never reported," said Manjit Ahlawat, joint commissioner of the Gurgaon police. "The person who wants a kidney benefits, and the person whose kidney has been taken benefits, because he gets a lot of money, so nobody files a complaint." He believes that the three donors that the police found in Gurgaon were likely promised large sums of money—by their desperate standards—and in exchange for their organs. Now, they must claim that they were compelled by force, because otherwise they could be prosecuted as criminals. "If they admit that they did this willingly, they will be arrested, too," Ahlawat said.
Apart from evidence derived from the interrogation of suspects and five foreigners whom the police believe were waiting for transplants and the testimony of Khan and other men whose kidneys were allegedly stolen, the police recovered letters and e-mail messages from 48 foreigners inquiring about transplants from Dr. Kumar's office. According to Gurgaon police, touts canvassed Delhi and other cities to recruit donors, focusing on the poor and unemployed. Some were allegedly asked if they wanted to sell a kidney for $1,000 to $2,500.
Khan, an unemployed laborer who earns about $2 a day when he is lucky enough to find work, says that the offer of a steady job was simply too good to pass up, and even though he was kept waiting for almost two weeks in a house with a couple guys with rifles stationed outside it, he didn't complain because he was well fed and they promised he would be paid for his time. Only when the blood test was administered did he begin to catch on. "I asked why I needed a blood test, and one of the guys pointed his gun at me and told me not to ask pointless questions if I wanted to live," he said, casually leaning against the wall on the balcony outside the isolation ward at Gurgaon Civil Hospital. Lifting up his shirt, he reveals a puckered, 10-inch incision in his side, stitched together with broad exes of black surgical thread. "When I heard that my kidney had been removed, for a long time I was in shock," he reflects. Khan, who supports five children, his mother and two sisters, has no marketable skills, and doctors say that he will no longer be able to perform the backbreaking labor that he's used to doing. "I keep thinking about how I will live now." He says he received no payment for his kidney.
Naseem Mohammad, a 25-year-old laborer from Ahmedabad, in Gujarat, has a similar story. He was waiting for work at a labor market near the Old Delhi Railway Station when a man approached him with an offer for a three-month painting contract. He was taken to a house in Uttar Pradesh for two weeks, where his recruiters told him that they were waiting for a tender to be passed before the work could begin. "I didn't try to run, because I still thought I was going to get the job," he said outside the isolation ward. "Then one day they didn't give me anything to eat. They tested my blood. Then they gave me an injection. I asked them what was in it and why they were giving it to me, and they told me it was for my own good. Then I passed out." When he woke up, his kidney was gone. "I've gone before like this with people for 15-20 days work," he said. "Nothing like this has ever happened. Once I went to Mehrauli with a labor contractor to do road work. I didn't know this will happen. I'm in shock after this. What will I do?" He, too, says he received no money for his stolen organ.
Whether they volunteered and were cheated of their payoff or were drugged and robbed of their kidneys, there is no doubt Khan and Mohammed were victims of an inescapable, suffocating poverty that made them--like millions of others--vulnerable to all kinds of exploitation.
"They were easy prey," said Gurgaon deputy police commissioner Rakesh Arya.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/107448
Friday, January 11, 2008
how green is a mini?
Tata's Nano may put millions of new drivers on the roads. It also may herald a new source of pollution.
By Jason Overdorf and Fred Guterl
Newsweek Web Exclusive
Updated: 9:26 AM ET Jan 11, 2008
The unveiling of Tata Motors' People's Car—perhaps the most anticipated vehicle in a decade—had the frenzied atmosphere of a blockbuster movie opening. For four years Tata kept every detail of the car's development top secret, and now a hundred or more photographers jostled to get the first shot. When chairman Ratan Tata, citing the first flight by the Wright brothers and the invention of the computer, pulled back the curtain on the newly named Nano, it turned out to be a four-seater, a bit more than three meters long, with a 642cc engine and made of plastic and glue instead of welded steel.
Despite speculation to the contrary, the car will retail for 100,000 rupees, or $2,500. ("A promise is a promise," Tata said.) At less than half what Maruti Suzuki, the current market leader in India, charges for its cheapest model, the Nano is priced to get urban Indians off their motor scooters and motorcycles and into a car. It is expected to inspire other manufacturers to develop cheap cars and force Maruti Suzuki and others to slash prices, bringing millions more new cars onto Indian roads over the next five years. But the prospect of a flood of new drivers in a nation of 1 billion people has inspired a backlash against the Nano from environmentalists, who fear it's a major new source of pollution.
The concern is that a supercheap auto will encourage development on the American model—relying on the car rather than mass transit. More drivers will add to air pollution, already a critical problem in more than half of India's cities, and to the carbon in the atmosphere that causes global warming. "This car promises to be an environmental disaster of substantial proportions," says Daniel Esty, an environmental expert at Yale.
Tata has worked hard to get out in front of its critics, at least on air pollution. The first models to roll off the company's assembly line in Singur, West Bengal, will get about 20 kilometers per liter of gasoline (50 miles per gallon) and meet stringent European emissions standards that have yet to be adopted in India. Tata insists that the Nano will pollute less than the two-wheelers it is intended to replace and get roughly the same gas mileage as the Maruti models. The Nano's catalytic converter appears to reduce most pollutants by about 80 percent—not as much as the 99 percent Western models do, but still a big reduction. Environmentalists, though, say that it will probably fail after a few years on the road. The reason: Indians typically don't keep their autos in tip-top shape. When the catalytic converter fails, emissions of pollutants could shoot up fivefold.
The story gets worse when you consider greenhouse gases like CO2, which escape catalytic converters. The more gas burned, the more CO2 released. The Nano is likely to replace motor scooters and motorbikes, which get about 54 kilometers to the liter, more than twice what the Nano gets, according to Daniel Sperling, director of the Institute of Transportation Studies at the University of California, Davis, who has studied the situation in Delhi. That means fuel consumption and carbon emissions will almost certainly rise. "Every new purchase of this vehicle is increasing fuel use [per passenger] by a factor of two to seven, depending on how many people are in the car," says Sperling. That doesn't even account for a decline in fuel efficiency if the cars are not maintained well.
Western environmentalists know they have little moral standing to criticize Indians for wanting cars, particularly one that meets the highest Western emissions standards. But they're rattled in part because they didn't see this coming, and will have to recalculate projections for the buildup of greenhouse gases based on a world of many more drivers. "In none of our reports did we assume there'd be a car like this," says Judy Greenwald, director of innovative solutions at the Pew Center on Global Climate Change. "This is a new category. It will affect everybody's projections."
Indian leaders must also now grapple with the prospect that their nation will become an auto-based society like the United States much faster than expected. Tata's chairman chafed at the suggestion that his firm should be held responsible for the state of pollution in India—or the planet. "Were we to succeed and sell 500,000 small cars every year, we would then, at the end of five years, constitute approximately 2.5 percent of all passenger vehicles in this country," Tata said. "We could hardly be considered a nightmare."
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/91380
By Jason Overdorf and Fred Guterl
Newsweek Web Exclusive
Updated: 9:26 AM ET Jan 11, 2008
The unveiling of Tata Motors' People's Car—perhaps the most anticipated vehicle in a decade—had the frenzied atmosphere of a blockbuster movie opening. For four years Tata kept every detail of the car's development top secret, and now a hundred or more photographers jostled to get the first shot. When chairman Ratan Tata, citing the first flight by the Wright brothers and the invention of the computer, pulled back the curtain on the newly named Nano, it turned out to be a four-seater, a bit more than three meters long, with a 642cc engine and made of plastic and glue instead of welded steel.
Despite speculation to the contrary, the car will retail for 100,000 rupees, or $2,500. ("A promise is a promise," Tata said.) At less than half what Maruti Suzuki, the current market leader in India, charges for its cheapest model, the Nano is priced to get urban Indians off their motor scooters and motorcycles and into a car. It is expected to inspire other manufacturers to develop cheap cars and force Maruti Suzuki and others to slash prices, bringing millions more new cars onto Indian roads over the next five years. But the prospect of a flood of new drivers in a nation of 1 billion people has inspired a backlash against the Nano from environmentalists, who fear it's a major new source of pollution.
The concern is that a supercheap auto will encourage development on the American model—relying on the car rather than mass transit. More drivers will add to air pollution, already a critical problem in more than half of India's cities, and to the carbon in the atmosphere that causes global warming. "This car promises to be an environmental disaster of substantial proportions," says Daniel Esty, an environmental expert at Yale.
Tata has worked hard to get out in front of its critics, at least on air pollution. The first models to roll off the company's assembly line in Singur, West Bengal, will get about 20 kilometers per liter of gasoline (50 miles per gallon) and meet stringent European emissions standards that have yet to be adopted in India. Tata insists that the Nano will pollute less than the two-wheelers it is intended to replace and get roughly the same gas mileage as the Maruti models. The Nano's catalytic converter appears to reduce most pollutants by about 80 percent—not as much as the 99 percent Western models do, but still a big reduction. Environmentalists, though, say that it will probably fail after a few years on the road. The reason: Indians typically don't keep their autos in tip-top shape. When the catalytic converter fails, emissions of pollutants could shoot up fivefold.
The story gets worse when you consider greenhouse gases like CO2, which escape catalytic converters. The more gas burned, the more CO2 released. The Nano is likely to replace motor scooters and motorbikes, which get about 54 kilometers to the liter, more than twice what the Nano gets, according to Daniel Sperling, director of the Institute of Transportation Studies at the University of California, Davis, who has studied the situation in Delhi. That means fuel consumption and carbon emissions will almost certainly rise. "Every new purchase of this vehicle is increasing fuel use [per passenger] by a factor of two to seven, depending on how many people are in the car," says Sperling. That doesn't even account for a decline in fuel efficiency if the cars are not maintained well.
Western environmentalists know they have little moral standing to criticize Indians for wanting cars, particularly one that meets the highest Western emissions standards. But they're rattled in part because they didn't see this coming, and will have to recalculate projections for the buildup of greenhouse gases based on a world of many more drivers. "In none of our reports did we assume there'd be a car like this," says Judy Greenwald, director of innovative solutions at the Pew Center on Global Climate Change. "This is a new category. It will affect everybody's projections."
Indian leaders must also now grapple with the prospect that their nation will become an auto-based society like the United States much faster than expected. Tata's chairman chafed at the suggestion that his firm should be held responsible for the state of pollution in India—or the planet. "Were we to succeed and sell 500,000 small cars every year, we would then, at the end of five years, constitute approximately 2.5 percent of all passenger vehicles in this country," Tata said. "We could hardly be considered a nightmare."
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/91380
the man behind the $2500 car
CEO Ratan Tata defends the Nano's environmental credibility
By Jason Overdorf
Newsweek Web Exclusive
Updated: 1:03 PM ET Jan 11, 2008
Four years ago Tata Motors embarked on an ambitious project to bring millions of people in India and elsewhere into the car-owning class. Today Chairman Ratan Tata unveiled the result: the Nano, a stripped down car with a 624 cc four-stroke engine that can seat four passengers. The car is a feat of engineering-it's made from plastic parts held together with adhesives-and meets all India's environment standards. Partly because of the visibility of the project, the Nano has become a lightening rod for criticism on the environmental impact of cars. Tata talked with NEWSWEEK's Jason Overdorf at the Delhi Auto Expo on the eve of the announcement. Excerpts:
NEWSWEEK: Some people have said this car is going to be a disaster for the environment. What impact will the introduction of these vehicles have on pollution levels in India?
Ratan Tata: Our car will meet all emissions requirements in India and in fact the emissions requirements overseas, present and future. Our engine today will meet Euro 3 [emissions standards] today and with small tweaking will meet Euro 4. It will therefore meet all the specifications of emissions that exist in India. We will emit less pollutants than the best two-wheelers in the country. I don't mean per passenger mile or anything. I mean per vehicle. So I am both amused and intrigued by why we are being panned as an environmental disaster before anyone even knows. And in fact the major NGO that's making much of the noise [the Center for Science and the Environment] already knows because I responded to them in great detail with what our numbers were. That appears to have been ignored.
One other point you made is that the sales numbers are not going to be so huge initially, right?
We're building a plant for 250,000 [cars]. It will be expandable to 300,000, and if you mirrored it that would be 500 or 600,000. It would be a challenge to get vendors and a whole infrastructure in place that would enable us to just endlessly build cars, apart from the resources that would be required. So if somebody thinks that we will be putting 2 million cars or 4 million cars into the market, I think that's a bit absurd. Today, with 4, 2 and 3-wheelers, every year [India adds] about 7 million [vehicles] in the market. [India] produced 1.4 million passenger cars last year, so it's kind of flat. What would this car do? Would it sit on top of that by adding 2 and 3 and 4 million? Would it wipe out everybody else? Would we produce and sell 7 million cars? No. It's reasonable to assume that we might be looking at in the next four to five years, maybe a half a million cars, which would be a very good number. No single platform would have that kind of number. What would half a million cars be as a part of an annual production that at that time, with 2-wheelers, 3-wheelers and 4-wheelers, might be 12 to 15 million vehicles? I don't see what the concern is, unless people are seeing ghosts.
I just want to raise one other thing. The noise is being raised by people who are doing nothing about pollution in a holistic manner. Nobody is doing anything about the total population and pollution from two-wheelers, from power stations, from generators. All of this has to be viewed together if one is truly worried about the environment. There are two scooter plants being established today-Honda and Suzuki-each one has about 250,000 unit capacity when they come online. They're not said to be polluting, they're not said to be congesting, they're not said to be unsafe. It's only us.
The other big question for everyone is how you brought down costs so dramatically. Is there a shortlist of two or three big innovations you made to cut costs?
When you start an exercise like this you dimension your product, and we dimensioned the size of our product. When you shrink the size of the product you obviously reduce the amount of material and material is the largest single element in [the cost of] a product. Then there are hundreds of innovative ideas that have brought the price down, or have in fact generated the kind of low costs that we have developed. And there are more on the anvil that will come from vendors, and not all of them will be based on volume.
Are there any that have the potential to change the way the traditional big guns in the auto industry are making cars?
The whole process of putting a car together perhaps needs to change by welding going to adhesives at some point in time. [Among] the most expensive parts of an assembly process are the paint shop and the press shop, so [global manufacturers will move to] materials that will lower the [capital investment] and operating costs [for] those types of units.
India has been talked about as becoming a small car manufacturing hub. What impact will the Nano have on that future?
It will only enhance it. It won't hurt it in any way. Finally, the people are going to decide if this car is going to do what everybody fears it will do or not. Not us. We have as a company put together a concept and converted it to reality, and we believe it is a very interesting value proposition but finally the market will need to decide. Who enters and who competes and what that product is going to do to us is a function of who addresses what the customer wants.
Renault-Nissan has already announced they are going to get into this game. Do you anticipate that this will be an active space that a lot of companies want to get into?
It will be. There's been self-denial that this space is a real space until we addressed it. We will have several people following us, including big companies, and we will need to raise the issue of why those big companies did not address those areas earlier. But possibly the first national car company to address it will be a Chinese company. The day they consider this to be an important segment of the market we will see a Chinese company come closest to us or even break our barrier.
Your coming into this market is somewhat similar to the entrance of Suzuki in the 1980s, in that it has the potential to create huge volumes. In working with suppliers, have you seen inklings of the kind of sea change that the launch of the Maruti 800 engendered?
We have. There was first a lot of disbelief among suppliers that we were really serious about this business. In West Bengal we conceived of a situation where they would be a campus-with ourselves and our vendors on the same campus. The acceptance of this and the investment in this was minimal at first. But now we can't provide enough space in our campus. Suddenly vendors are seeing large volumes, the ability to amortize investments they would have to make that they were not willing to do, and they've ceded their place to other vendors who were willing to do it. Now some of the majors want to come back in and play a role. In fairness, somebody else did take the risk, did place their faith in us, and they're there.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/91447
By Jason Overdorf
Newsweek Web Exclusive
Updated: 1:03 PM ET Jan 11, 2008
Four years ago Tata Motors embarked on an ambitious project to bring millions of people in India and elsewhere into the car-owning class. Today Chairman Ratan Tata unveiled the result: the Nano, a stripped down car with a 624 cc four-stroke engine that can seat four passengers. The car is a feat of engineering-it's made from plastic parts held together with adhesives-and meets all India's environment standards. Partly because of the visibility of the project, the Nano has become a lightening rod for criticism on the environmental impact of cars. Tata talked with NEWSWEEK's Jason Overdorf at the Delhi Auto Expo on the eve of the announcement. Excerpts:
NEWSWEEK: Some people have said this car is going to be a disaster for the environment. What impact will the introduction of these vehicles have on pollution levels in India?
Ratan Tata: Our car will meet all emissions requirements in India and in fact the emissions requirements overseas, present and future. Our engine today will meet Euro 3 [emissions standards] today and with small tweaking will meet Euro 4. It will therefore meet all the specifications of emissions that exist in India. We will emit less pollutants than the best two-wheelers in the country. I don't mean per passenger mile or anything. I mean per vehicle. So I am both amused and intrigued by why we are being panned as an environmental disaster before anyone even knows. And in fact the major NGO that's making much of the noise [the Center for Science and the Environment] already knows because I responded to them in great detail with what our numbers were. That appears to have been ignored.
One other point you made is that the sales numbers are not going to be so huge initially, right?
We're building a plant for 250,000 [cars]. It will be expandable to 300,000, and if you mirrored it that would be 500 or 600,000. It would be a challenge to get vendors and a whole infrastructure in place that would enable us to just endlessly build cars, apart from the resources that would be required. So if somebody thinks that we will be putting 2 million cars or 4 million cars into the market, I think that's a bit absurd. Today, with 4, 2 and 3-wheelers, every year [India adds] about 7 million [vehicles] in the market. [India] produced 1.4 million passenger cars last year, so it's kind of flat. What would this car do? Would it sit on top of that by adding 2 and 3 and 4 million? Would it wipe out everybody else? Would we produce and sell 7 million cars? No. It's reasonable to assume that we might be looking at in the next four to five years, maybe a half a million cars, which would be a very good number. No single platform would have that kind of number. What would half a million cars be as a part of an annual production that at that time, with 2-wheelers, 3-wheelers and 4-wheelers, might be 12 to 15 million vehicles? I don't see what the concern is, unless people are seeing ghosts.
I just want to raise one other thing. The noise is being raised by people who are doing nothing about pollution in a holistic manner. Nobody is doing anything about the total population and pollution from two-wheelers, from power stations, from generators. All of this has to be viewed together if one is truly worried about the environment. There are two scooter plants being established today-Honda and Suzuki-each one has about 250,000 unit capacity when they come online. They're not said to be polluting, they're not said to be congesting, they're not said to be unsafe. It's only us.
The other big question for everyone is how you brought down costs so dramatically. Is there a shortlist of two or three big innovations you made to cut costs?
When you start an exercise like this you dimension your product, and we dimensioned the size of our product. When you shrink the size of the product you obviously reduce the amount of material and material is the largest single element in [the cost of] a product. Then there are hundreds of innovative ideas that have brought the price down, or have in fact generated the kind of low costs that we have developed. And there are more on the anvil that will come from vendors, and not all of them will be based on volume.
Are there any that have the potential to change the way the traditional big guns in the auto industry are making cars?
The whole process of putting a car together perhaps needs to change by welding going to adhesives at some point in time. [Among] the most expensive parts of an assembly process are the paint shop and the press shop, so [global manufacturers will move to] materials that will lower the [capital investment] and operating costs [for] those types of units.
India has been talked about as becoming a small car manufacturing hub. What impact will the Nano have on that future?
It will only enhance it. It won't hurt it in any way. Finally, the people are going to decide if this car is going to do what everybody fears it will do or not. Not us. We have as a company put together a concept and converted it to reality, and we believe it is a very interesting value proposition but finally the market will need to decide. Who enters and who competes and what that product is going to do to us is a function of who addresses what the customer wants.
Renault-Nissan has already announced they are going to get into this game. Do you anticipate that this will be an active space that a lot of companies want to get into?
It will be. There's been self-denial that this space is a real space until we addressed it. We will have several people following us, including big companies, and we will need to raise the issue of why those big companies did not address those areas earlier. But possibly the first national car company to address it will be a Chinese company. The day they consider this to be an important segment of the market we will see a Chinese company come closest to us or even break our barrier.
Your coming into this market is somewhat similar to the entrance of Suzuki in the 1980s, in that it has the potential to create huge volumes. In working with suppliers, have you seen inklings of the kind of sea change that the launch of the Maruti 800 engendered?
We have. There was first a lot of disbelief among suppliers that we were really serious about this business. In West Bengal we conceived of a situation where they would be a campus-with ourselves and our vendors on the same campus. The acceptance of this and the investment in this was minimal at first. But now we can't provide enough space in our campus. Suddenly vendors are seeing large volumes, the ability to amortize investments they would have to make that they were not willing to do, and they've ceded their place to other vendors who were willing to do it. Now some of the majors want to come back in and play a role. In fairness, somebody else did take the risk, did place their faith in us, and they're there.
URL: http://www.newsweek.com/id/91447
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