Beruflich Dokumente
Kultur Dokumente
2002
Materializing the Nation: Commodities, Consumption, and Media in Papua New
Guinea.
1997
Nation Making: Emergent Identities in Postcolonial Melanesia. Edited Volume.
(paper edition)
1995
Social Reproduction and History in Melanesia: Mortuary Ritual, Gift Exchange,
and Custom in the Tanga Islands.
Coca-Globalization
Robert J. Foster
coca-globalization
Copyright © Robert J. Foster, 2008.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any
manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quo-
tations embodied in critical articles or reviews.
Paperback:
ISBN-13: 978-0-230-60386-8
ISBN-10: 0-230-60386-6
Hardcover:
ISBN-13: 978-0-312-23871-1
ISBN-10: 0-312-23871-1
GN450.F67 2008
306.4—dc22 2007026773
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Part 1
Soft Drinks and the Economy of Qualities
Chapter 1 The Social Life of Worldly Things: Commodity 3
Consumption and Globalization
Chapter 2 Glocalizing Coca-Cola: The Multilocal Multinational 33
Corporation
Chapter 3 Qualifying Products: Trademarks, Brands, and 75
Value Creation
Chapter 4 A Network of Perspectives: The Meanings of Soft 99
Drinks in Papua New Guinea
Part 2
Globalization, Citizenship, and
the Politics of Consumption
Chapter 5 Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies 149
of Citizenship
Chapter 6 Shareholder Activism: Consumer Citizenship 187
inside the Corporation
Chapter 7 Pouring Rights: Politics, Products, Agency, 211
and Change
Conclusion: Product Networks and the Politics of Knowledge 229
Notes 241
References 251
Index 269
Figures
I.1. Partui Bonaventura, Tanga Islands, Papua New Guinea
(PNG), April 2000 xi
I.2. Bottle shop, Tanga Islands, Papua
New Guinea, April 2000 xii
1.1. Agnes, Southern Highlands, Papua New Guinea 9
1.2. Kaipel Ka, Western Highlands, Papua New Guinea 15
2.1 Postcard image of a Huli dancer at the
1987 Port Moresby Show 45
2.2 Dancers at the 2006 Goroka Show 45
2.3. Cover of Time, May 15, 1950 48
2.4. Bottling plant, Lae, Papua New Guinea, April 2000 54
3.1. Atlanta, GA: Exhibits and galleries
at the old World of Coca-Cola 82
4.1. Alphonse Hega’s winning entry for the
1998 Coca-Cola PNG national calendar competition 132
4.2. Alphonse Hega’s second entry for the
1998 Coca-Cola PNG national calendar competition 133
5.1. New York, NY: Protestors at annual shareholder
meeting of The Coca-Cola Company, 2002 151
5.2. New York, NY: Protestors at annual shareholder
meeting of The Coca-Cola Company, 2002 152
5.3. Antiwar protest, Anglet, France, March 2003 172
5.4. Insertions into Ideological Circuits,
Coca-Cola Project, 1970, by Cildo Meireles 177
5.5. Carpenters and coffin, Teshie, a suburb
of Accra (Ghana), January 2004 179
5.6. Lighthouse II by Chris Woods 181
5.7. Album cover of Dispepsi, by Negativland™ 183
6.1. Student protest, Yale University, March 31, 2004 203
C.1. Chennai, India, June 2005:
Billboard with picture by Sharad Haksar 230
Introduction
Figure I.1. Tanga Islands, Papua New Guinea, April 2000. Partui Bonaventura stands before the ceremo-
nial men’s house associated with the matrilineage that he leads. He wears around his neck a plastic insu-
lated carrier for six-packs of soft drinks. I received the carrier as a promotional gift while attending the
annual shareholder meeting of Coca-Cola Amatil in Sydney. I gave the carrier to Partui, who used it as a
purse for everyday personal items such as betel nut, tobacco, and money.
xii Introduction
Figure I.2 “St. Veronica’s Trade Store and Liquer Outlet Bottle Shop, Kalu Village.” Bottles of Coca-Cola
were sold at this village trade store.
&*
now classic history of the transatlantic trade in sugar, Sweetness and Power
(1986). (Mintz’s work is in many ways a source of both information and
inspiration for my understanding of the transnational soft drink industry.)
Much of this work similarly builds on previous studies by cultural geogra-
phers and rural sociologists that have followed the movement of agricul-
tural products from farm fields to suburban supermarkets to family tables.
One anthropologist has even tracked the movements of Atlantic bluefin
tuna: On the docks of a fishing village in Maine, Japanese buyers inspect
the latest catch, checking current market prices by cell phone and arrang-
ing to ship the tuna overnight by plane from Boston to Tokyo, where it will
be certified as premium grade and then flown back to New York for sale as
sushi in upscale restaurants (Bestor 2001).
These tracking exercises serve at least two related purposes. First, they
make visible the sometimes obscure and often-unanticipated networks
through which everyday objects of consumption move, thereby mapping
the linkages between people and places that define the social organization
of globalization. I hasten to add that these linkages are not always symmet-
rical (indeed, they often presume gross asymmetries and inequalities). Nor
do these linkages extend everywhere; they vary enormously in density and
intensity—some people and places are fully connected to the grid, others
just barely so. Nor are these linkages stable, let alone permanent. Tracking
exercises thus help to resist any temptation to think of globalization as a
“spreading ink stain” (Whatmore and Thorne 1997, 287), that is, as a
steadily accelerating “flow” of everything and everyone across the face of
the planet.
Second, these tracking exercises make it possible to comprehend per-
spectives that people in one place might have on people in another place as
a result of their being aware of each other’s inclusion in the same translo-
cal commodity network. In other words, it becomes possible to trace out a
network of perspectives in which, for example, Maine fishermen alter their
work habits to suit what they imagine to be the tastes and preferences of
Japanese tuna connoisseurs. Or, to take a different kind of example, a net-
work in which residents of Belize watch a satellite broadcast of the Miss
Universe pageant, convinced that their national representative will not win
because the standards of international beauty contests conflict with their
own local standards of beauty (Wilk 1996). A network of perspectives of
this sort communicates something of the ways in which people’s awareness
of who they are and what they are doing is conditioned by their under-
standing of other people’s awareness of who they are and what they are
doing. This expanded condition is perhaps what some commentators
Introduction xvii
&*
worldly thing; a commodity jointly qualified by its producers and its critics
as, for better or worse, quintessentially global. Or perhaps not so strangely,
given that eliding the distinction between home-sweet-home and the
world at large has been one of the most prominent and explicit features of
The Coca-Cola Company’s marketing rhetoric for several generations.
In this book, I examine how both producers (including, especially, mar-
keters) and consumers make, or fail to make, a worldly thing at home (or
make themselves at home with a worldly thing). I pay particular attention
to the strategies by which soft drink companies sought to establish rela-
tions of trust with consumers, especially in the wake of World War II when
The Coca-Cola Company began its massive overseas expansion. I treat this
trust (or confidence) as a function of successfully embedding a product in
a set of localized social relations. Put differently, I treat this trust as an
index of alignment in perspectives—perhaps temporary, perhaps acciden-
tal—between producers and consumers; that is, between agents mobilized
in a network by the singular intention of selling a product and agents
mobilized in the same network by multiple intentions of acquiring and
using a product. Such an alignment, in turn, implies a conjuncture of qual-
ifications, a working relationship between the producers and consumers
(not to mention marketers), who, with different aims and means, qualify
or attribute significance to a product (Callon et al. 2002). In this sense, the
creation of trust is a corollary of the creation of value, the process by which
various agents together evaluate a product in both semiotic and commer-
cial terms. Value creation thus involves more than the labor of producers;
it requires the (evaluative) work of consumers as well. Value creation
occurs as a product circulates through the multiple hands of both produc-
ers and consumers. Likewise, the extraction of surplus value requires more
than deploying the labor power of wage workers; it also requires capturing
the use values attributed to products by consumers—a process achieved in
part through the legal apparatus of copyrights and trademarks, which pro-
tects brands as the abstract property of corporations or other private owners.
I argue that the process of value creation understood in this way helps
make sense not only of how brands ideally connect persons (consumers)
with things (products), but also how the management of this connection
opens up possibilities for political action on the part of both corporations
and consumers. On the one hand, corporations can and do invest in “cor-
porate citizenship” as a strategy for enhancing their reputations and thus
the attractiveness of their brands to consumers (not to mention employees
and investors). On the other hand, consumers use the commercial value of
their brand loyalty to lobby corporations for a variety of goods and serv-
ices, the delivery of which was once presumed to be the obligation and
Introduction xix
of commodities, but also of home. This process of home making, then, also
defines an everyday form of contemporary globalization.
I suggest further in Chapter 1 that reembedding worldly things in local
contexts often requires the establishment of impersonal trust or confi-
dence, an implicit confidence that appears largely in the breach. Such
breaches of confidence—for example, in the case of a product recall or a
consumer boycott—make visible both the network of agents connected by
the product and the disjunctions between the perspectives of these agents.
Yet, even without such breaches, worldly things imply a complex network
of perspectives, a web of connections in which people’s perspectives on
products and on themselves are conditioned by their perspectives on other
people’s perspectives. In fact, it is possible to understand the creation of
value as a function of managing the exigencies of such a network of per-
spectives. For instance, it is by aligning the perspectives of consumers with
those of their own that agents on the supply side of worldly things capture
the value of consumers’ appropriation and use of a product—a compli-
cated way, perhaps, to unpack the notion of “brand loyalty.” Such align-
ments are never guaranteed, of course, and it is one of the perpetual goals
of advertising and marketing to secure such alignments.
Chapter 2 opens with a discussion of the overseas expansion of The
Coca-Cola Company during and after World War II. This expansion—
which included the first appearance of the company in New Guinea—was
among other things an exercise in “glocalization” (Robertson 1995), in
localizing a globally uniform product or combining universalism with par-
ticularism, homogeneity with heterogeneity. The tensions involved in this
exercise surface in the rhetoric of a well-known wartime ad campaign that
publicized Coca-Cola as the “global high-sign,” and also featured a telling
image of first contact between New Guinea islanders and U.S. Navy per-
sonnel. The war produced an uncanny experience (not unlike my own) for
many American soldiers who encountered Coca-Cola bottles—disembed-
ded artifacts of home—in the trenches of Europe and on the beaches of
Pacific islands.
After the war, the company explicitly attempted to fashion itself as a
local business wherever it operated, such that all consumers everywhere
would recognize Coca-Cola as an artifact of their home, however worldly a
thing it might be. This attempt involved not only adjusting advertisements
to various local sensibilities, but also using the franchise system of inde-
pendent bottlers to reembed the product in local social relations (as well as
local supply chains). But the attempt gave way in the 1980s to a new global-
izing impulse, one that involved the consolidation of bottlers and the emer-
gence of global advertising. This impulse yielded, in turn, to a rediscovery of
Introduction xxi
&*
The research for this book has unfolded with major fluctuations in inten-
sity over a period of ten years, in a variety of settings, and with generous
support from institutions, colleagues, and friends. I can effectively describe
elements of the research process by acknowledging and thanking—no
doubt inadequately and incompletely—the many individuals and organi-
zations who contributed to it.
My inquiries in Papua New Guinea took me into the small world of
commercial mass media, where I benefited from informal interviews with
John Taylor, then CEO of EM TV, the nation’s only broadcast television
service. He allowed me access to personnel in the station’s advertising
department and provided videotapes of EM TV-made station breaks. I
benefited from other opportunities to meet and interview people who
worked for and/or owned and managed marketing and advertising firms in
PNG. Andrew Johnston of Pacific View Media was particularly generous in
giving me time for interviews, access to his studio, staff and archive of tel-
evision advertisements, and a grounded sense of the multi-author creative
processes involved in making advertisements for the Papua New Guinea
market. Phil Sawyer of HRD (now HRD/Savi) also furnished me with his
insights as well as the results of some of the only market research on media
Introduction xxv
ention Coca-Cola and Papua New Guinea in the same breath and
M you might very well elicit a reference to The Gods Must Be Crazy. In
the opening scenes of that enormously popular 1980 film, a Coke bottle
tossed from a passing airplane lands amidst a band of hunters and gather-
ers (the !Kung, or San) living in the Kalahari Desert, whom the voice-over
describes as perhaps “the most contented people in the world” (for a criti-
cal discussion of the film, see Gugler 2004). At first, the Coke bottle is hap-
pily and cleverly used as a new tool for accomplishing a variety of familiar
tasks such as curing snakeskins and pounding roots and vegetables. The
“thing” is used expressively as well as instrumentally—to make music and
to print designs on barkcloth. But the found object soon becomes the sin-
gular focus of disruptive desire, causing jealousy and dissension among the
hitherto harmonious band and eventually provoking an anti-Edenic act of
violence. Most of the remainder of the film concerns the efforts of one
man, !Xi, to return the bottle to the gods by taking it to the edge of the
world. !Xi’s journey ludicrously entangles him in the political and personal
antics of other, ethnically and ethically distant South Africans. In the end,
however, !Xi duly redeems both himself and the bottle, gently dropping the
latter off a majestic cliff into the blanket of clouds shrouding the earth
far below.1
4 Coca-Globalization
The camera pans over the altar in the lama’s rooms, full of small oil-burn-
ing lamps, some of which have been fashioned out of empty Coke cans.
Like The Gods Must Be Crazy, The Cup invokes well-worn dichotomies—
east/west, sacred/profane, spirituality/materialism, modernity/tradition—
but only in order to dissolve them. The Coke can first appears as matter out
of place, mammon in the temple, a disturbing sign of how American com-
mercial culture has penetrated the earth’s farthest corners. Yet the Coke can
never actually appears as a can of Coke; it appears first as a soccer ball and
then a candleholder, turned to other uses by the residents, ultimately trans-
formed from a profane instrument of sociality into a vehicle for the sacred.
Here then is the possibility of domestication, of incorporating the foreign
into the familiar (not only the Coke can, but the game of soccer, too) in
such a way that the monks become no less themselves for doing so. This
possibility is the very same one held out momentarily to !Xi before the
Coke bottle exerted its evil effects. In the monastery, however, the possibil-
ity is successfully sustained. The monks do not succumb to a standard
global modernity, but instead produce their own vernacular version—they
make a worldly thing part of their world.
&*
These two films tell two different moral stories about commodity con-
sumption in general and the consumption of worldly things in particular.
The Gods Must Be Crazy suggests that such consumption ought best be
resisted and rejected, since its consequence is nothing less than a fall from
grace. Presumably, then, the preferred course of action is to preserve the
integrity of one’s enclaved world, to subordinate material needs to social
and spiritual ends, to embrace simplicity—in short, to live like a monk. But
not like the monks portrayed in The Cup; these monks see no necessary
contradiction between their devotions to the Dalai Lama and World Cup
soccer. Commodity consumption for these monks—including consump-
tion of satellite television broadcasts and glossy foreign sports maga-
zines—is a means to enhance old identities and to imagine new ones, to
locate themselves uneasily in a borderless community in addition to—
rather than instead of—that of Buddhism. Thus the film’s young protago-
nist and chief soccer enthusiast, Orygen, explains to a newly ordained
young monk, a refugee from Tibet suffering homesickness: “I have no
home. This is all I care about.” Orygen, however, admits his allegiance to
the French national team because France is “the only country that loyally
supports Tibet,” the homeland that Orygen never knew.
6 Coca-Globalization
If you go to Papua New Guinea, from one little valley to the next you’ve got
a totally different people speaking a different language with different cus-
toms. . . . New Guinea is the best example of diversity that you can get. And
cultural diversity is the key to our survival because we adapt to different
places and to different ecosystems and we develop a culture that is suited to
the places where we live . . .
You go to the deepest parts of Papua New Guinea or Africa or South
America, the kids are rocking around in Adidas shorts, they’re wearing Nike
running shoes, they’re listening to Madonna on their Sony transistor and
they’re drinking Coca-Cola. We’re monoculturing the planet . . . Even the
diversity that exists between Holland and Germany and France and England
and Canada—those differences are being over-ridden by this global culture.
consumers into leisure centers, after-school clubs, and meeting halls (Wat-
son 1997). The globalized field of reference thus generates, rather than
eliminates, cultural heterogeneity.
This vision of weak globalization has certain anthropological advan-
tages. Above all, it does not mourn the “loss of culture,” mainly because,
like most anthropologists, it regards culture as constantly in motion, a
changing historical and social process, rather than as inert, a static assem-
blage of traits or customs. More specifically, this view of weak globalization
recognizes two aspects of commodities and commodity consumption that
are crucial to my discussion of soft drinks. First, it implicitly adopts a defi-
nition of objects and images that foregrounds their mutability and never-
quite-finished character. Callon et al.’s (2002, 197) definition of a
product—which I use implicitly throughout this book—is apposite: “A
product . . . is an economic good seen from the point of view of its pro-
duction, circulation and consumption. The concept (producere: to bring
forward) shows that it consists of a sequence of actions, a series of opera-
tions that transform it, move it and cause it to change hands, to cross a
series of metamorphoses that end up putting it into a form judged useful
by an economic agent who pays for it. During these transformations its
characteristics change.” In other words, the product is a variable, a contin-
gent outcome of negotiations—even conflict—around the qualification of
commodities (see Ponte and Gibbon 2005). This process of evaluation, of
qualifying and requalifying products, unfolds at all moments in the life or
career of product—design, manufacture, marketing, use, recycling, and so
forth. But at certain moments, the qualities of a product are stabilized; the
product becomes a “good,” its list of qualities closed and fixed, at least
temporarily.
Second, the vision of “weak globalization” recognizes that consumers
are just as active as any other economic agent—designers or advertisers, for
example—in qualifying products. As Callon et al. (2002, 201) put it: “There
is no reason to believe that agents on the supply side are capable of impos-
ing on consumers both their perception of qualities and the way they grade
those qualities.” Accordingly, the product, understood as a sequence of
transformations or as a process of qualification and requalification (cf.
Munn 1977), links consumers into the different networks coordinating all
the agents involved in production, design, etc.—agents who most likely
never encounter each other face-to-face or even know of each other’s exis-
tence in precise terms: “The product singles out the agents and binds them
together and, reciprocally, it is the agents that, by adjustment, iteration and
transformation, define its characteristics” (Callon et al. 2002, 198). Hence
the product implies a dynamic “economy of qualities,” an economy in
8 Coca-Globalization
which tradable goods in the market are defined by the qualities attributed
to them in successive qualification and requalifications, including those
enacted by consumers.2
These two insights are crucial, and will be developed presently in regard
to the notions of commodity consumption and globalization. But I first
want to be careful to avoid one possible interpretation of the contrast
between “weak globalization” and “strong globalization.” The difference
between these two visions of globalization often motivates a split between
the sentimental pessimism of dependency theory—the rest as victims of
the West—and the simple optimism of cultural pluralism—of celebrating
alternative modernities in which received orientations organize tastes and
preferences for images and objects coming from exogenous sources. If the
former denies all agency to the non-Western peoples it laments, then the
latter risks obscuring the complex ways in which heterogeneity can be
recruited within a homogenizing project. It also risks obscuring the
inequalities among different economic agents bound together by a prod-
uct—inequalities not necessarily in qualifying products, but in determin-
ing which products are available for qualification in the first place as well as
when they are available and to whom. This distinction involves what Mintz
called the difference between inside meanings and outside meanings; the
multiple meanings that various users give to a product as opposed to the
significance of a product for “the history of colonies, commerce, political
intrigue, the making of policy and law” (1986, 167). Mintz cautioned that
considerations of both kinds of meanings are necessary for anthropologi-
cal analyses of commodities (see Chapter 3). Eliding the difference effec-
tively discounts how, for both participants in and observers of globalization,
pessimism and optimism regularly shade into each other.
I suggest, then, another view of commodities and globalization. In this
view, the image of soft drinking Papua New Guineans portends a vernacu-
lar modernity conceived as the creative adaptation by which people make
themselves, but under circumstances not entirely of their own choosing.
Neither alarmist nor celebratory, this view is open and uncertain. The hope
is that such creativity will not be completely eclipsed by the struggle to
contend with the unavoidable features of global modernity—capitalist
markets and bureaucratic states, for example; the fear is that it will. What
one wonders about and refuses to take for granted is the meaning attrib-
uted to the Pepsi bottle or the can of Coke by consumers in Papua New
Guinea or anywhere else. At the same time, however, one never forgets that
meaningful projects of appropriating foreign commodities are themselves
encompassed within social relations among people separated not only by
physical distance but also by interests and resources, cultural as well as
The Social Life of Worldly Things 9
Figure 1.1 Agnes, a Huli woman, poses with a can of cooked rice. Photograph by Holly Wardlow.
10 Coca-Globalization
syncretism. All these tropes point with modest good cheer to emergent
forms of culture, to something new and different resulting from the blend-
ing of hitherto separate elements (for thoughtful reviews of the problems
associated with these terms, see Tomlinson 1999; Friedman 1995; Mintz
1995). These tropes underscore the agency of Papua New Guineans—not
the agency of rational choice, but the agency of symbolic action or inside
meaning-making.
At the same time, however, the very presence of the imported Coke can
and the imported rice bespeak the sort of changes in work (new forms of
wage-labor) and diet (new sources of sugar, salt, and fat) that have accom-
panied the expansion of a market economy in Papua New Guinea—not to
mention the reach of transnational food and beverage corporations. Cheap
foreign foods of dubious nutritional value rival, if not displace, domestic
foods and become available in even the most remote areas of a remote
country (see Chapter 4). The can as rice cooker thus also reminds us of the
institutional dimension of complex connectivity, the structures of capital-
ist social relations and exigencies of outside meanings through which even
“weak globalization” is effected. This sort of reminder often generates pes-
simism, since capitalist social relations are asymmetrical, if not outright
exploitative. This pessimism, in turn, often leads back to an alarmist view
of ineluctably creeping commodification and global monoculture.
The challenge for anthropologists considering the relationships among
globalization, commodity consumption, and culture is to hold world his-
torical structures and contingent, creative agency—as well as pessimism
and optimism—in tension with each other. On the one hand, anthropolo-
gists ought to make it impossible to read the meaning of a Coke can or
Pepsi bottle as an automatic and unambiguous icon of the West (or the
United States), understood as either purveyor of cultural imperialism or
bearer of liberating consumer choice. On the other hand, it is also incum-
bent upon anthropologists to trace out the chain of social relations, exten-
sive in space and time, within which perspectives on commodities take
shape—the networks of economic agents conditioning the possibilities for
making meaning and for imbuing or qualifying products with significance
(cf. Friedman 1995, 87). How are we to think about both commodity con-
sumption and globalization in order to meet this challenge?
can usefully be theorized in parallel terms. That is, consumption and glob-
alization can be taken to describe analogous and often overlapping dialec-
tical processes. In the case of consumption, a process of “objectification
and appropriation” exposes the mutability of commodities, symbolically as
well as materially. In the case of globalization, a process of “disembedding
and reembedding” exposes the mutability of localized social settings or
“homes”—their openness to the effects of absent as well as physically pres-
ent agents. It is through these twin processes, I suggest, that people produce
meaning, for themselves and for others, and variously entangle locally situ-
ated lifeworlds in social relations stretched across space and through time.
and even a restored vending machine. Passersby who observe the Coca-
Cola bottle-shaped mailbox sometimes stop and knock on the door, asking
to buy something. “‘No, this isn’t a store,’ Callahan beams. ‘This is my
home’” (“Soft Drink Collection a Big Hit” 1999). Thus the line between
intimate domesticity and impersonal marketplace disappears as items
associated with perhaps the most global of global commodities become the
comforts of one woman’s home. The results are not unambiguous: what
are we to make of the convergence between Nancy Callahan’s self-cultiva-
tion and the marketing of the world’s most valuable brand? What or whom
does “the Coca-Cola house” objectify? And for whom?
The observation that impersonal commodities are frequently personal-
ized has been theorized in other ways. It is entailed, for example, in the
classic opposition between commodities and gifts and the observed trans-
formations of the former into the latter. The most impersonal commodity
can be turned into a personal gift, and vice-versa. Commodities, by this
account, have histories, or, as Kopytoff (1986) puts it, biographies. That is,
the meaning of a commodity must always be understood in terms of the
different social contexts through which the commodity might pass during
its life. This notion of a commodity biography clearly resonates with the
claim that a product is the contingent outcome of a constant process of
qualification and requalification (Callon et al. 2002). François Girard’s
1998 film, The Red Violin, is nothing less than an epic if fictional account of
gift and commodity transformations in which a single exquisite violin fur-
nishes the material vehicle for unfolding the dramas of its various owners
over hundreds of years. These dramas put the violin in the context of
world-historical events ranging from the Protestant Reformation to the
Cultural Revolution. The film culminates with the efforts of an expert
appraiser, sensitive to the accumulated history of the violin, to rescue the
instrument from being auctioned—to prevent the significance of a unique
object encrusted with a rich social life from being expressed generically as
a price. Successful in his efforts, the appraiser presents the violin to his
young daughter, extending its life as a gift from parent to child and thus
realizing at last the intention, tragically frustrated centuries earlier, of the
violin’s original maker.
Commodity biographies can be traced retrospectively if not always pre-
dicted, and such tracings will reveal odd mutations and even pleasing
ironies like those achieved in The Cup. Hence the following item from the
Sydney Morning Herald (Richards 1993), one of the rare reports besides this
one that speaks simultaneously of Coca-Cola and Papua New Guinea. Dur-
ing World War II, the New Guinea islands were the site of a Coca-Cola bot-
tling plant, the glass bottles shipped from the United States (see Chapter 2).
The Social Life of Worldly Things 13
net bags” (1986, 8). Consumer objects thus become remade locally—not
only the objects themselves, but their brand imagery as well.
Consider the following image (see Figure 1.2) of Kaipel Ka, a part-time
sign-painter who lives in the Wahgi Valley of highlands Papua New Guinea.
Consider not his Coca-Cola shirt, but instead the war shield that he deco-
rated with the handsome logo of South Pacific Export Lager and the more
modest logo of SP Bia (South Pacific Beer), the domestic brew. The image
comes from Michael O’Hanlon’s remarkable book, Paradise: Portraying the
New Guinea Highlands, a catalogue published by the British Museum in
conjunction with an exhibit that O’Hanlon curated. The caption next to
that image says: “Kaipel Ka sometimes fought alongside his maternal kin
and so decorated his own shield with the South Pacific beer logo otherwise
used on theirs” (O’Hanlon 1993; Plate 14).
Figure 1.2 Kaipel Ka poses with a war shield that he painted. Photograph by Michael O’Hanlon, Pitt
Rivers Museum, Oxford University.
16 Coca-Globalization
Kaipel’s own explanation of his use of the SP design was that he had been
asked by senior men to incorporate a representation of a beer bottle on the
shield, to make the point that “it was beer alone which had precipitated this
fighting.” (The war followed the breakdown of negotiations for compensa-
tion after an inebriated Senglap [clan] man had fallen from a Dange [clan]-
owned vehicle.) Rather than including a picture of a beer bottle, Kaipel
decided instead to make the point by using the SP design as a whole.
At one level, then, this design parallels those that express regret. At
another level, there is also something appropriate in the use of beer. Beer
drinking is often a “group” matter, just as warfare is. As Marie Reay observes
(1982:164) “Clansmen fight together; they also drink together.”
Thus O’Hanlon makes the point that the shield design signals another real-
ity, a set of alternative principles for thinking about and representing cor-
porate associations.
My point is that this “other reality” is the sociocultural context into
which both the general activity of beer drinking and the specific image of
the SP Export logo are appropriated. Neither the activity nor the image
here comprise intrinsic features of wholly new contexts; they are instead
adapted to familiar and prior contexts of warfare, as close inspection of
Kaipel Ka’s design suggests. The actual official logo of SP Export presents
one bird of paradise; Kaipel Ka’s shield depicts two birds. O’Hanlon again:
“‘Raggiana bird of paradise war’ is the term for the most bitter type of con-
flict. The fact that a pair of birds . . . was represented . . . was also suggestive,
since pairing is a characteristic Wahgi practice, and the groups who fight
‘Raggiana bird of paradise’ war are listed in pairs” (O’Hanlon 1993, 69).
Thus one of O’Hanlon’s friends interpreted the shield in intelligible local
terms as a warning that the war between Senglap and Dange clans was in
danger of escalating to bird of paradise proportions.
For Kaipel Ka, the beer design was neither an instance of creeping
monoculture nor an ironic combination of global and local, strange and
familiar elements. It was, from his perspective, an artifact of his world,
wholly intelligible in terms of a given set of cultural conventions. This
approach to cross-cultural consumption has been taken by Nicholas
Thomas (1991) in his historical study of the ways that Pacific Islanders
engaged the material culture of European traders, missionaries, and explor-
ers during their initial encounters. Thomas also looks at how Europeans
engaged the material culture of Pacific Islanders, appropriating artifacts as
The Social Life of Worldly Things 17
localities.” The spread of global modernity and the local fashioning of ver-
nacular modernities necessarily imply each other.
It is, as I have suggested, the creativity of reembedding that tends to cap-
ture the attention of anthropologists looking at cross-cultural consump-
tion, perhaps because such reembedding defamiliarizes everyday
commodity culture for Western audiences. Hence the appeal of a film like
Trobriand Cricket to a generation of anthropologists and their students; for
the film celebrates the colorful localization of a missionary-imported game
by Papuan islanders intent on promoting their own home-grown ideas
about fair play (see Foster 2006). Thus, too, the appeal of an article like the
one by Tod Robberson that appeared on January 31, 1994, in the Washing-
ton Post, titled “When It Comes to Cola in Southern Mexico, Pepsi’s the
Rite One.” Robberson reports how Tzeltal Mayan elders in Tenejapa under-
take a monthly day of fasting in which they enter into conversation with
God. The ceremony requires the elders to imbibe poch, a rum-like liquor
made from corn, and, as a chaser, Pepsi-Cola. While no one could explain
to Robberson how Pepsi became part of the ritual, everyone seemed to
insist that only Pepsi—no other beverage, and especially not Coca-Cola—
will do. Similarly, Robberson notes, nearby Tzotzil Mayan worshippers at a
Catholic church in San Juan Chamula offer soft drinks—mostly Pepsi, but
Coke and Squirt, too—to their favorite saints by waving bottles over
dozens of lit candles and chanting in the Tzotzil dialect. There, Matt Mof-
fett reported, the Indians were told by religious leaders that the gas in soft
drinks “expels evil spirits and purifies the soul.” Or, as one Indian is said to
have told an anthropologist: “When men burp, their hearts open up” (Mof-
fett 1988; see also Belew 2003; Pilcher 2002).
Robberson’s conclusion about the cola wars taking on “social and polit-
ical dimensions beyond the wildest dreams” of American corporate execu-
tives is no doubt justified. Both Robberson and Moffett also make it clear
that these creative acts of reembedding unfold within a definite set of
power relations that link local cola consumption to diverse national and
transnational networks. Moffett, for instance, noted that the local Pepsi
distributorship was in the hands of Salvador Lopez Castellanos, a political
and religious strongman appointed cacique (chief or boss) by the then rul-
ing Institutional Revolutionary Party (PRI). Lopez Castellanos, known as
Tushum to the Indians, was one of a handful of ambitious young Indians
chosen by the PRI as protégés, taught Spanish in order to dominate con-
tacts with outsiders, and encouraged to sponsor important religious festi-
vals at home in order to gain prestige. Tushum controlled not only the
business life but also the political life of the village.3
The Social Life of Worldly Things 21
One way of addressing this question would be to turn to the already estab-
lished study of commodity chains, that is, the linked processes through
which land, labor, and tools are brought together in the production of
some consumable good. Such studies—which tend not to regard con-
sumption as anything more than the end of the chain—are strongly iden-
tified with the sociological tradition of world systems theory developed by
Immanuel Wallerstein. Hopkins and Wallerstein (1986, 159; quoted in
1994a, 17) thus define a commodity chain as “a network of labor and pro-
duction processes whose end result is a finished commodity.” In this view,
any commodity chain holds a total amount of appropriated surplus
value—a total amount that is unevenly distributed along the entire
chain. In fact, this uneven distribution of value practically distinguishes
the periphery of the world system from the core, where surplus value is
accumulated.
But the study of global soft drink commodity chains must begin by
admitting that what moves along them is, above all, meaning. The obser-
vation is not new. Bill Backer, the creative force who devised the “Things
Go Better With Coke” and “It’s the Real Thing” campaigns, once noted that
“the product of the Coca-Cola Company is not Coca-Cola—that makes
itself. The product of the Coca-Cola Company is advertising” (Louis and
Yazijian 1980, 148; see Backer 1993). The contrast between the simple
material composition of soft drinks—sugar and water—and the elaborate
qualifications imputed to these drinks is jarring. From the beginning,
Coca-Cola and Pepsi-Cola were primarily marketing companies with huge
advertising budgets devoted to manufacturing meaning for brown sugar
water. William Durkee, a marketing vice president, used to insist that
Pepsi-Cola was a marketing organization, not a sales organization, claim-
ing that even the secret concentrate for making soft drinks was not sold to
bottlers, but instead simply ordered as needed (“New Marketing Plan”
1959). Put differently, it is the brand—its imagery and associations—
rather than component parts or outsourced handiwork that makes its way
The Social Life of Worldly Things 23
Coca-Cola. The result was one of the largest consumer product recalls in
history, a charge of $103 million to the second-quarter earnings of Coke’s
bottling operation (Coca-Cola Enterprises, Inc.). Millions more were spent
on a “Coke’s Back” public relations campaign—beach parties, rock con-
certs, and free handouts as well as the appearance of Coke representatives
in grocery stores to speak directly with consumers—all to restore implicit
trust in the world’s most famous brand.5
Breakdowns in confidence can be thought of as disjunctures in perspec-
tive; just as in personal trust relations, a mutual inability to align one’s per-
spective with that of the other.6 Accordingly, we can also think of a
commodity chain or the network that takes shape around a product as a
network of perspectives. This notion of a network of perspectives—which
derives from the work of Ulf Hannerz (1992a, 1992b)—is especially useful
in tracing the commodity chains of worldly things such as soft drinks, in
which the meanings of brands figure so centrally. Hannerz has gone fur-
ther, suggesting that we use the metaphor of networks to describe the cul-
tural economy of globalization; in other words, that we create a sociology
of diffusion by tracing the various relationships—or social networks—
through which ideas and images (meanings) circulate. These networks
include not only enduring personal relationships sustained through new
non-mass media technologies such as fax and e-mail, but also impersonal
encounters with mass media, commoditized popular culture and educa-
tional systems, and fleeting interactions with sundry transnationally
mobile individuals—tourists, migrants, and even anthropologists. We
might thus think of culture as distributed through either a single large and
complex network or, perhaps, a global network of networks. The latter
possibility makes it clearer how the differential distribution of culture takes
shape as lived experience. I quote Hannerz at length on this point:
Under such conditions, people are aware of others whose perspectives they
do not share, and know that they do not share. This is one way to describe
the phenomenon of relativized consciousness and heightened reflexivity—
or the awareness of spectral relations that Giddens notes—frequently asso-
ciated with globalization.
26 Coca-Globalization
For Elizabeth Solomon, thinking about soft drinks is bound up with think-
ing about the uncertain future of her family and former students. Asked
what came to mind when she heard the word Pepsi, she replied, “I usually
imagine how my children are getting on. This is especially for young peo-
ple who will get hooked with white man’s culture and forget what and how
I taught them to be. Simply—how my children will survive trying to imi-
tate a white man’s culture.”
Thinking about Coke and Pepsi leads Elizabeth Solomon to think about
“white man’s culture” in general (see Bashkow 2006). No one will confuse
her soft drink perspective on globalization with that of Douglas Daft,
despite perhaps a shared concern with the tastes and preferences of the
world’s young consumers. What strikes me, however, is not so much the
difference as its presupposition: both Douglas Daft in Atlanta and Eliza-
beth Solomon in Port Moresby occupy positions within the same “com-
modity-scape” (cf. Appadurai 1996). That is, these two individuals are
indeed connected by a product, a brand-name commodity, though each
imagines and qualifies both these connections and the commodity itself in
radically discordant ways. Their different locations within the global soft
drink commodity-scape clearly afford different perspectives. Elizabeth
Solomon declines to appropriate and thus to see herself in soft drinks. She
refuses to embed soft drinks in her most intimate domestic relations; they
remain for her an alien object, a worldly thing with which she does not feel
at home.
28 Coca-Globalization
The fact that worldly things such as Coca-Cola circulate within spatially
extensive commodity chains exposes their brand owners to the sort of
problem created by the Elizabeth Solomons of the world. What happens if
the perspectives of global brand managers (in one place) and consumers
(in other places) do not align with each other?7 Consumers might never-
theless purchase and use branded commodities, as do apparently Trinida-
dian consumers of Coca-Cola, but for reasons that remain inaccessible or
opaque to brand managers. But consumers might also remain indifferent
or even hostile to a brand image that seems appealing and appropriate
from the perspective of the brand’s managers. This mismatch in perspec-
tives is now seen by some advertising experts—experts who seek the
implicit trust of brand users—as a direct threat to the future viability of the
brand (and the profits that the brand generates for its owners). This per-
ceived threat, in turn, reveals something about the main source of value of
certain worldly things—a source that lies not in productive labor, but,
rather, in consumption work.
Kevin Roberts, CEO Worldwide of the advertising agency Saatchi &
Saatchi, has addressed the threat of mismatched perspectives and hence
disconnections in the consumer/brand relationship in his book, Love-
marks: The Future Beyond Brands, and on his Web site, http://www
.lovemarks.com. According to Roberts, “brands have run out of juice,” and
the challenge is to find an idea that will “take brands to the next level of
evolution.” For Roberts, that idea is Lovemarks. Roberts tells potential
clients that anything can be a Lovemark. Indeed, he makes his pitch by way
of examples that include the Tide brand of laundry detergent, the educa-
tional institution known as Cambridge University, and the European
nation-state of Italy. Lovemarks require, in effect, the reinvention of peo-
ple, products, services, and institutions as “super-evolved brands,” all of
which possess the following characteristics: Lovemarks connect your com-
pany, your people, and your brands; Lovemarks inspire loyalty beyond rea-
son; Lovemarks belong to your customers; Lovemarks are the ultimate
premium profit generator.
The idea of Lovemarks implies that the value of a branded object there-
fore derives from, minimally, two sources. On the one hand, there is the
labor of the producers. Looked at from this angle, consumer-goods com-
modity chains often present cases of extreme commoditization. The labor
of some of the producers in the chain—assembly workers in apparel sweat-
shops, for example—is, above all, generic (unskilled) and cheap. Various tac-
tics ensure that this labor stays generic and cheap, from physical coercion of
The Social Life of Worldly Things 29
Glocalizing Coca-Cola
The Multilocal Multinational Corporation
In short, when you’re fundamentally in the relationship business,
trust is the essential first condition.
—Douglas Daft, 2003 Summary Annual Report
of The Coca-Cola Company
“glocalization.” Robertson furthermore points out that there are many dif-
ferent practical modes of glocalization, some of which—as in the strategies
of contemporary global marketers of products ranging from McDonald’s
lamb burgers in India to Gillette Lady Sensor Excel razors in Japan (Maynard
2003)—involve “ongoing, calculated attempts to combine homogeneity with
heterogeneity and universalism with particularism” (1995, 27).
Although the words “glocal” and “glocalization” became a part of trendy
business jargon in the 1980s, the concerns that these words denote were
already apparent to officials of The Coca-Cola Company. Since the 1930s,
but especially since World War II, these officials used both institutional and
ideological means to define their product as simultaneously local and
global. In retrospect, it is possible to detect periodic shifts in emphasis.
During the immediate postwar period and into the 1960s, the concern to
localize Coca-Cola products tempered the urge to foreground their
increasingly global presence. From the 1970s and into the 1990s, an explicit
globalism dominated company rhetoric and policy. With the appointment
of Douglas Daft as CEO in 2000, the company announced a renewed con-
cern with the local, a withdrawal from an aggressively singular global strat-
egy of marketing and a heightened sensitivity to multiple local differences
in tastes and preferences. This new or revived concern for the local also
implied a significant reorganization of corporate structure, a decentraliza-
tion of decision-making intended to make operations more responsive to
fast changing local situations.
The global diffusion of Coca-Cola, and soft drink consumption more
generally, can thus be understood in terms akin to the dialectics of disem-
bedding and reembedding (Chapter 1). A particular consumer item was
lifted out of its home social context and inserted into new and different
localized social contexts, which thereby became enmeshed in a spatially
extensive commodity network. Put differently, a particular product was
qualified in such a way as to bind new economic agents into a longer net-
work (Callon et al. 2002). In order for such reinsertions to be successful, a
certain amount of trust or confidence needs to be generated.2 From the
supply-side, reembedding is all about confidence and familiarity, about
enabling consumers to make themselves feel at home with new consumer
goods. For a multinational corporation selling one product in one package
worldwide (which The Coca-Cola Company did until around 1960), the
marketing question then becomes one of how to recognize and even exploit
local social and cultural diversity—how, in other words, to be multilocal.
This marketing question is equally a question of global culture—a ques-
tion of how local diversity comes to be not only recognized as “already there,”
but also imagined, organized, and constituted (by corporate executives and
36 Coca-Globalization
Although The Coca-Cola Company has traditionally and mainly sold its
famous concentrate and syrup to independent bottlers and fountain cus-
tomers, the company took an early and active interest in opening up and
developing foreign markets. Coca-Cola was bottled outside the United
States as early as 1906 with the opening of a plant in Havana, but expansion
into overseas markets began in earnest in 1926 when legendary Coke Pres-
ident Robert Woodruff established a foreign department. By then, com-
pany technicians were developing a way to condense syrup into a more
easily shipped powdered concentrate without sugar (Pendergrast 1993,
172). Plants lacking easy access to cane sugar were able to use beet sugar,
for which Woodruff had commissioned an international team of scientists
to develop a refining process (Louis and Yazijian 1980, 47). The following
year, Woodruff formed The Coca-Cola Export Corporation to replace the
foreign department, planning to build facilities worldwide to manufacture
concentrate (by 1972, the company had twenty-eight such principal plants
[“How Coke Runs a Foreign Empire” 1973]). Only the secret flavoring
ingredients (“7X” or “Merchandise 7”) and extracts of kola nuts and de-
cocainized coca leaves (“Merchandise 5”) would then have to be exported
(Pendergrast 1993, 188). In 1930, more than sixty bottling plants operated
in twenty-eight different countries (Louis and Yazijian 1980, 47).
At the outbreak of World War II, The Coca-Cola Company had estab-
lished small and scattered overseas operations in South America, Australia,
and Asia—the Shanghai bottling plant was first to reach the mark of ten
thousand gallons of syrup—as well as in Canada and Europe. In some
places, its presence was already strong: twenty-eight plants bottled Coca-
Cola in Germany and nine more were under construction (Bell n.d., Mark
Pendergrast Research Files, box 25, item 7). Nor did the war interrupt the
transformation of the company into a multinational business (even or
especially in Germany; see Pendergrast 1993, ch. 13). On the contrary, this
transformation accelerated when the company arranged with the U.S. gov-
ernment and military to supply Coca-Cola to the 15 million men and
38 Coca-Globalization
runs from the Philippines. After the war, the equipment was purchased for
the renewed operations in Sydney, where Coca-Cola had been unavailable
to civilians since 1942.
While vast amounts of Coca-Cola were produced and consumed in
New Guinea, it remains unclear how much reached the hands of local peo-
ple. One TO, writing from the island of New Britain in August 1944,
observed, “I haven’t seen many future ‘Coca-Cola’ drinkers at either place
except our own Army boys. The natives are few and far between.” But, as
the remark makes clear, TOs were imagining local people as future con-
sumers and New Guinea as a new market, even if in a patronizing way.
Hence another TO’s account of one New Guinea man’s first contact with a
Coca-Cola:
One of the interesting things that impresses people overseas about the
American fighting man is his friendliness among his fellows. Everywhere
they see Americans bringing with them their customs and home-ways—
their own brand of open heartedness. Have a Coke, foreigners hear the G.I.
say when he wants to be friendly, and they begin to understand what Amer-
ica means. For in this simple gesture is some of the essence of Main Street
and the family fireside. Yes, the custom of the pause that refreshes with ice-
cold Coca-Cola helps show the world the friendliness of American ways.
a small minority of critics who asked, “What do they think this war is—the
cause that refreshes?” (Pendergrast 1993, 201).
The ultimate success of nationalizing Coca-Cola also manifested itself
dramatically, sometimes poignantly, in the testimonials of soldiers serving
overseas (see Weiner 2002). These testimonials often equated Coca-Cola
with America by identifying the pair as precisely what the soldiers were
fighting to defend. Col. Robert L. Scott, author of God is My Co-Pilot, thus
pointed to his thoughts of “America, Democracy and Coca-Colas” as the
motivation to “shoot down my first Jap” (cited in Pendergrast 1993, 211).
But these testimonials also expressed a symbolic equation of Coca-Cola
with “home”—home remembered in terms less encompassing and more
intimate than those of political ideologies. For example, “to have this drink
is just like having home brought nearer to you; it’s one of the little things of
life that really counts. I can remember being at Ponce de Leon Park, watch-
ing the [Atlanta] Crackers play baseball as I filled up on Coca-Cola and
peanuts. It’s things such as this that all of us are fighting for” (Pendergrast
1993, 210).
Wartime ads also described The Coca-Cola Company’s project as bring-
ing home to soldiers overseas (“a bit of America that has travelled ‘round
the globe,” as one ad put it). Conversely, the ads depicted uniformed sol-
diers on furlough telling stories of distant lands in “the old neighborhood
soda fountain.” The oddity of a cold Coke in Manus was juxtaposed with
the oddity of a uniformed combat pilot sitting at the lunch counter of the
corner drug store. People and things, army captains and Coke bottles, seem
to have traded places.
The encounter with Coca-Cola in unfamiliar surroundings—not just
European cities, but foxholes on South Pacific islands—surely reinforced
the association between Coca-Cola and America. But it also evinced aston-
ishment at the massive delocalization involved—the disembedding of
homely matter from its familiar context and the stretching of social rela-
tions over vast distances. Indeed, some of the wartime testimonials can be
read as confessions of shock and awe at the possibility and extent of this
“distanciation”: “The crowning touch to your Christmas packages was the
bottled Coca-Cola. How did you ever think of sending them? To have it
here and turn up the bottle and see ‘Ronceverte, W. V.,’ on the bottom was
an added thrill” (Pendergrast 1993, 210). This disembedding of the local—
and its reembedding in wholly new settings—was comforting and estrang-
ing at the same time—the kind of experience American tourists report
today when they stumble across a Pizza Hut in Karachi. One striking mate-
rial embodiment of this ambivalence took shape in the men’s room of a
Navy officer’s club in the New Hebrides (today the Pacific island nation of
42 Coca-Globalization
Figure 2.2 Dancers at the 2006 Goroka Show. Photograph by Jan Hoeksema.
46 Coca-Globalization
fever . . . against corrupt politicians, against bad roads and against gang-
sterism.” To be against Coke, then, was to be for a life of premodern, if not
downright primitive conditions.
At the end of World War II, the overseas business of The Coca-Cola Com-
pany was expanding rapidly. Twenty-nine of the sixty-four “emergency”
bottling plants were still active, serving the armed forces in occupied Ger-
many and Japan. Three hundred and fifty-four bottlers operated outside
the United States in 1948, compared with 1,056 domestic bottlers, but J. F.
Curtis, president of the Export Corporation, predicted that within five
years the number of foreign bottlers would exceed the domestic total: “In
the past year we have added 76 new bottlers in 28 countries. Moreover, we
are now processing more than a thousand serious inquiries about Bottler’s
Agreements from 118 countries or geographical units” (1948, 5). It is
hardly surprising, then, that by 1950 the global reach of Coca-Cola—its
manifest destiny as a multinational corporation—had become a topic of
public interest. A famous Time magazine cover article represented the
company’s overseas spread as a form of benign empire, a confident sign of
U.S. postwar leadership: “To find something as thoroughly native Ameri-
can hawked in half a hundred languages on all the world’s crossroads from
Arequipa to Zwolle is still strangely anomalous, somewhat like reading
Dick Tracy in French or seeing a Japanese actor made up like Abraham Lin-
coln. But it is reassuring. It is also simpler, sharper evidence than the Mar-
shall Plan or a Voice of America broadcast that the U.S. has gone out into
the world to stay” (“The Sun Never Sets on Cacola” 1950 [see Figure 2.3]).
The consternation confessed by the Time article springs from the recog-
nition that something as “native American” as Coke could be stripped of its
national identity and assimilated into multiple local contexts. But that very
possibility was the explicit objective of The Coca-Cola Export Company’s
policy of multilocalism. The goal was to make Coca-Cola an integral part
of people’s everyday lives wherever they might be, to weave the product
into the “pattern and customs of every land,” as one recurring metaphor
would have it. Indeed, Pendergrast (1993, 480n) reports that by the mid-
1950s, the word “export” in the subsidiary company’s title had become an
unwanted reminder of the drink’s American origin and company officials
discussed changing the name. Already by 1950, a third of The Coca-Cola
Company’s profits came from “foreign” business, and only one percent of
Coca-Cola Export employees (a total of six thousand in 1948; Curtis 1948)
were American. Thus, the story of Coca-Cola’s expansion overseas is as
48 Coca-Globalization
Figure 2.3 Cover of Time, May 15, 1950. TIME Magazine © 1950 Time Inc. Reprinted with permission.
Since 1886, when Coca-Cola first made its appearance, the Company has
remained primarily the manufacturer of the syrup, or concentrate. It oper-
ates only a certain few bottling plants in various parts of the world, and these
Glocalizing Coca-Cola 49
for pioneering purposes. The bottling of the product has remained primarily
what it always was—the enterprise of independent businessmen residing in
the community and operating with their own capital. The retailing of the
product is strictly the business of hundreds of thousands of dealers—shop-
keepers, small merchants, vendors. The profit structure of Coca-Cola is such
that the dealers receive the largest share, the bottlers the next largest and the
Company the smallest share (Coca-Cola Overseas, October 1948, p. 1).
On arrival the children were taken step by step through the bottling opera-
tion and then given ice-cold “Coca-Cola.” They were shown the film
“Refreshment Through the Years,” and given a copy of the booklet “The
Romance of Coca-Cola” and a souvenir pencil.
Headmasters and teachers encouraged the pupils to describe in writing
their visit. Pen and pencil sets were offered as prizes by the bottler for the
best essay written each week.
better with Fanta Orange and a range of flavors and with Sprite because
generally there has been a local soft drink industry that has been built
around flavors. It takes a while for new consumers who have not experi-
enced Coca-Cola to accept and get used to the taste” (Mark Pendergrast
Research Files, box 29, item 13). Hunter explained that it is easier for new
consumers to “get into the soft drink culture with flavors than it is with
Coca-Cola” (a lesson that former CEO Douglas Daft liked to say he learned
the hard way in Indonesia). This is especially true if there is no refrigera-
tion available: “A Fanta Orange or Sprite tastes better warm than does a
Coca-Cola.” Hence the introduction of Coca-Cola into new markets
requires the development of what Hunter called “an ice cold culture,” a tra-
dition of drinking beverages ice cold.
Accommodations to local markets nevertheless took place within a gen-
eral effort to make a product that would look and taste invariably the same
the world over. This effort entailed both standardized procedures for man-
ufacturing the drink and participation in a corporate culture that tran-
scended local, national, and regional differences. According to the 1950
Time magazine article, this culture was formulated and dispensed in the
training of “field men” in charge of sales promotion who in turn educated
foreign bottlers. Training involved, among other activities, a two-week stint
at the central production school in Atlanta and time spent working in U.S.
plants at every job involved in bottling. In the field, sales promotion men
not only advised bottlers on the design of plants and machinery to pur-
chase, but also on how driver-salesmen ought to present themselves and
their products to retail clients. The management of meaning—of brand
image—was precise and deliberate, creating an orientation to the product
itself that bordered on unabashed commodity fetishism. At a 1954 conven-
tion of bottlers assembled for the twenty-fifth anniversary of Coca-Cola in
Germany, the audience heard a gigantic Coca-Cola bottle speak from the
center of the stage: “I am the object of your strivings; the hub about which
everything on this day of celebration rotates . . . I am not just a commod-
ity, I am unique of my kind. I am ‘Coca-Cola,’ vigorous with life and more
than a mere shape” (“25 Years of ‘Coca-Cola’ in Germany!” 1954).
The company’s culture of quality control was still very much on display
during a visit that I made in April 2000 with two colleagues to a CCA-
owned plant in Lae, Papua New Guinea (see Figure 2.4; see Errington and
Gewertz 2004 for an account). And this culture exerted direct and power-
ful effects on the local portion of the product network, for the sugar used
in all the company’s products made and sold in PNG then came from the
canefields of Ramu Sugar Ltd. (RSL), just a two-hour drive away. This
arrangement had grown out of a general policy of import substitution and
54 Coca-Globalization
Figure 2.4 Coca-Cola Amatil bottling plant in Lae, Papua New Guinea, April 2000.
a specific monopoly granted to RSL by the PNG state which, after 1997,
gave way to a scheme of heavy but gradually decreasing tariff protection for
the domestic sugar industry. By the end of the 1990s, CCA’s purchases of
sugar from RSL—the only sweeteners used in PNG-made products of the
company—accounted for as much as 25 percent of RSL’s total production
(Errington and Gewertz 2004, 228).
Nevertheless, the relationship between RSL and CCA was often trou-
bled by questions of quality. During our visit, David Lane, technical oper-
ations manager for both of CCA’s plants in PNG, expressed dissatisfaction
with the quality of RSL’s mill-white sugar. He claimed that mill-white
sugar, as opposed to refined sugar, adversely affects the taste and color of
soft drinks, especially the color, which is crucially important in drinks like
Sprite that require crystal clarity in the liquid. RSL sugar was simply not,
in Lane’s opinion, up to the rigorous standards of The Coca-Cola
Company—despite efforts on the part of CCA to use special filters (see
Errington and Gewertz 2004, 229). Yet, Lane readily admitted that he had
not received any complaints from PNG consumers. Instead, his concerns
seemed to be motivated by both the dictates of company inspectors and his
own personal craft ethic, according to which he favored the high quality
Glocalizing Coca-Cola 55
people are exposed to it, and I’m living proof, they like drinking it” (Greis-
ing 1998, 177).
Eight servings of something every day: here is an impersonal, homoge-
nizing, almost dehumanizing rhetoric that foregrounds concerns with
increasing “share of stomach” and comparative per-capita consumption
rates. It is a particular soft drink perspective on globalization, the title of an
address Goizueta made in 1989 to the Town Hall of California in Los Ange-
les, a perspective that at the time disproportionately shaped the network of
perspectives associated with Coca-Cola’s global commodity chain. In his
address, Goizueta listed some of the reasons why companies such as his
own ought to think in terms of a single global marketplace: rising dispos-
able income around the world; the decreasing average age of the world’s
population outside the United States and Europe; and the increasing ease
with which the world’s markets could now be reached. Most importantly,
Goizueta noted, contrary to critics of Coca-colonization and American
cultural hegemony, the world’s consumers have taken advantage of their
newfound economic and political freedom to pick and choose the prod-
ucts that they find most appealing. In so doing, Goizueta suggested, con-
sumers themselves, through countless individual acts of appropriation and
tireless consumption work, have internationalized certain products,
including Coca-Cola.
Goizueta’s point was in many ways my point, namely, “that people
around the world are today connected to each other by brand-name con-
sumer products as much as by anything else” (1989, 361). But whereas I
regard the nature and significance of these connections as an open ques-
tion, Goizueta already saw them as plain evidence of what Theodore
Levitt—an influential Harvard business professor—called the convergence
of consciousness “towards global commonality and modernity, cos-
mopolizing preferences and homogenizing consumption” (quoted in
Goizueta 1989, 361).12 Thus Goizueta informed readers of The Coca-Cola
Company’s 1991 Annual Report of Levitt’s main conclusion: “In many
important ways, the world’s markets are also becoming more alike. Every
corner of the free world is increasingly subjected to intense and similar
communications: commercial, cultural, social and hard news . . . Tokyo,
London, New York and Los Angeles resemble each other today far more
than they did 25 years ago, in large part because their residents’ tastes in
consumer products have converged.” Levitt contended that “convergence
of consciousness,” driven largely by the globalization of media, produces in
effect “heteroconsumers”: “People who’ve become increasingly alike and
indistinct from one another, and yet have simultaneously varied and mul-
tiple preferences” (Levitt 1988, 8). He would thus understand and probably
64 Coca-Globalization
Goizueta used to open his 1996 address to shareowners (taken from The
Coca-Cola Company’s home page on the World Wide Web):
By the end of the Goizueta era at Coca-Cola, the company had tri-
umphed handily over its rival Pepsi-Cola in just about every market outside
the United States—a market share of 48 percent compared to Pepsi’s 17 per-
cent. In Venezuela, the one Latin American country where Pepsi outsold Coke
by far, Pepsi’s local bottler—eighteen plants owned by the powerful Cis-
neros Group of Companies—abruptly entered into a joint venture with
Coca-Cola in 1996. (PepsiCo sued Coca-Cola and won $94 million in dam-
ages from an international arbitration court [Hays 1998a]). In Peru, Inca
Kola—a yellow, lemon grass–flavored drink regarded by some as a distinc-
tive accompaniment to local “criollo” cuisine—was acquired by The Coca-
Cola Company. The company had returned not only to India in 1993,
which it had departed in 1977 when pressed by the newly elected socialist
government to transfer technology that included Coke’s secret formula of
ingredients, but also to the Middle East in 1994. By 1999, it had regained
regional market leadership from Pepsi, which once had 95 percent share of
the market for carbonated soft drinks (“A Report from the Middle East”
1999). In Papua New Guinea, the acquisition of Schweppes brands by
Coca-Cola forced their bottler, South Pacific Brewery, which also bottled
Pepsi-Cola and its brands, to give up the soft drink franchise altogether.15
At the start of the new century, then, Coca-Cola enjoyed an almost uncon-
tested monopoly on soft drinks in PNG (almost, since Pepsi products
imported from Australia are still available in some supermarkets). Coca-
Cola was clearly the winning member of the international soft drink duop-
oly. If there were any challenges to its future preeminence, they appeared to
be coming not from Pepsi-Cola as much as from emerging consumer pref-
erences for noncarbonated, nonalcoholic beverages.
Each and every year, particularly in the soft drink season in the summer in a
market like Tokyo you can get between 600 and 800 new product package
introductions in the summer period. Some of these people only gear up to
be there for the 3 or 4 months of summer then they disappear for the rest of
the year. A few of them stick through the year but the Japanese dealer and the
Japanese consumer has always been intrigued by something new, something
fashionable. There is a great demand for a variety of products to offer con-
sumers in Japan. (Mark Pendergrast Research Files, box 29, item 13)
Glocalizing Coca-Cola 69
It was his experience in Japan that allowed Daft to envision a day when
Coca-Cola sells more than two thousand beverage products around the
world (Foust 2000).16
The product diversification championed by Daft was underwritten by
appeals to localism phrased in the idiom of cultural difference. In
announcing a major organizational realignment of The Coca-Cola
Company—a “realignment” that entailed cutting six thousand jobs or 20
percent of the worldwide workforce—Daft said, “The world in which we
operate has changed dramatically, and we must change to succeed. This
realignment will better enable the Company to serve the changing needs of
its customers and consumers at the local level and ensure that Coca-Cola
complements the local culture in every community where it is sold” (The
Coca-Cola Company 2000). By this account, the impetus for corporate
change springs from customers and consumers themselves; the company
merely responds to shifting local circumstances: “No matter where we
operate around the world, we’re a local business. Our success depends on
our ability to make billions of individual connections each day in every
community around the world. With the pace of change in global markets
increasing every day, we have to redouble our efforts to remain close to the
customers and consumers we serve” (The Coca-Cola Company 2000). The
rhetoric is more than vaguely reminiscent of J. Paul Austin’s earlier version
of multilocalism.
Likewise, the restructuring undertaken by The Coca-Cola Company
can equally be understood as an attempt to manage the fragile relations of
trust or confidence necessary for reembedding Coca-Cola in lives led
locally. In the wake of the company’s aggressive efforts at acquisition and
growth, which ran afoul of regulators in France, Italy, and Australia as well
as the European Commission, the company reported a new sensitivity to
“consumer democracy.” A New York Times article, pointing out how the
1999 protests against the WTO in Seattle dramatized hostility to the per-
ceived arrogance of global corporations, quoted Carl Ware, head of Coke’s
newly created global public and governmental affairs team, “Consumer
democracy is becoming more and more of an issue. We have to address it
on a local basis” (Hays 2000a). Accordingly, the company gave renewed
attention to its role as a valued citizen wherever it operates—exactly the con-
cern so paramount in the pages of Coca-Cola Overseas during the 1950s. Daft
told reporters that he might offer Coke’s “extensive distribution network in
India to take polio vaccines into rural areas on the government’s behalf ”;
and Ware looked at similar schemes in Africa where Daft professed
awareness of “the need to address the AIDS issue” (Liu and Edgecliffe-
Johnson 2000; see Chapter 5). These projects bespeak the fundamental
70 Coca-Globalization
she said” (Hays 2000b). At the same time, Wall Street investors expressed
their own sense of betrayal at the news that the company planned to let
key bottlers reduce their inventories of concentrate, an implied overstate-
ment of earnings growth in previous years. Andrew J. Conway, a beverage
analyst for Morgan Stanley, asked, “What’s to stop them from doing it
again?” (Hays 2000b).17
What are the implications of this selective and cursory history of The
Coca-Cola Company’s overseas operations for telling the story of eco-
nomic and cultural globalization at the start of the twenty-first century?
First, the history belies any master narrative that suggests a unilinear evo-
lution from Fordism to flexible accumulation; in other words, from verti-
cally integrated, high volume “core corporations” to high value “enterprise
webs” or shifting networks of various suppliers coming together on a con-
tingent and temporary basis (Reich 1992). If anything, the history of The
Coca-Cola Company’s bottling operations describes a movement in the
opposite direction, as the company sought, especially in the 1980s, to con-
solidate its vast network of independent bottlers. But the plans that Dou-
glas Daft outlined as he assumed the role of CEO in 2000 suggested a step
back from centralization and top-down decision making within the com-
pany—surely not a return to the time of “tiny fiefdoms,” but at least to a sit-
uation in which more autonomy would be granted to local managers.
Daft’s plans suggested that the company’s evolving organization was a
response to the exigencies of disembedding and reembedding its products.
That is, rather than an efflux of some underlying logic to the capitalist
mode of production, company business plans emerge out of an ongoing
effort to insert its products into lives led locally, to make these products
familiar to consumers and worthy of consumer confidence. At one histori-
cal moment, franchising was the most effective means of accomplishing
this goal, especially outside the United States (where the company did not
have to charge its bottlers a fixed price for syrup and could thus escape a
severe constraint of the original contracts signed between the company
and its domestic bottlers). At another moment, this goal seemed attainable
without having to sacrifice the economies of scale afforded by consolida-
tion and centralization. At present, the company is struggling with the pos-
sibility that the challenge of reembedding might be met only by producing
non-carbonated beverages, including water—beverages apparently more
in line with changing (or preexisting but unsatisfied) local tastes and thus
more in line with the perspectives and qualifications of consumers.
72 Coca-Globalization
Qualifying Products
Trademarks, Brands, and Value Creation
We are who we are because we are all things to all people all the time
everywhere.
—Ira “Ike” Herbert, former chief marketing officer for
The Coca-Cola Company, addressing Coca-Cola
salesmen, 1990 (quoted in Pendergrast 1993, 398)
three elements in the ongoing process of qualifying products, that is, mak-
ing meaning for and with commodities: policing trademarks, creating
brand imagery, and, finally, interpreting the imagery and using the prod-
uct. This strategy involves looking at soft drinks from the perspectives of
three different but connected sets of agents, variously situated within the
far-flung product network through which meaning moves. They are com-
pany officials, advertising agents and company marketing managers, and
consumers. I will concentrate specifically on how The Coca-Cola Com-
pany has represented itself and its products outside the United States. In
the next chapter, I will describe—as a particular and unusual instance of a
general and ordinary process—how marketers and consumers in Papua
New Guinea have fashioned and received these representations.
Figure 3.1 Atlanta, GA: The old World of Coca-Cola, where exhibits showcased “the rich heritage and
global reach of Coca-Cola.” A new and enlarged building, estimated to cost one hundred million dollars,
opened on May 24, 2007, at a site near the Georgia Aquarium. Photograph by Maryann McCabe.
Qualifying Products 83
al. (2002) similarly note the tension between a producer’s desire to render
the consumer’s purchasing behavior automatic and the risk posed to the
producer by losing touch with the motivations of a consumer whose
behavior has become unreflective and routine. Hence, the boundary
demarcating “inside” from “outside” meanings becomes ever more difficult
to define. The erasure of this boundary signals the ultimate sign of a
brand’s success—indeed, the achievement of a Lovemark or, from the per-
spective of the supply side, a perfectly qualified product. Its continual shift-
ing, however, often signals the agency of consumers. Encountering a
product branded in their own image, consumers revise their strategies for
attributing meaning (or use-value) to their consumption or, changing
their self-image, even reject the product altogether and thereby precipitate
for the brand owners a crisis of mediation.
I suspect that the 1,800 Coke stories furnished company marketers with
useful raw material for reflecting brand Coca-Cola back to its consumers.
This sort of managed consumer appropriation complicates any easy cele-
bration of the way in which impersonal commodities are transformed into
tokens of personal significance (see Carrier 1990 for another example). Put
differently, company officials think seriously about the problem of reem-
bedding. An interview with Jeff Dunn, then Coke’s North America Group
president, begins by recalling the halcyon days before Coca-Cola consoli-
dated its North American bottling system, when hundreds of small-town
bottlers dotted the landscape. He said, “When you were a kid, perhaps you
got your Coke by plunging a hand into the icy water of a store cooler, or
perhaps by sliding the bottle neck-first from a stacked-slot vendor. What
was the first thing you’d do to ‘bond’ with your fresh acquisition? Most
likely, you’d tilt the bottle base to your eyes to see which local swatch in
Coke’s nationwide quilt had birthed the thing” (Dawson 2000). The
imagery here is marvelous—it is the language of social intimacy and kin-
ship, of sensuously connecting with a newborn family member, of senti-
mentally recognizing a local community member (the Coke bottler). For
Dunn, the marketing challenge facing The Coca-Cola Company—Douglas
Daft’s “relationship company”—is how to “reestablish family-level connec-
tions” or, as the article suggests, “to recapture some of the depth of those
traditional ‘hometown’ relationships.” Put differently, the challenge is how
to enlist consumer agency in localizing—personalizing and embodying—
a very worldly thing
Let me offer my own family story. While waiting in one of many long
lines of cars for the British Columbia Ferry that would transport us from
Horseshoe Bay to Vancouver Island, I could not help noticing the strategi-
cally placed vending machines making cold Coca-Cola products available
to hot tourists—product ubiquity. It was only after a while, however, when
I studied the receipt for our ferry fare that I noticed the advertisement
printed on the reverse,“Always Refreshing, Always Coca-Cola” in red letters
on either side of the red disc logo—the power of presence. In the end,
despite entreaties from two young sons, we refreshed ourselves with some
bottled water (a local brand) from the trunk of our rental car. But The
Coca-Cola Company had nonetheless managed—even without a sale—to
entwine its presence with my experience and infiltrate my memories of our
family’s summer vacation. As Ira Herbert, former chief marketing officer for
The Coca-Cola Company, observed: “[Coke] has insinuated itself into the
lives of people to a point where it has become—you know, it’s there” (1996, 8).
Keough and Dunn’s observations explain how, from the company’s per-
spective, making Coca-Cola part of people’s lives involves inserting the
Qualifying Products 87
Zyman’s boasting raises a question: How has The Coca-Cola Company his-
torically managed locality in its advertising, attempting thereby to connect
with its worldwide consumers and to make its products meaningful? The
question is of interest beyond what I have already suggested with regard to
Qualifying Products 89
As a matter of fact, the whole concept of the Pepsi Generation was not par-
ticularly successful overseas. Don Kendall very much wanted it—and
believed in One Sight, One Sound, One Sell universally—and we tried and
wherever it did make sense we did use it. We frequently used the music and
put other lyrics to it. But the concept of generation—the Pepsi Generation—
only works where it’s somewhat believable, where your total sales in the
country, whatever country, are sufficiently great to make that believable. If
you are in a very meager position, to try to name a whole generation after
your product doesn’t make much sense at all. You’re in the Hires Root Beer
Generation . . . (Pottasch 1984)
social situations. Thus it was deemed possible to project one point of view,
one tone of voice, and one personality through different executions of
Coke ads to different audiences around the world.
The anthropology at work here was at once a weaker and stronger ver-
sion of the multilocalism of Coke’s 1950s international advertising. On the
one hand, it was self-consciously less ethnocentric: ads were deliberately
created for non-American audiences, by non-American creative directors.
On the other hand, the ads were deliberately less local due to their attempt
to depict ideas and situations imagined to be timeless and translocal. Put
differently, the uneasy balance between the particular (local) and universal
(global) in pattern advertising since World War II was tipping more and
more toward the side of the global. Moreira (n.d.) claimed that this balance
was decisively upset in 1991, when a third or “global” phase of Coke adver-
tising began. In this phase of advertising, the premise was that all execu-
tions must work everywhere; tolerance for local exceptionalism was very
low. From the point of view of phase two “multicultural” advertising,
global advertising ran the risk of falling into the “lowest common denom-
inator category” (Moreira 1991), a violation of the conviction expressed by
John Bergin (a long time creative director of first Pepsi and then Coca-Cola
advertising). Bergin observed, “If it works well everywhere, it is unlikely to
work exceptionally well anywhere” (Bergin ca. 1991).
The move toward “global” advertising in Moreira’s sense was bound up
with the increasingly influential notion of “the global teenager” (not to
mention the frenzied merger and consolidation of worldwide networks of
advertising agencies during the 1980s). A 1996 article in Beverage World by
Jim Lawrence (CEO Pepsi International, Asia, Middle East, and Africa) lays
out the Theodore Levitt-like assumptions about converging tastes lurking
behind this notion: “We at Pepsi and the global village having [sic] been
brought together by the vast worldwide improvements in communica-
tions, media and technology. Teenagers are, for Pepsi-Cola, the occupants
of the global village of greatest importance. They are brought together by
common experiences, common interests and they’ve now developed their
own worldwide language and voice. Media, such as MTV and the Internet
help to bring them together as well” (“The Thirsty Global Village” 1996).
Participation in a globalized mediascape of music, fashion, and extreme
sports has thus created a worldwide market segment; teenagers in Japan,
India, and the United States share more common experiences and interests
with each other than they do with adults in their own countries of origin.
Nevertheless, Lawrence cautions, local differences have not been totally
effaced: “While brand Pepsi certainly is global, we absolutely do not con-
sider our audience to be a single homogeneous global generation. Rather,
Qualifying Products 93
just gaining independence from home and looking for things to call their
own. Mr. Pibb enables them to have an uninhibited, fun and unconven-
tional attitude because it has the sweet, refreshing bold taste they need to
express their independence” (from the company’s Web site, cited in Girard
2004). But at the same time, teens yearn to belong to another community,
a community of peers. This conflict appears behaviorally as a combination
of authority-defying risk taking on the one hand, and rigid conformity to
peer group conventions on the other. Dressed in the uniform of their peer
group, teens experiment with sex and drugs in a manner that marks and
effects separation if not rupture from their parents.6
The advertising anthropology of the global teen is a perverse inversion
of Margaret Mead’s provocative conclusion in Coming of Age in Samoa that
adolescence, understood as a period of stormy (sexual) rebellion, is a cul-
turally specific condition, not a natural stage of human development. If
there is any recognition of the possibility of ethnocentrism—of projecting
a middle-class American definition of the teen years on the rest of the
world—then it is explained away by claiming that global youth culture
after all originates in the United States. And the recent work of anthropol-
ogists lends some support to this claim, or at least to the claim that the very
idea of “teenager”—of “youth” as a distinctive social category—is being
taken up as a novel collective identity by young adults in places as removed
from each other as Papua New Guinea (Gewertz and Errington 1991) and
Nepal (Leichty 1995). But the advertising anthropology of the global teen
makes another presupposition. Namely, that the global teen’s struggle for
identity is expressed and resolved through commodity consumption. So,
for example, the Indian teen who rejects Pepsi for Sprite enacts an idealis-
tic rejection of adult hypocrisy in favor of the authenticity and sincerity of
youth (sub)culture, membership of which is symbolized by his (not her)
consumption decision. Accordingly, sales pitches can position teen prod-
ucts ranging from shampoo and chewing gum to yogurt and soft drinks as
solutions to socio-psychological developmental conflicts that cross cul-
tures and transcend geographic locales.
In any case, not all advertising executives embraced the notion of the
global teen—or of global advertising in its most extreme version of single
executions designed to run everywhere. This resistance might well be
expected on the part of advertising agencies with worldwide networks that
distinguished themselves on the basis of the local knowledge and expertise
available to them. John Bergin, who handled the Coke account at McCann-
Erickson during the 1980s, protested on other grounds. He told his successor
in 1992, “I pray harder that we resist with all of our might the high-intensity
focus on the so-called ‘global teen.’ That ‘kid’ will kill Coca-Cola” (Bergin
Qualifying Products 95
&*
Frenette’s comments allude to the extensive use made by soft drink mar-
keters of consumer research, including the ethnographic research of
anthropologists. In this sense, company officials engage the meaning-
making capacities of consumers quite differently than in their roles as
trademark police. As trademark police, company officials attempt to sup-
press the semantic generativity of consumers, limiting the ways in which
consumers can creatively appropriate and ascribe new meaning to
Qualifying Products 97
A Network of Perspectives
The Meanings of Soft Drinks in Papua New Guinea
To the expatriate executives of Shell, we Papua New Guineans are
working very hard to take our place in the modern world . . . We want
the world to know that we are civilised and decent and can survive
anywhere on this planet . . . Don’t treat us like primitives.
—From a 1995 letter to a PNG newspaper in
reference to a television ad for Shell gasoline
what a Coke is. Uncle thus at once dramatizes and deflects a fear, an anxi-
ety that what ought to be taken for granted (something as banal and rou-
tine as carbonated soft drinks) is not, and that in not taking it for granted,
one’s exposure as not modern is publicized. Like the hoary ethnic joke
about the bus kanaka who “cooks” his tinned mackerel by tossing the
unopened can into the fire, the skit enacts and exorcises discomfort. That
is, the skit enables audience members to distance themselves from their
own not-so-distant past in the form of Uncle’s uncomfortable relationship
to material signs of “development.” The skit unfolds as “an acute semblance
of progress” fashioned out of “the opposition between local constructions
of tradition or history and those of being or becoming modern” (Knauft
2002, 106). But the performance is potentially discomforting for the audi-
ence, inasmuch as it leaves a lingering question: Is Uncle our past or (still)
our present? Am I/are we like Uncle after all?1
Neither a definite surrender to the juggernaut of Western consumerism
nor a triumphant instance of domesticating the foreign through local cul-
tural appropriation, the skit in the end performs uncertainty; specifically,
an uncertainty of perspective, in which Southern Highlanders are pre-
sented, momentarily, with the possibility that they appear in the view of
others as the Uncle whom they recognize, but do not recognize as them-
selves. This observation prompts us, in turn, to recover the notion of a
commodity or product network, and to trace, however tentatively, the net-
work of perspectives that forms around marketing, advertising, and con-
suming soft drinks (and other fast moving consumer goods) in Papua New
Guinea. How do the meanings of soft drinks take shape in and through this
network of perspectives? How is this product qualified as it moves from
“agents on the supply side” to consumers on the “demand side” (Callon et
al. 2002)?
Marketing
Urban/Rural
Western/Indigenous
Fast/Slow
Youthful/Mature
Individual/Community
Change/Stasis
English/Tok Pisin
Modern/Traditional
Commerce/Culture
To a large extent, this list defines the discursive parameters within which
marketers, advertisers, and consumers in Papua New Guinea all operate,
even if not always in alignment with each other. The oppositions often
mark interfaces within the network of perspectives that takes shape around
products such as soft drinks. But it is clear that marketing executives rec-
ognize the list’s limitations as a device for imagining their audiences and
thus for mapping approximations of other people’s meanings. For exam-
ple, Peter Aitsi observed that YUMI FM, which started up in 1997, three
years after NAU FM, crossed all demographic boundaries, attracting listen-
ers in the young adult category mainly because of the language of broad-
cast, Tok Pisin. He further suggested that, although relations between
village and town have indeed become “more stretched” or spatially exten-
sive for many Papua New Guineans, the basic opposition between rural
and urban obscures the extent to which new urban subcultures were devel-
oping among second generation youth born and raised in Port Moresby.
The same youth who, when asked where they are from, give the names of
their home suburbs—Gerehu, Boroko, Waigani, and so forth—rather than
their parents’ village or province of origin. I will return to this point
presently.
Promotions and contests, often connected with sponsorships (as in the
Pepsi Fun Run), form the second leg of community-based marketing of
A Network of Perspectives 111
soft drinks. This fact ought to be apparent to even the most casual observer
of material culture in the towns and villages of PNG. Legions of people of
all ages walk about in Pepsi and Coca-Cola branded hats and T-shirts, car-
rying backpacks, brandishing wristwatches, and kicking soccer balls all dis-
tinctively stamped with globally registered trademarks. The strategy is not
restricted to soft drinks. For example, Nestlé runs prize competitions for
Maggi Noodles and for its Milo energy drink. Thus, the text of a television
ad from 2000 that ran every evening during the six o’clock national news
program, complete with an Anglicized Tok Pisin catchphrase, read, “Slam
dunk na win with Milo! Five Milo packs to be won. Five lucky winners will
receive a Milo basketball backboard, a Milo sports pack, plus K100 cash. To
enter, write your name and address on the back of a Milo label and mail it
to Milo Slam na dunk, Lock Mailbag, Boroko. Entry forms with competi-
tion details and draw dates are available at participating stores and local
newspapers. Slam dunk na win with Milo!”
Marketing executives report that these contests and promotions are
enormously successful. In 1998, a Coca-Cola Amatil soccer ball promotion
was so successful that more than 100 percent of the forty thousand balls
budgeted for the promotion were redeemed by consumers who had pur-
chased cans with the word “WIN” marked inside (“Soccer Ball Contest”
1998). The company honored the promotion, however, going so far as to
take out urbanized/Anglicized Tok Pisin announcements (toksave) in Eng-
lish language newspapers explaining that it had run short of soccer balls
but was planning to distribute more the following month.9 One executive
complained to me of fatigue after having participated in so many of these
giveaways, a marketing strategy employed to retain consumers in
response to the devaluation of the kina. Another marketing executive, an
expatriate Australian, observed that giving away a hat for free was a big
deal in PNG; and one former advertising account and sales manager, also
an expatriate, bluntly asserted that promotions are obviously more popu-
lar in PNG than Australia: “people are poor here.” There seems to be a sim-
ple explanation for the success of such giveaways in the material
circumstances of most Papua New Guineans.
Nevertheless, a different explanation is possible. An executive in charge
of events and promotions for one of the soft drink companies, a Papua
New Guinean in his mid-twenties (who, although born in New Britain,
considers himself most at home in Port Moresby) related the success of
giveaways to the “handout mentality” of Papua New Guineans. He
explained the “handout mentality” as “a two-way thing for us in society:
you give, we take; we give, you take.”10 As a result, he continued, “the only
way a promotion works—normally, in most instances—is when giving
112 Coca-Globalization
that he had always dreamt of owning a home and the promotion had made
his dream a reality” (Dau 2001). If mass giveaways fit the received anthro-
pological description of gift exchange, then house competitions conform
more closely to classic accounts of “cargo cults” in which members antici-
pate and seek to bring about the arrival of vast amounts of Western mate-
rial goods (see Lindstrom 1995). A colleague thus told me that he had
recorded a few dream narratives from one particular informant in the East-
ern Highlands Province during the time of a Coke pickup truck giveaway.
The importance of the color “red” indicated that the dream had to do with
winning the Coke truck: “People invested a great deal of psychic energy
into dreaming about the potential cargo” (Tom Strong, personal commu-
nication, May 28, 2002).
Besides sponsorships, promotions, and contests, community marketing
in PNG takes the form of charity. Hardly a day passes without at least one
newspaper report of corporate generosity, complete with a photograph
of company officials presenting oversized mock checks to representatives of
local schools, churches, and health organizations. The amounts of these
checks are often exceedingly modest, and it is difficult not to remark how
cheaply transnational corporations can purchase positive publicity in the
PNG media. For example, The National reported on December 8, 1998,
that the Salvation Army was concentrating its Christmas food relief efforts
on families living at the Baruni garbage dump outside Port Moresby. The
article, titled “Coca Cola Gives 10 Cartons for X’mas Hamper,” quoted
the Coca-Cola sponsorship coordinator: “This shows that we are helping the
community.” Nevertheless, corporate charity is a visible and important
part of fundraising for nongovernmental organizations (NGOs) operating
in PNG, such as the Red Cross, the beneficiary of the annual Miss PNG
contest. In this way, community marketing enables companies such as
CCA to represent themselves as super-citizens, both discharging the
functions of a state too weak to do so itself and supporting the vital
efforts of NGOs in direct contact with the neediest of PNG’s population
(see Chapter 5).
Finally, CCA’s community marketing in PNG, like the company’s mar-
keting worldwide, involves an effort to insert the product into every possi-
ble context of consumption, until “you know, it’s there,” as Ira Herbert
explained. In 2000, when I returned to PNG after a hiatus of three years, I
observed this effort in the form of a pushcart program that enabled ven-
dors to sell cold CCA products at markets and bus stops in major cities
such as Port Moresby and Lae as well as along the sides of roads linking
these cities to rural areas. Errington and Gewertz (2004, 226) have noted
that each of these carts was conspicuously labeled in Tok Pisin as a “Coke
114 Coca-Globalization
Ples.” The phrase can be translated into English as “Coke Place,” but this
gloss loses the sense in which ples is the Tok Pisin word for “home.” Both a
wage-laborer in town referring to his rural village and a rural villager visit-
ing her neighbor might equally say “Mi go long ples nau” (I am going home
now). There is thus something alarming in Errington and Gewertz’s sug-
gestion that “at least according to CCA’s definition of geography, wherever
one travels in Papua New Guinea, one either is, or soon will be, at a loca-
tion that, whatever its local meaning, is a place of Coke.” Clearly, this mar-
keting effort appreciated the “mutability of home” and accepted the
challenge of reembedding worldly things in highly localized settings
(Chapter 1). Whether Papua New Guineans feel at home in a Coke place is,
of course, another question.
Advertising
During the 1990s, four small Port Moresby-based firms handled the mar-
keting of worldly things—branded global consumer goods—in PNG.
These firms—HRD and Savi (which had merged by 2000), Pacific View
Multimedia, and Craft Works—also produced print, radio, and television
advertising for transnational clients.11 They were all headed by men, expa-
triate (mostly Australian) creative and managing directors, some of whom
had lived and worked in PNG for ten years or more; they employed Papua
New Guineans in a variety of capacities, including production and editing
as well as acting. Expatriate creative/managing directors often dealt with
expatriate marketing managers assigned to PNG on short term contracts,
some of whom enjoyed considerable latitude in making decisions about
promotional if not thematic advertising. These everyday operating condi-
tions—in which non-Papua New Guineans (white men) created advertise-
ments for Papua New Guinean audiences—bear directly on the question of
how cultural producers imagine the people whom they address. This ques-
tion is particularly relevant to understanding the network of perspectives
assembled by products such as soft drinks. For if the particular image of
audiences elaborated by producers shapes the products offered to con-
sumers, then this image no less shapes commercial media products such as
advertisements broadcast to mass audiences. Indeed, it is this image that
discursively constructs “the audience” as a social fact.
The virtual absence of market research in Papua New Guinea means
that the image of the audience that motivates cultural producers derives in
large part from a combination of folk theory and trial-and-error experi-
ence.12 In the early to mid-1990s, I sometimes heard advertising agents
make unilinear evolutionary claims that Papua New Guinea is where the
A Network of Perspectives 115
United States was in the 1940s or where Australia was in the 1950s. That is,
the Papua New Guinean media audience was, by and large, imagined to be
unsophisticated, capable of understanding only the most basic and
uncomplicated forms of advertising. Some marketing and advertising
agents recommended the general strategy of KISS: Keep It Short and Sim-
ple (or, as one agent put it, Keep It Simple, Stupid). This recommendation
was not restricted to expatriates. For example, a Papua New Guinean com-
mercial artist, who produced print ads for a weekly newspaper, responded
to my question about how he might advertise canned mackerel with a
sketch of a large tin beneath a single Tok Pisin word, in block capital letters:
KISSIM! (Take it!). The philosophy of Keep It Short and Simple requires
that ads always plainly say something about the product and issue an
unambiguous call to action. Ads should be single-minded and focused, lit-
eral statements about the specific product rather than metaphorical stim-
uli for warm and fuzzy feelings about the brand. Put differently, the KISS
approach defines an exceedingly narrow range of attributes (price and
taste) within which to qualify products.
This tactical requirement of single-mindedness was thought to be espe-
cially important when launching new products into the market, products
with which potential consumers were likely to be unfamiliar—a not
uncommon circumstance in Papua New Guinea. In 1992, for example, an
advertisement of epic proportions appeared on EM TV. (In December
2004, when EM TV was acquired by Fiji Television Ltd., the station had an
estimated audience of 2.5 million people, and a share of around 38 percent
of PNG’s advertising market.) It ran for what seemed like several full
minutes—a distinct possibility given the low price of media time in Papua
New Guinea.13 The ad, done by Pacific View, was for Maggi chicken stock
cubes. It featured protracted demonstrations of how to use the cubes as fla-
voring for a variety of one-pot stews, to which were added vegetables,
tubers, frozen meat pieces (e.g., lamb flaps and chicken parts), and—at a
decisive moment—the Maggi stock cube. At this point, the cooking
demonstration was interrupted by a dancing chicken, or more precisely, by
a person dressed in a chicken costume, the Maggi kakaruk (Tok Pisin for
chicken). In short, the ad was nothing less than a visual instructional man-
ual for using chicken bouillon cubes, reinforced by the deployment of
demonstration vans giving away free samples in PNG’s towns. Simple but
not short, the ad ended by emphasizing the low cost of the cubes which
(like Colgate toothpaste) were available in unusually small packages, three
cubes for fifteen toea (then about fifteen U.S. cents). According to the ad’s
producer, Andrew Johnston of PacificView, it was a tremendous success.
And by any account, the extensive spread of Maggi products—especially
116 Coca-Globalization
important than advertising. In fact, by 1997, rival CCA had begun to install
vending machines at some of the precious few secure locations around
Port Moresby, for example, in the departure lounge at the airport and the
lobby of a high-rent apartment building. The contrast between literal and
metaphorical ads also reflected the tension, endemic to the advertising
business, between the desires and expectations of the client and the expert-
ise and intuition of the ad agency. One executive thus deflected my ques-
tion about whether Papua New Guineans appreciated “image ads” by
pointing out that such ads definitely appealed to many of the corporate
clients paying for them.
To what do Papua New Guineans aspire? The question is clearly relevant
to understanding how a network of perspectives takes shape around con-
sumer goods, including soft drinks; advertisements are among the few
media vehicles through which Papua New Guineans can contemplate rep-
resentations of themselves (especially on broadcast television, which is
dominated by foreign programs ranging from Australian soap operas to
American situation comedies and police dramas). All the advertising direc-
tors with whom I spoke took it for granted that these representations
should be aspirational—images of the desirable. These images are often
intended to address (and perforce construct) a Papua New Guinean urban
middle class, a segment of the population imagined to be relatively small
but with the greatest disposable income available for purchasing worldly
things. One director, for example, explained that he would never show
products being used by people living in an urban settlement—one of the
many unofficial makeshift housing clusters that have sprung up around
Port Moresby and other towns in PNG. He claimed that, on the other hand,
product endorsements by expatriate celebrities no longer carry mimetic
force with consumers. Another creative director, however, pointed out that
he had no qualms about putting expatriates in ads when they are part of
the market for the product being sold, such as bottled water, and perhaps
in such cases their presence would provide a stimulus for emulation by
some Papua New Guineans. A Papua New Guinean production assistant
who had also worked on the bottled water ads said that he enjoyed the
project since it promoted a “neutral” product, something that anyone
might consume—unlike, for example, products for age- or gender-specific
market segments (cigarettes, cosmetics, and so forth).
The ideas that marketers entertain about the aspirations of Papua New
Guineans affect the ways in which “culture”—custom or tradition (kastam
in Tok Pisin)—is or is not represented in ads. For example, a Pepsi market-
ing manager summarized his sense of the audience’s aspirations with the
assertion that people living in villages aspired to the lifestyles of people
118 Coca-Globalization
(see Foster 2002). In this ad, the issue of ethnic diversity was subsumed
within a representation of PNG as a nation of fit, competitive athletes, all
belonging to the same team. In other ads, however, the question of repre-
sentation presents certain difficulties, especially given the dictates of “cap-
italist realism,” in which actors portray not individuals but, rather,
archetypes.18 One creative director claimed to try to include actors that
appear to come from different regions within the country whenever possi-
ble. He showed me one of the few music videos he had produced as an
example. As we watched, a Papua New Guinean production assistant com-
mented on the various female dancers: “She’s Trobriand; she’s Kerema;
she’s Goroka.” Ultimately, decisions about regional/ethnic representation
hinge on the nature of the product. A television commercial for a brand of
ice cream available at the time only in the Highlands was accordingly shot
with Highlands-looking actors in a recognizably Highlands setting.
Another creative director said that he preferred to portray a “generic”
Papua New Guinean look, paying more attention to representing lifestyles
than regional/ethnic diversity. Sometimes this search for a “generic” look is
motivated by the desire to use the ad in a regional market that includes not
only PNG but also Vanuatu and Fiji. If this “generic” look often seems to
favor light-skinned, straight-haired (so-called mixed race) Papua New
Guineans, it is often as a result of the client’s specific requests. I was told a
revealing story about how an ad for a particular brand of milk, which
included several actors with the conventional look of Highlanders, was
rejected by the Australian-based representative of a transnational company
on the grounds that people in the ad were “ugly.” Here, as in the case
of brand enhancing “image ads,” a client’s prejudices about his company or
the product inflect the ways in which advertisers represent Papua New
Guineans to Papua New Guineans, in some cases contravening the adver-
tisers’ own sense of what counts as a locally appropriate and persuasive
representation. A disjunction or misalignment within the network of per-
spectives between differently situated cultural producers thus has potential
ramifications for the perspectives taken up by other actors elsewhere in the
network, especially Papua New Guineans consuming images of themselves
circulating through commercial mass media.
These disjunctions or misalignments can also occur when global clients
deliver briefs to PNG advertising and marketing companies based on the
client’s marketing experience in other developing countries, such as coun-
tries in sub-Saharan Africa. (For example, Benson and Hedges sponsored
concert tours in Africa—where Louis Armstrong toured on behalf of Pepsi
International in the 1950s—before pursuing the strategy in PNG in
1997.) Such large clients, I was told by one advertising agent, often show
124 Coca-Globalization
Consuming
How do Papua New Guineans receive and perceive the advertisements that
are addressed to them? How do they qualify and consume the worldly
things that are marketed to them? What are their perspectives—explicit
and implicit—on the perspectives that motivate the advertisers and mar-
keters of consumer goods?
Answers to these questions sometimes suggest radical disjunctions in
the network of perspectives that form around the movement of commodi-
ties in PNG, disjunctions motivated by profound differences in cultural
orientation among actors assembled by the network. For example, Jerry
Jacka (2001) reports how the discovery of a case of empty but unopened
cans of Coca-Cola at a new supermarket in a rough Highlands mining
town led to the performance of a healing ritual that had not been under-
taken in over thirty years. Clan elders reasoned that ancestral spirits, hun-
gry for the offerings that had previously been made on the site of the new
supermarket, had consumed the Coke (and possibly some tins of meat and
fish). In order to remedy the situation and to prevent further consumption
of “white people’s food” (one tomo in the local vernacular), clan elders sac-
rificed pigs beside the supermarket, the blood of which flowed into the
ground, sending the ancestors back whence they had come. This sacri-
fice—the first made since widespread conversion to Christianity in the
1960s—demonstrated ongoing claims to the land on which the supermar-
ket was situated and perforce claims to future compensation for its use.
From the perspective of the mining company, however, the event was sim-
ply a manifestation of superstitious belief, described in the official com-
munity newsletter as a feast to drive away evil spirits and ensure the
prosperity of the supermarket business. Jacka argues that company officials
thus failed to appreciate how local people appropriated Coca-Cola, per-
haps the preeminent worldly thing, to articulate claims for compensation
in the local vernacular of gift exchange.
Ancestral spirits are not the only ones consuming Coca-Cola and other
branded soft drinks in Papua New Guinea. Through the 1990s, soft drink
bottlers announced that Papua New Guineans were consuming more and
more soft drinks, at least in aggregate; happy evidence of a convergence of
interests and alignment of perspectives in the soft drink commodity net-
work. In its 1995 annual report, CCA described Papua New Guinea as “a
126 Coca-Globalization
and twenty-nine. University students were heavily represented, but this cir-
cumstance allowed for participation of respondents from a wide variety of
ethnic backgrounds and from regions throughout the country.
Survey responses indicate that soft drink consumption is part of a
whole range of social transformations that involve the emergence of sched-
uled consumption contexts associated with wage-labor—contexts such as
“lunch” or “work break.” More generally, soft drink consumption is one
dimension of a new urban lifestyle that routinizes the consumption of
food outside the home—with or without meals in restaurants or at snack
bars, at school, or in the marketplace. Survey participants infrequently
indicated that they drank soft drinks at home, where many said they pre-
ferred to drink water. Instead, soft drink consumption occurred in the con-
text of shopping, lunching with fellow workers or students, “spinning”
(pleasure outings), or attending sporting events. Most soft drink con-
sumption therefore occurred in the presence of others—with others also
consuming—as a manifestly extra-household social activity. It was fitting,
then, to read a report published in the Post-Courier on December 29, 1997,
“Soft Drink Demand ‘Always’ a Problem at Christmas Time,” that claimed
soft drink demand was five times greater during the Christmas season than
at any other time of the year—not an unlikely result of the intensified
demands of holiday sociality, often funded by urban wage laborers visiting
their rural homes.
Little of this will come as unexpected to readers of Sidney Mintz’s book,
Sweetness and Power. Mintz described therein how the eating habits of the
working poor in eighteenth and nineteenth century Britain were trans-
formed by increasing sucrose consumption (especially in the form of stim-
ulating hot beverages such as sweetened tea). Much of his description
seems directly pertinent to contemporary soft drink consumption in
Papua New Guinea, including the way in which soft drink consumption is
often seen as the natural complement of high-calorie fast food consump-
tion (the equivalent of an English worker’s jam on bread). Thus the justifi-
cation given on the survey by one twenty-five-year-old woman, a secretary
at Telikom, for her preference for Coke: “Coke is more preferable [sic]
because it helps to dissolve unnecessary fat in the body. After taking greasy
and fatty food, I take Coke, coz it helps break down the fat. That’s why I like
Coke [more] than other drinks. Other drinks are too soft for me.” Or, as
another twenty-six-year-old woman answered the question of when she
usually drank soft drinks: “When I am having Big Rooster”—Port
Moresby’s humble answer to Kentucky Fried Chicken.
I must point out that many Papua New Guineans involved in the survey
emphasized that they consumed soft drinks in contexts in which no other
128 Coca-Globalization
choice was available to them: away from home in public spaces devoid of
drinking fountains. But much like the people Mintz wrote about, many
Papua New Guineans explicitly described soft drinks as a cheap food sub-
stitute: “I can just drink Coke and go without food for lunch,” or “It makes
me feel full when I’m hungry.” A thirty-five-year-old security guard from
Mt. Hagen working in Port Moresby told me that when he drank Coke, he
felt amamas (“happy” in Tok Pisin). Why? “Taim mi hangre, mi pulap tru!”
(“When I am hungry, it really fills me up!”) There is no denying, then, that
certain material constraints are shaping the emerging patterns of soft drink
consumption in Port Moresby. At the same time, there is no denying that
urban Papua New Guineans are using soft drinks as material supports for
the creation and recreation of social intimacy (especially intimacy among
men). The same security guard, when I asked about his strongly stated
preference for Coke over Pepsi, responded after a few seconds not by com-
paring the tastes of the two colas, but by telling me about how he would
play darts with other men, each contributing twenty toea (less than ten
U.S. cents in 1997) to the pot in a friendly competition to win Cokes.
Responses to a survey question asking when the last time the participant
had a soft drink often took the form of this one from a forty-two-year-old
unemployed man from Bundi, in the mountains of Madang Province:
“The last time I had a soft drink was 2 days ago. I drank a bottle of Coke. I
drank it at the bus stop at 6 mile while waiting for the bus. I was standing
with one of the guys whom I used to work with. He had bet on a winning
horse. So, when he saw me, he went into the shop, bought two bottles of
Coke and came and gave one to me.” Or this one, from a twenty-year-old
anthropology student from Koroba, in the Southern Highlands: “The last
time I had a soft drink was on 27-07-97 [3 days earlier]. I had a Coke. It was
for lunch. At about 1PM at Erima [a settlement in Port Moresby]. I wasn’t
alone. I was with 2 other boys who brought me the Coke and others attend-
ing a funeral were there as well. Actually, the guys bought the Cokes. I had
half of each bottle.” I had half of each bottle. Similar instances of sharing
soft drinks, as well as buying them for others, were common enough that
some survey participants explained why they acted otherwise. Thus, an
anthropology student from Manus reported that she had the day before
drunk one of the newly introduced five-hundred-milliliter bottles of Coke
at lunch time: “I had it all and I was definitely alone coz I didn’t want to
share.” A twenty-three-year-old art student from Madang confessed,
“When I’m drinking Coke, I hate to share my drink, because I always have
this fear of my colleague/friend could use it to make puripuri [sorcery]. If a
friend buys a drink, I buy it for him if I have enough. Otherwise I say, sorry
A Network of Perspectives 129
I can’t share my drink. I’m thirsty. Really, [inside of me] I’m scared to death
of puripuri.”
Here, then, is the Melanesia we anthropologists all know and love, land
of compulsive reciprocity and threats of sorcery. Put differently, here is the
Melanesia in which foreign imports are revalued in terms of domestic
agendas, where within the material constraints of tight budgets stretched
by the cheap calories of a Coke, other projects are accomplished. But in an
important way, this is not the Melanesia we all know and love; the socio-
cultural contexts in which urban Papua New Guineans appropriate a for-
eign import such as Coke or Pepsi differ from the contexts in which the
Papua New Guinean villagers of most ethnographies appropriate such
imports. In Port Moresby, the context in which Coke is consumed is often,
like the bottle of Coke itself—indeed, like the very space of the city—an
artifact of the spread of capitalism and its temporal routines: “lunch” or
“snack time” or “weekend.”20 In other words, the perspectives on the prod-
uct held by consumers in Port Moresby are likely to differ from perspec-
tives held by other otherwise situated consumers in PNG; these
perspectives imply qualifications that vary as a product makes its way
through the network of agents it assembles and, with more or less success,
holds together.
Although little market research has been conducted in PNG (especially
rural PNG) by either anthropologists or commercial firms, the ethno-
graphic record does afford occasional insight into the perspectives that
some Papua New Guineans have taken on the marketing efforts of Coca-
Cola Amatil and SP Holdings, the former Pepsi franchise holder. Given the
preoccupations of anthropologists, these insights bear mainly upon the
perspectives of Papua New Guineans on representations of “culture” or
“tradition” promoted and circulated by soft drink bottlers. For example,
Gewertz and Errington (1996) have discussed reactions to the Pepsi-spon-
sored television program, Fizz, on the part of Chambri youths and elders
living in a settlement on the edge of the East Sepik provincial town of
Wewak in 1994. The music videos—like the one I saw six years later in
Tanga—were interrupted by a commercial that proclaimed “a Papua New
Guinea variant of PepsiCo’s internationally proclaimed message”: “All over
this nation there’s a growing relation . . . as the young at heart . . . while
working or playing [learn that] nothing stays the same again . . . [Pepsi] is
the choice of the new generation, the voice of the new generation . . . [It’s]
the sign of the new generation, the time of the new generation . . . Let your
feelings show . . . drink Pepsi, PNG, [yes] Pepsi, PNG” (Gewertz and
Errington 1996, 478). The commercial depicted a variety of “types” of
Papua New Guineans drinking Pepsi—from young men and women dancing
130 Coca-Globalization
Gewertz (1996, 116), regarded the young woman pictured on the calendar
as just the sort of cultural actor that he aspired to be. Here was a fortuitous
conjunction or alignment in the network of perspectives that, although
most likely unintended by the company that distributed the promotional
calendars, brought culture and commerce into a single frame of reference.
At the same time, it is important to emphasize the disjunctions that
Godfried’s perspective implies. Unlike the anthropologists, Godfried did
not worry about the commodification of tradition; on the contrary, he
actively sought commercial sponsorship for his cultural performances.
Similarly, unlike cultural purists who might object to bras and wrist-
watches, Godfried was not haunted by specters of inauthenticity (see Jolly
1992). He saw nothing untraditional, for example, about wearing loin-
cloths made from bright yellow packages of Spear brand tobacco while
performing for Western tourists. In this regard, Godfried reflected an
indigenous understanding of tradition as a process of constant innovation
that especially involved importation of resources capable of sustaining and
augmenting one’s own collective powers. (In this regard, Godfried might
find common ground with the CCA media manager so attuned to the
hybrid developments of contemporary urban youth culture in PNG.) Nor
did Godfried think anything culturally suspicious about the young woman
on the biscuit calendar, despite the protest by the anthropologists that she
was an invented tradition—a cultural composite made up of decorative
signifiers drawn from different and disparate regional and ethnic reper-
toires. Godfried countered by identifying not only the woman’s specific
cultural group, but also her precise village. His perception was like those of
other Chambri: “although no two people named the same culture (sugges-
tions ranged from ones in the Gulf to ones in New Ireland Province), all
insisted she was a traditionally attired member of the particular culture
they had specified” (Errington and Gewertz 1996, 116).
Eric Hirsch’s (2004) discussion of the photos that his Fuyuge-speaking
friend, Alphonse Hega, composed and shot for entry into a Coca-Cola
Amatil-sponsored competition also sheds light on the perspectives that
Papua New Guineans take on themselves and on the perspectives of other
people to whom they imagine themselves connected in a translocal com-
modity network. One of these photos had been selected as a winning entry
and used to illustrate the company’s promotional calendar for 1998.22
Alphonse Hega’s pictures (see Figures 4.1 and 4.2) depicted a senior man
(Donato, Alphonse’s kinsman) dressed entirely in traditional adornment
and surrounded entirely by traditional artifacts—with the salient excep-
tion of the contoured five-hundred-milliliter Coke bottle in Donato’s hand
132 Coca-Globalization
Figure 4.1 Alphonse Hega’s winning entry for the 1998 Coca-Cola PNG national calendar competition.
Photograph by Alphonse Hega (see Hirsch 2004).
and net bag, or the cardboard cartons of Coca-Cola placed at the foot of
Donato’s hammock, on which he reclined drinking a can of Coke.
As Hirsch notes and Hega himself recognized, the format of these pic-
tures is a familiar one—the gently shocking juxtaposition of tradition and
modernity familiar from numerous soft drink ads in PNG; in short, the
motif of radical heterogeneity that I have identified with the film, The Gods
Must be Crazy and, more generally, with the aesthetics of fetishism. The
format was chosen deliberately to create an appropriate impression on the
judges and to compete effectively in what Hega imagined as a competition
among “cultures,” as he put it (Hirsch 2004, 28). Hega’s entry was thus part
of a larger effort to represent his culture in a positive manner and, more
specifically, to dispute and dispel the reputation of the Fuyuge (and all res-
idents of the Goilala District outside Port Moresby) as criminals and gang
members (raskols in Tok Pisin). Hega, who as a young man participated in
A Network of Perspectives 133
Figure 4.2 Alphonse Hega’s second entry for the 1998 Coca-Cola PNG national calendar competition.
Photograph by Alphonse Hega (see Hirsch 2004).
1997) notes, products like Coke and Pepsi are notably “democratic” in
character. They combine recognizability as specific trademarked forms of
sweetness with relatively low price (at least until the devaluation and
decline of the PNG kina). Andy Warhol was, somewhat earlier, also keenly
aware of this aspect of consumer democracy: “What’s great about this
country is that America started the tradition where the richest consumers
buy essentially the same things as the poorest. You can be watching TV and
see Coca-Cola, and you can know that the President drinks Coke, Liz Tay-
lor drinks Coke, and just think, you can drink Coke, too. A Coke is a Coke
and no amount of money can get you a better Coke than the one the bum
on the corner is drinking” (1975, 100–101). Warhol’s words, incidentally,
were displayed with apparent approval to visitors at the old World of Coca-
Cola in Atlanta—minus the final sentence.
The second conceit about desire for Western goods, however, has dubi-
ous merit, despite its infiltration of Melanesianist anthropology through
the post–World War II fascination with cargo cults. As Lamont Lindstrom
suggests, writings about cargo cults are allegories that effectively normalize
a definition of desire as unremitting and never fully satisfied—the sort of
desire appropriate to Goizueta’s vision of infinity. This normalization sub-
verts the manifest effect of cargo writings in depicting cargo cultists as rad-
ically alien. It is, in fact, just the opposite: “We are all cargo cultists in that
we wait eternally for an end to desire that will not end. The Melanesian
cultist merely reads our lines” (Lindstrom 1995, 56). And these lines
include “Olgeta Taim Coca-Cola” (“Always Coca-Cola” in Tok Pisin).
The two television commercials ran in Papua New Guinea on EM TV in
1997 (the Coke ad was still running three years later). These commercials
project different but related versions of modern consumerism in which the
identity of individuals (singular or collective) is constructed through the
consumption of trademarked or brand-name commodities. The commer-
cial for Coke was filmed in Papua New Guinea but produced by personnel
from the Sydney office of McCann Erickson’s global network of advertising
agencies. The commercial for Pepsi was filmed in Queensland, Australia,
and produced by Savi (now HRD-Savi), the PNG-based advertising agency
that handles advertising for global commodities such as Shell gasoline and
Benson and Hedges cigarettes. It ran as a “locally” executed version of a
global Pepsi campaign known as “Change the Script” (forerunner to “Gen-
eration Next”)—a campaign theme which the Pepsi marketing manager in
PNG thought necessary to revise on the sound assumption that not many
Papua New Guineans would be familiar with the concept of “The Script.”
Both thirty-second commercials were made by non-Papua New Guinean
136 Coca-Globalization
creative directors in accordance with the client’s brief and global marketing
strategy; both were slickly produced.
First the Pepsi commercial:
To the sound of a pulsating bass guitar, a red balloon rises in the air. A young
man pops the balloon and many blue balloons rise up instead. Male and
female voices chime: “Do what you wanna do. Be what you wanna be. Pepsi.
Break Free.” A series of images follows quickly: A young woman’s smiling red
lipstick changes to blue. Youthful roller bladers swirl in a disco-like blue
haze. The camera pans over a blue can of Pepsi-Cola, its surface beaded with
small drops of sweat. A platform diver flips languorously into a pool. The
lyrics repeat, more passionately.
A man and women walk across a street; their formal attire (long sleeve
white shirt and tie for the man; a mini-skirt suit for the woman) change into
leisurewear (baggy shorts for the man, blue jeans for the woman) and they
begin to dance in the crosswalk. The camera returns to the can of Pepsi.
A can of blue paint splatters against a red brick wall. Red paint oozing
down a stairway turns blue. A woman paints over her red fingernails with
blue polish. Red balls bouncing down concrete steps turn blue; a young man
in a blue T-shirt and dark sunglasses lounges on the steps as the balls bounce
by. The camera returns again to the can of Pepsi, which rolls forward toward
the viewer. “Break Free,” written in white script appears across the television
screen.
Coca-Cola and even to dislike the taste of Pepsi-Cola. (It would be difficult
to establish any correlation between preferences for colas and preferences
for the ads; Pepsi drinkers often expressed the same misgivings about the
Break Free ads as did Coke drinkers.) For example, several respondents
characterized the ads as “eye-catching” and “colorful” or referred to both
the ad and the actors in it as “cool.” But these ads also drew as many if not
more negative responses, and certainly attracted far more criticism than
did the ad for Coca-Cola.
In general, three interrelated objections were made to the images in
Pepsi’s Break Free ads. First, the people depicted in the ads were described
as “show offs” or as “pretending to be somebody while they’re not.” That is,
the notion of not being like everyone else—which brand Pepsi explicitly
endorses—was interpreted as a form of illegitimate and inauthentic dis-
tinction. This association of Pepsi with social pretension even came from a
thirty-four-year-old Milne Bay man who enjoyed the Break Free ads and
accepted the message of the lyrics: “I think Pepsi is drunk by people who
just pretend to be different.”
Second, the images in the ad were interpreted as being exclusionist and
discriminatory, including only teenagers and young adults. Put differently,
the images associated with Pepsi denied the democratic potential of soft
drinks as accessible mass commodities. One thirty-five-year-old man
claimed that Pepsi is “only for the new generation”—a sign of the dubious
success of Pepsi’s previous ad campaign—while another older man from
Bougainville claimed that Pepsi “is only for people in the towns. The youth
of the life in town.” Other respondents associated Pepsi with “rich people”
and “superstar” endorsers, such as Cindy Crawford—an association per-
haps strengthened by Pepsi’s sponsorship of a television show that show-
cased glitzy, foreign music videos.
Third, the Break Free images associated Pepsi in some people’s view
with a morally disreputable kind of person—“fancy people,”“dancers,” and
“party goers.” (One student similarly linked Pepsi to the morally objec-
tionable activities of one of its past spokespersons, Michael Jackson.) Sev-
eral respondents commented unfavorably on the “sexual connotations” of
Pepsi, specifically objecting to the image of a young woman in “tight jeans”
as demeaning to PNG women and “irrelevant” to the context of PNG soci-
ety. Elizabeth Solomon, sounding very much like an ex-school teacher, said
that she associated the very sound of the word Pepsi with the hissing noises
that young people use in public to attract each other’s attention from afar.
A twenty-three-year-old young man wondered about what the couple
crossing the street in the ad were trying to break free from: “Is it telling us
to break our marriages by going out to have fun with Pepsi? . . . I don’t
138 Coca-Globalization
know.” All these responses qualified Pepsi with associations most likely
unintended and unwanted by agents on the product’s supply side.
The Coke commercial is predictably different:
To the strains of a few tentatively plucked guitar strings, a man emerges onto
a porch from inside a house; a tropical bird perches on the porch railing. He
nervously scans the horizon.
A Coca-Cola delivery truck rolls to a stop in front of a tree fallen across
the road.
A young man, shirtless in a red laplap (loincloth), opens a red cooler and
rakes his fingers through the ice cubes; the cooler is empty. In the back-
ground, villagers prepare for a singsing (traditional dance performance); a
man wipes his brow.
Back at the truck, the red-shirted driver waves at a passing airplane; he
shouts into his radio. “Take it through!” The music quickens, and the guitars
screech and grind.
An aerial shot of the tidy village below with its thatched houses. A small
child points at the plane. From the side of the plane, two red-shirted Coca-
Cola employees drop a large red cooler, with Coca-Cola script in white visi-
ble on its sides. The cooler parachutes downwards while a group of young
boys, all in red shorts, run to collect it. The cooler gently splashes into a
stream. The young boys merrily slide down the muddy bank of the stream
into the water. They retrieve the cooler and haul it up the bank.
Back in the village, the cooler is now full of Coca-Cola bottles. The sings-
ing proceeds, with traditionally decorated men pounding hourglass drums.
The man who was first awaiting the delivery at the start of the commercial
quaffs a bottle of Coke. An older man congratulates the young man who had
worriedly inspected the empty cooler, both drinking thirstily from bottles of
Coke. The Coca-Cola logo appears on the screen, encircled with the words
“Fun bilong yu, fun bilong Coca-Cola.”
Like the Pepsi ad, this Coke ad projects an image of the product consis-
tent with its globally asserted associations—in this case, associations with
inclusive sociability, innocent good times, and the celebration of tradition.
Unlike the Pepsi ad, the Coke ad includes children, young adults, and, in its
closing frame, a senior man. And unlike the Pepsi ad, the exclusion of girls
and women from the foreground of the action obviates certain messages of
sexual impropriety.23 Indeed, the overt message of this Coke ad appears to
be summarized in the mixed English/Tok Pisin of the logo: “Fun bilong yu,
Fun bilong Coca-Cola” (“Your fun, the fun of Coca-Cola”). In other words,
Coca-Cola is easily incorporated into local traditions—a piece of moder-
nity entirely compatible with valued ancestral customs. Here, then, is the
modernity of certain anticolonial nationalisms as sold by a transnational
corporation: the material and technological wonders of modernity can be
A Network of Perspectives 139
The terms in which university students and other urban Papua New
Guineans talked about the Coke and Pepsi ads were the organizing terms of
the ads themselves. These terms include the familiar litany of dichotomies
that orient market segmenters, such as the PNG FM general manager:
modernity and tradition, present and past, foreign and local, town and vil-
lage, youth and elders. A twenty-six-year-old secretary from New Ireland
Province was thus able to devise her own marketing analysis of the Pepsi
campaign as follows: “For us, the civilized, educated people in towns, I
don’t think the lady in the mini-top is insulting. Let’s face it, it’s today’s
fashion, but I guess those in the villages and elders will disapprove and say
its sexist.” “But,” she concludes in a way that echoes the Pepsi ad’s lyrics,
“like I said, people are different and have their own opinions.” Here is an
unambiguous example of the complex connectivity involved in a network
of perspectives: one perspective, a mapping of other people’s meanings in
the form of an ad, incites a woman’s awareness of/construction of a per-
spective that she knows she does not share—that of the “less civilized” and
“less educated”—but which she knows nonetheless impinges uncomfort-
ably on her own perspective.
The Pepsi ads, in particular, generated this disjunctive effect among uni-
versity students, who often objected to the ads as “irrelevant” to PNG on
behalf of other, “illiterate” people whom they imagined would not under-
stand the ads. Put differently, the Pepsi ads provoked the students to imag-
ine themselves both as marketing critics and as misaddressed objects of
other marketers’ perspectives. Similarly, a thirty-nine-year-old secondary
teacher—an apparent proponent of the KISS formula of advertising—
noted that the Pepsi ads did not show people drinking Pepsi: “Imagine a
person who does not know the drink. He/she will think it a fashion ad.
Wake up! We are Papua New Guineans, not whitemen where Pepsi comes
from.” The same conclusion about perspectives impinging upon perspec-
tives could also be applied to Elizabeth Solomon’s imaginings: an ad for
Coca-Cola made by a transnational agency incites both her desire to return
to the village and her construction of a perspective in which she does not
feel at home—a perspective on the white man’s world entangling her chil-
dren and grandchildren in urban Port Moresby.
In PNG, advertising for consumer goods other than soft drinks similarly
engages people’s perspectives on themselves and their traditions, especially
when people imagine their traditions as either under attack or misused by
A Network of Perspectives 141
The ad apparently suggests that the state, in the guise of the Department
of Health, endorses the substitution of chewing gum for betel nut. This
endorsement entails the supposition that chewing gum and chewing betel
nut are alternative but equivalent forms of chewing. The ad consequently
urges consumers to choose the clean and safe PK, the more hygienic and
non-life threatening form of chewing. In the same week of June 1992, how-
ever, two male callers to the radio program Talkback voiced their refusal to
accept the state’s definition of “health” and its associated campaign to elim-
inate or replace betel chewing. Talkback was then a morning phone-in
show heard daily throughout metropolitan PNG on the Kalang Service of
the National Broadcasting Commission. Although the program originated
from Port Moresby, callers from as far away as Mount Hagen or Rabaul
sometimes rang the station to speak live on the air with host Roger
Hau‘ofa.
The first caller, John, expressed skepticism about the connection
between betel nut and mouth cancer, and wondered where the man whose
cancerous mouth is featured in the PK ad came from. John argued that in
his home area (Kairuku/Bereina) that people routinely swallowed their
betel instead of spitting; they did not “litter.” He also observed that in his
home area, lime was manufactured from shells, and that this lime was
probably not cancer-causing, unlike alternatives made from coral or fibro
(fiberboard). Furthermore, John pointed out the local (Mekeo) practice of
issuing betel nut to invite guests to a feast. He asked, What would replace
betel nut “as far as our culture is concerned, our custom is concerned” if
the Health Department were to ban it “for the good of our health”?
142 Coca-Globalization
Roger replied by agreeing that betel spit was a major problem in Port
Moresby, but he reiterated that there is a “clean way to chew betel nut,” one
that is “traditional and kastam,” namely, “to swallow everything that you
put in your mouth instead of spitting it out.” He also agreed that John’s
people probably know how to chew betel nut properly, and suggested,
“Maybe the Health Department, instead of trying to discourage betel nut
chewing altogether, should look at ways which are safe to chew betel nut.
People have been chewing it for generations before the Health Department
came into being and they knew how to chew the betel nut safely. Maybe
they could recommend a certain way of chewing betel nut which will go
down better because its part of the traditional culture of the people.” Roger
then claimed that “the Western culture had introduced its deadly poisons,
like alcohol and cigarettes, and then tried to ban ours.” John agreed enthu-
siastically, and asked pointedly if, after all, “we were trying to bring in the
Western type of living and do away with our proper one.”
Two days later, the second caller, also named John, resumed the discus-
sion: “Betel nut is good. It’s how people chew and spit, throw rubbish all
over the place, that’s spoiling the image of betel nut.” John enlisted Roger’s
support as a fellow chewer, but as one who is “clean and healthy about it.”
The problem, as John saw it, was with people who were new to betel chew-
ing and have only recently come across it. They are the ones who chew in
an untidy, unhealthy way, spitting indiscriminately and littering the
ground with betel-nut skins. The answer—and here John took up Roger’s
earlier suggestion—was to get the Health Department to institute a chew-
ing awareness program and to educate people about “the correct habit of
chewing—getting rid of your rubbish, keeping the place clean and tidy, free
from germs and things like this.” Here, mass media functions as a site for
constructing ethnic or regional identities; for the “people who are new to
betel nut” are people from the Highlands, where betel nut was not tradi-
tionally available because the areca palm does not grow at high altitudes.
The opinions of these three men hardly constitute radical liberal chal-
lenges to state authority. But they do reject the state-backed corporate
equation of “health” with the elimination of betel chewing. And they do
reject this equation in part by appealing to some notion of traditional
Melanesian culture. In this regard, they can be distinguished from M. Gavi
of Boroko whose letter to the Post-Courier published on December 30,
1991, holds up Singapore as an example of “what a small former colony can
do if it has pride, discipline and a sense of national purpose.” Gavi points
out that, among other things, “Singapore does not tolerate the disgusting
practice of spitting betel nut juice on whatever is close by (whether it is
moving or not) nor does one see abandoned, burnt out vehicles littering
A Network of Perspectives 143
the streets.” Gavi then goes on to explain this situation as a failure on the
part of both citizens and the government, a failure that is excused, more-
over, “by telling the world it is the ‘Melanesian Way.’” Gavi thus devalues
“custom” in relation to “development” (see also the letter from Anti-Buai
Spit published in the Post-Courier on February 12, 1991).
It is precisely this relationship between “development” and “custom”
that advertisements stimulate consumers—such as the young New Ireland
woman already mentioned—to produce discursively, perforce articulating
perspectives on themselves and on other people’s perspectives, including
those of the advertisers themselves. For example, the following letter,
signed by Jack Kagoi of Port Moresby, appeared during 1995 in the Post-
Courier under the heading “Shell’s Television Advert Portrays PNG
Wrongly.” The ad depicted, without narration, a family of Highlanders in
traditional ceremonial dress who pull up to a Shell gasoline station in a
rickety vehicle and wander around the station’s convenience store with
a look of wonder at all the goods on the shelves.
pointed out that this way of representing Papua New Guineans would be
more appropriate for non-Papua New Guinean audiences. Similarly, an
independent commercial producer—originally from the United Kingdom,
now living in PNG with his Papua New Guinean wife—confessed that his
favorite advertising campaign was a set of television spots for Nescafé
instant coffee. These spots all showed images of Papua New Guineans
doing “a job well done”—students studying, a bank teller at the office, fac-
tory workers taking a break—all mercifully without any reference to cus-
tom, tradition, or culture.
By 1997, the Shell advertisement was no longer running in PNG,
replaced by a new campaign with the tag line “Go well, go Shell,” a vintage
slogan revived for worldwide use. An advertising executive at the agency
that had produced the Shell ad criticized in Kagoi’s letter told me that the
client, like Kagoi, was not at all pleased with the ad. The executive claimed
that the client regarded the ad as too “parochial” and too customized, and
consequently rejected a follow-up proposal in the same vein. The client
instead reportedly insisted on an ad that was more “international” and cos-
mopolitan. This executive personally regarded the client’s perspective as
“arrogant,” but he also offered the example as evidence of how brand-
enhancing “image ads” often respond more to the client’s self-perspective
than to the perspective of the ad agency on the imagined perspectives of
the potential consumers of the product. Disjunctions and misalignments
in the network of perspectives have multiple sources that are rarely easy
to predict.
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Part 2
n April 17, 2002, The Coca-Cola Company held its annual share-
O holder meeting inside the Theater at Madison Square Garden in mid-
town Manhattan. The meeting had been relocated to New York City as a
public gesture of solidarity in the aftermath of the previous September’s
terrorist attack on the World Trade Center. Representatives of the New
York City convention and visitors bureau thanked Coca-Cola shareowners
in a letter included in the folder of materials that was distributed to the
approximately twelve hundred people, including myself, attending the
meeting: “Our city is more vibrant than ever in part due to the support we
have received from the business community. Your solidarity with our City
is greatly appreciated and has helped us all get through these difficult
times.” In a videotaped address, Mayor Michael Bloomberg personally
thanked the company and its shareowners for supporting the city’s efforts
to recover from the trauma of 9/11.
The Coca-Cola Company might count the 2002 meeting as one instance
of keeping the promise declared in its mission statement: “The Coca-Cola
Company exists to benefit and refresh everyone it touches.” This promise
was highlighted in a booklet, attractively printed in color on heavy stock
(containing “recycled paper content from postconsumer waste”), that was
also included in the folder distributed at the 2002 meeting. The booklet
was titled, “Keeping Our Promise: Citizenship at Coca-Cola,” and it
asserted up front that “The Coca-Cola Company is a vibrant network of
people, in nearly 200 countries, with the vision, values and capabilities to
150 Coca-Globalization
put citizenship into action.” It opened with a statement from then CEO
Douglas Daft in which Daft asked, “How does a local business, global in
scope, demonstrate citizenship?” The booklet in effect answered this ques-
tion, providing a summary in words and pictures of how the company acts
as a “local citizen,” striving “every day to refresh the marketplace, enrich the
workplace, preserve the environment, and strengthen our communities.”
During the spectacular “marketing showcase”—“Coca-Cola: The Power
to Connect”—that preceded the scheduled business of the shareholder
meeting, the company’s concern with “social responsibility” was put on
display in between appearances by sports celebrities (Joe Gibbs and Tony
Stewart) and musical stars (Jon Bon Jovi and Wynton Marsalis). Video
clips of an interview conducted by television talk-show host Charlie Rose,
who also emceed the marketing showcase, featured Daft talking about
“doing well by doing good.” Daft noted, for example, how the company got
children to read through its marketing partnership with the latest install-
ment of the wildly popular Harry Potter book series. Nelson Mandela and
Robert Redford both appeared on the big screen to thank the company,
respectively, for helping to fight AIDS in Africa and sponsoring the Sun-
dance Film Festival. There seemed to be no limit to what or whom the
company “touches.” As the Boys Choir of Harlem sang on stage, the show-
case approached its climax when the actor Donald Sutherland introduced
the quintessential global celebrity Muhammad Ali, who waved to the
applause of the crowd and exited without speaking.
Outside Madison Square Garden on Seventh Avenue, before and during
the meeting, another form of asserting solidarity and putting citizenship
into action took shape. Representatives of different interest groups handed
out fliers. One of the groups marched in a picket line holding red and white
posters that read “Racism at Coke” and “Coca-Cola Still Discriminates”
(see Figure 5.1). Several members of the Grassroots Recycling Network
struggled to inflate a gigantic Coke bottle lettered with the words “Support
Bigger Bottle Bill” (see Figure 5.2). The various fliers accused the company
of social irresponsibility, specifically, racial discrimination against black
employees with regard to pay grade and job category; violation of human
rights and worker rights in Colombia, Zimbabwe, the Philippines, and the
United States; and denial of medical treatment for HIV/AIDS to workers at
Coke’s bottlers and distributors in Africa. One apparently lone protestor
distributed fliers that linked the company through its donations to Emory
University, where it was alleged that abusive animal experiments were con-
ducted at the Yerkes Primate Center. At least one public figure that
appeared at the street events, James P. Hoffa, president of the Teamsters,
added a dramatic flavor distinct from that of the marketing showcase.
Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies of Citizenship 151
Figure 5.1 New York, NY: Protestors at annual shareholder meeting of The Coca-Cola Company, April
17, 2002.
Hence the report of the New York Times (Winter 2002): “Standing beside a
car-sized inflatable rat draped with the Coca-Cola logo in Manhattan,
[Hoffa] accused the company of standing by and abdicating responsibility
for the murder of eight union leaders who organized workers at Coke bot-
tling plants in Colombia over the last decade, a charge the company vehe-
mently denies.”
The 2002 shareholder meeting effectively functioned as a vehicle for
contesting the meaning of citizenship. Two opposed but linked political
rhetorics and modes of political action converged in and around Madison
Square Garden. That is, the meeting pitted corporate definitions of social
responsibility against alternative definitions advocated by an assortment of
actors in their market roles as investors, employees, and especially con-
sumers. Put differently, the meeting redefined an old annual rite of busi-
ness as a new opportunity for civic engagement between the agents of
“consumer citizenship” and the representatives of “corporate citizenship.”
Both of these political rhetorics and modes of political action derive from
long lineages, but their specific manifestation at the 2002 shareholder
meeting indicated a more recent and encompassing transformation in the
relations among states, citizens, and corporations—and hence a dramatic
change in the performance of citizenship. This transformation, I suggest, is
an effect of multiple factors, economic and otherwise, that are often bun-
dled together and called globalization; factors that include the shrinking of
152 Coca-Globalization
Figure 5.2 New York, NY: Protestors at annual shareholder meeting of The Coca-Cola Company,
April 17, 2002.
the welfare state, on the one hand, and the expansion of information flows
made possible by new media technologies, on the other.
In this chapter and the next two, I will discuss corporate citizenship and
consumer citizenship by turns, treating them as sometimes opposed but
often complementary modes of reembedding soft drink companies and
their products in local social settings. I begin by examining the rhetoric of
corporate citizenship that animates The Coca-Cola Company’s citizenship
reports, including the reports from 2002 and 2003 available on the com-
pany’s Web site. My goal is to identify the assumptions of this rhetoric and
to point out the contradictions and tensions inherent in likening profit-
driven corporations to socially responsible citizens.
Consumer citizenship is a blanket term for an array of market-oriented
political initiatives that I illustrate with various examples drawn from the
network of soft drink perspectives. These examples, including recent
attempts to mobilize soft drink consumers as ethical or smart shoppers,
Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies of Citizenship 153
signal attempts on the part of corporations, on the one hand, and con-
sumers, on the other, to fill the space carved out by the erosion of the terri-
torial nation-state’s capacity to govern—to regulate and address issues of
concern that impinge upon the everyday lives and practices of national cit-
izens. In this sense, both modes represent rival strategies for embedding
transnational corporations in local settings and for holding together
translocal commodity networks, networks that might recruit state agencies
and agents but which state agents and agencies in no way inevitably mobi-
lize let alone dominate. What is at stake in this contest?
According to Matten and Crane (2003, 2), who collected the quotes repro-
duced here, the term “corporate citizenship” moved during the late 1990s out
of the realm of management practice and into the discourse of “corporate
Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies of Citizenship 155
instances, probably required by law. For example, the company strives “to
refresh the marketplace” by offering business training and equipment to
entrepreneurs, such as the Luciano family in Zimbabwe, who started sell-
ing Coca-Cola as street vendors and ended up owning three superettes.
The Lucianos are pictured in the report standing in front of what appears
to be one of their superettes. A company supplied sign, with the Coca-Cola
logotype, reads, “Luciano Kiosk.” A stack of plastic cartons of bottled Coke
is visible in the lower left corner of the photo. Similarly, the 2003 report
describes “microenterprise in Vietnam,” a project undertaken with the
Vietnamese Women’s Unions in which “2,000 women in Hanoi and Ho Chi
Minh City have gone into business selling Coca-Cola beverages from push-
carts.” The company provides product and sales training to the women and
characterizes the program as a way “to improve economic opportunities
for women.” But the program—like the program supporting the
Lucianos—is manifestly also a simple way to recruit and train employees
for the purpose of expanding further the availability of company products
to consumers. Employing and training workers, a precondition of making
a profit, is thus offered with self-congratulations as evidence of good
citizenship—especially in Africa, where the Coca-Cola system is the conti-
nent’s largest single private sector employer with sixty thousand employees.
These programs for creating a pool of skilled workers are not restricted
to the developing world. In the United States, the company has created an
internship program that identifies “150 top-performing students of diverse
heritage who are entering their junior year of college.” The students are
invited to participate in a two-year program that provides, for two consec-
utive summers, about ten weeks of “real-world work” with a mentor and a
ten-thousand-dollar-per-year scholarship. This program is represented in
the 2003 citizenship report as part of the company’s efforts to promote “a
culture of inclusiveness.” But, once again, the program is also manifestly a
managerial recruiting and training initiative, one that responds tactically
to the highly publicized charges of racial discrimination and ensuing class
action suit brought against the company in the late 1990s (for details, see
Hays 2004; Girard 2004). Compliance with the law—at least to the extent
that “cultures of exclusiveness” are illegal—is offered as evidence of good
citizenship.
There is a more general way in which corporate citizenship always
serves the interests of shareholder value: almost every socially responsible
initiative on the part of the company doubles as a marketing opportunity.
This doubling effect is one of the main attractions of corporate sponsor-
ship. For example, in 1993, the Coca-Cola Foundation granted $320,000
to the State Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg for an art restoration
Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies of Citizenship 159
10 percent; trading profit margin fell from 15 percent the year before to 5.8
percent, partly as a result of rising prices for sugar. CCA responded by
announcing a major restructuring of the Philippines business that
included consolidating production for Mega-Manila by closing down two
older bottling plants, and making adjustments in packaging and price “in
order to improve convenience and value to consumers and reduce cost per
case sold” (CCA Annual Report 1999). Shareholders at the April 2000
meeting, including myself, were also informed about CCA’s plans to deal
with performance in the Philippines by trying to target school children, in
schools. The audience watched a video and heard the voice of a Filipina
employee of CCA, described as an “educator,” who explained how she
sought to make Coke “natural ” to students. She remarked that 17 to 18
million students in the Philippines spend six to eight hours a day in school.
Schools were thus the perfect place “to nurture consumption habits and
brand reverence for Coca-Cola.” In effect, then, by building schools in the
Philippines, the company was expanding its market and cultivating brand
loyal consumers. The similarity of the signs on schools and superettes is
thus more than coincidental; it is incontrovertible proof of doing well by
doing good.
The Coca-Cola Company’s discourse of citizenship and corporate social
responsibility presumes and asserts that operating a “sustainable”
business—and ensuring “sustainable growth” and “enduring value”—
hinges on trust. Daft was asked what the company was doing “to address
the crisis of trust that pervades the business climate today” (The Coca-Cola
Company 2003 Summary Annual Report). He replied that building trust
entailed “paying attention to details and making sure they reflect your val-
ues.” These details include the political relationships that the company
deems important for furthering its interests. So, for example, the 2003 Cit-
izenship Report explicitly describes the company’s Prato Popular program
in Brazil as an attempt to join President Lula da Silva’s campaign to eradi-
cate malnutrition and hunger in the country (Zero Hunger Program).
What might be gained in such an alliance? Here I speculate. Lula de Silva’s
economic policies—his stated skepticism of “free trade” and privatiza-
tion—might be perceived as potential threats to the company’s operations,
which also risked implication in any campaign against poor nutrition. An
opportunity to join with the president would go some way toward demon-
strating citizenship in one of the communities where the company oper-
ates. Significantly, the Prato Popular program, which involves building and
outfitting restaurants to serve subsidized meals of meat, beans, rice, and
salad, is perhaps of all the company’s projects the least obviously in line
with its youth-focused marketing imperatives: “The pilot restaurant
162 Coca-Globalization
opened in Porto Alegre in April 2003 was a real success. Today, 320
meals/day are served—20 beyond the initial goal—to a group of . . . people
comprising unemployed and homeless, youngsters, elders, needy families
and retirees” (The Coca-Cola Company 2004, http://www2.coca-cola
.com/presscenter/pc_include/nr_20040318_americas_zero_hunger
_project_include.html). Hardly the company’s target market. Porto Alegre,
of course, was home to the first annual World Social Forum in 2001 (and
several subsequent meetings), organized by a network of Brazilian trade
unions and NGOs as a public attempt to protest the neoliberal policies of
economic globalization represented by the annual World Economic Forum
meetings in Davos.
The new marketing emphasis on international corporate citizenship is
consistent with the shift from numerous independent local bottlers to the
singular product or brand itself as the primary means for creating trust
overseas—for reembedding the company in diverse national and local set-
tings (Chapter 3). Of course, The Coca-Cola Company cultivates political
trust at home in the United States through more conventional means as
well, such as financial donations to political candidates and political action
committees (PACs). The Center for Responsive Politics reports that during
the 2000, 2002, and 2004 election cycles, individuals (including employees)
and PACs associated with The Coca-Cola Company and Coca-Cola Enter-
prises were among the top contributors in the food and beverage industry
to federal candidates and parties. For example, in 2002, the company’s
associates contributed $849,208 (42 percent to Democrats, 58 percent to
Republicans), while associates of Coca-Cola Enterprises contributed
$436,956 (16 percent to Democrats and 84 percent to Republicans;
http://www.opensecrets.org). Furthermore, Ruskin and Schor (2005)
report that two of the 2004 “Rangers” who contributed at least $200,000
each to the Bush/Cheney campaign were Barclay Resler, vice-president for
government and public affairs at The Coca-Cola Company, and Robert
Leeborn Jr., president of federal affairs at Troutman Sanders PAG and a
lobbyist for the company (two other lobbyists qualified as one-hundred-
thousand-dollar contributors). In addition, both Coke and Pepsi gave one
hundred thousand dollars each to underwrite George W. Bush’s inaugura-
tion in 2005 (Ruskin and Schor 2005).
Besides making political donations, the company also maintains a
“Civic Action Network” (http://www2.coca-cola.com/contactus/faq/
civic.html), an “organized grassroots effort” whose purpose is to “influence
change in government.” In response to the FAQ, “Why should I join?” the
company replies, “Over the next ten years, special taxes and burdensome
governmental regulations will cost our industry, and our customers, over
Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies of Citizenship 163
one billion dollars. We must reduce this cost. As a network member, you’ll
add your voice to thousands of others across the country who are ready to
speak out for just treatment for our business.” These “burdensome” regula-
tions include, for example, state initiatives to enact returnable bottle
(“forced deposit”) laws or to enact taxes in order to raise revenues to pro-
tect water resources. The August 2000 issue of Network News, an irregular
publication of The Coca-Cola Company Governmental Relations Depart-
ment, thus reports how Civic Action Network (CAN) members opposed a
“hidden tax” on bottled water. According to one brief item, hundreds of
CAN members in the state of New Hampshire were contacted “to commu-
nicate to their senators and representatives” that the proposed two cents
per container tax on all bottles of water “was a selective and discriminatory
tax.” The revenue from the proposed tax was “to be used to purchase land
or easements from municipalities to protect water resources.” It is not clear
from the item if these water resources included the sources of the munici-
pal water system of Londonderry, New Hampshire, where a plant
reprocesses tap water as The Coca-Cola Company’s branded bottled water
product, Dasani (Clarke 2005).3
Nevertheless, the preoccupation with cultivating trust seems motivated
less by immediate political considerations than by long-term economic
ones. I suggest that this circumstance—and perhaps the recent enlarge-
ment of the discourse of corporate citizenship—is itself a function of the
shift in the source of value creation from tangible product to intangible
brand (Chapter 3). That is, corporate social responsibility has become a
necessary expense of doing business if not for all companies then for con-
sumer goods companies that rely on the reputation of their brands for sales
(Klein 1999; Vogel 2005). The Nike Web site duly summarizes its experi-
ence with extensive and well publicized campaigns against its use of low-
paid labor to manufacture athletic shoes when it equates corporate
citizenship with protecting and enhancing its brand. As Noreena Hertz
(2001, 191) puts it, “In the age of the logo, reputation is paramount. It is no
longer enough that corporations produce high quality goods at reasonable
prices, they also have to be seen to be making a positive or at least not a neg-
ative contribution to society.” Or, as Douglas Daft himself put it in the com-
pany’s first citizenship report: “Ensuring that we operate as a good corporate
citizen is essential—to the strength of our brands, to the value we build for
share owners and to our success as a company.” Corporate citizenship is
from this angle an investment, a means to create a future for the brand—
a purpose also well served by the company’s focus on youth development.
Invocations of sustainability and stewardship—words appropriated from
the vocabulary of environmental activists—refer, at bottom, to the brand
164 Coca-Globalization
as a renewable source of profits. But this renewal requires, above all, value-
producing consumption work, and it is precisely this work that is put in
jeopardy when the company tarnishes its reputation (as in the Belgian
recall fiasco) or abuses the trust of consumers (as in the New Coke fiasco).
&*
ironic, given the company’s current problems dealing with farmers in India
who accuse it of stealing groundwater (see Conclusion). It also raises but
sidesteps the question of whose water the bottling facility was treating in
the first place and giving secondarily. But my point is simply to note how a
quintessential rural development project—once the hallmark of develop-
ment-oriented liberal democratic and socialist states alike—is here carried
out not by the South Korean state, but by a transnational corporation. It is
the corporation, not the state, that guarantees rice farmers their rights to
make a living from the land.
In its reports, the company celebrates its partnerships not only with
state agencies (the Ministry of Education in Egypt; the Ministry of the
Environment in Lebanon), but also with a range of NGOs. In India, these
partnerships have delivered educational services to “young people lacking
resources” (NGOs include Child Relief and You, and Literacy India), med-
ical services to the poor (NGOs include Indian Red Cross and St. John’s
Ambulance Brigade), and rainwater harvesting systems to local communi-
ties (NGOs and Resident Welfare Associations as well as state agencies are
involved in this initiative). In Africa, the company—through the Coca-
Cola Africa Foundation and its bottlers—has partnered with UNAIDS, a
United Nations body, to implement outreach efforts and promotional
campaigns designed to increase awareness about and reduce the spread of
HIV/AIDS. In Zambia, for example, nationwide free delivery of educa-
tional materials was offered through the Coca-Cola distribution network.
By 2003—in apparent response to vigorous protests such as the one at the
2002 shareholder meeting—the company could report that “all of the
nearly 60,000 employees of The Coca-Cola Company in Africa and its 40
African bottling partners—including family members—are provided
access to antiretroviral medication and confidential testing and counsel-
ing” (see Chapter 6). As in other developing countries, then, the company
in Africa takes over “those functions that are clearly governmental func-
tions in the framework of liberal citizenship” (Matten and Crane 2003, 11).
The withering of the state in Africa and elsewhere does not therefore
automatically mean less government; it can equally mean a new mode of
extraterritorial or “deterritorialized” governmentality, in which global cor-
porations as well as transnational NGOs and international agencies all play
a part. And while this new mode of governmentality shuts down certain
avenues for making claims on the basis of national citizenship, it opens up
new avenues for asserting claims on the basis of a deterritorialized—
perhaps cosmopolitan—consumer citizenship. Put differently, agents con-
nected within a commodity network, although legal citizens of different and
distant nation-states—might resist and/or redirect the agenda of corporate
166 Coca-Globalization
agency: first, the White Label campaign and, second, the consumer coop-
erative movement.
The White Label campaign, which ran from 1898 to 1918, was an
attempt on the part of the National Consumers’ League—a progressive
women’s organization—to construct “an imagined community of con-
sumers and producers” (Sklar 1998, 17). In order to qualify for the White
Label, garment manufacturers were required to meet minimum labor stan-
dards, including prohibitions on subcontracting, overtime, and child labor.
By 1904, the League had licensed sixty factories that produced the sorts of
goods regularly purchased by middle-class women, such as stitched white
cotton underwear, corsets and petticoats. Although women were then
legally denied the right to vote, the campaign promoted notions of con-
sumer agency that shared assumptions with an electoral model of purchas-
ing power—namely, that mass-based consumer demand was central to the
national economy and that consumption was all about making choices in
the marketplace. However, the campaign linked these assumptions to
another one: that consumer agency requires both knowledge about the
working conditions of producers and moral obligations to reject goods pro-
duced under exploitative circumstances. The campaign was conducted on a
national scale, but rooted in local communities, educating middle-class con-
sumers about the working conditions within their own communities.
The consumer cooperative movement emerged throughout Europe and
in the Americas during the early to mid-nineteenth century and sustained
itself until the mid-twentieth century before stagnating and declining. (Its
history is complex and understudied, but see Storrs 2000; Frank 1994; Fur-
lough and Strikwerda 1999.) Urban workers and rural farmers organized
themselves around a consumer identity that comprehended more than free
choice and self-expression: “As consumers they demanded fair prices,
unadulterated foodstuffs, and goods made under just conditions by union-
ized workers. As consumers, they built institutions that returned profits on
the basis of consumer purchases rather than on the basis of shares owned.
As consumers they constructed vast wholesaling enterprises, founded
political parties, and debated the nature of the good society of the future”
(Furlough and Strikwerda 1999, 5). The cooperative movement empha-
sized associations of consumers rather than individual consumers; its
ideal—unlike that of later consumer advocates, for example—was that a
retail system run on cooperative principles was an alternative to and pro-
tection against private capitalist enterprise. Associations of consumers—
which could be connected nationally and internationally, and extended
into wholesaling and manufacturing operations—committed themselves
to “community self-reliance, democratic governance, profits returned to
168 Coca-Globalization
how such a politics is taking shape around carbonated soft drinks such as
Coca-Cola and Pepsi-Cola; in so doing, I address the limitations of these
possibilities. I address more generally the limitations—as well as the posi-
tive potential—of a politics of consumption at the end of Chapter 7 and in
the Conclusion.
&*
The politics of products shifts the site of political agency from production
to consumption precisely in order to highlight the connections between
both sites, that is, to connect consumers with producers as agents held
together (though not always with equal force) by a product network. In the
form of political consumerism, it tries to consolidate and leverage the pur-
chasing power of individuals who might otherwise remain unassociated and
to use this power to reform the practices of corporations—especially con-
sumer goods corporations that rely heavily on their brands as a source of
value creation. Political consumerism that targets brands—Nike, Gap,
Mattel—and that attempts to make visible the conditions of workers who
produce branded commodities has become one of the hallmarks of so-called
antiglobalization activism (see, for example, Klein 1999 or the Web site of the
National Labor Committee, http://www.nlc.org). Individuals are encour-
aged to write directly to retail store managers and corporate officials,
invoking their authority as consumers to express moral concerns about
products that bear certain brands. This form of political consumerism
does not presuppose a unified body of individuals; it is network-based,
mobilizing and recruiting participants who do not necessarily share the
same perspective on a particular commodity. In this regard, political con-
sumerism takes on the social morphology of other so-called antiglobaliza-
tion initiatives and coalitions, organized in often informal and ad hoc ways
through the new media technologies of e-mail and Internet that also
enable such brutal efficiencies of economic globalization as Wal-Mart’s
integrated transnational supply chains. Indeed, it takes on the morphology
of the very networks assembled by the products that provide the focus of
political activism (Graeber 2002; Klein 2000).
Nevertheless, political consumerism often requires, entails, and pro-
motes a more encompassing politics of consumption that seeks to establish
institutional alternatives for consumers (such as cooperative stores) or
institutional arrangements to validate guarantees made to consumers
(such as the Worker Rights Consortium set up to monitor compliance of
garment producers with minimum labor standards; http://www.worker
rights.org). These institutions make it possible for individuals to practice
170 Coca-Globalization
everyday political consumerism with relatively little effort and less than
passionate commitment. It is this very possibility, of course, that renders
political consumerism both attractive and vulnerable. That is, political
consumerism can be easily built into a person’s routine shopping and pro-
visioning, but it can also be easily rendered impotent when, for example,
labeling schemes are misleading or weakly enforced, or when, as I argue in
Chapter 7, political consumerism becomes an end in itself, detached from
other modes of civic action.
Political consumerism and the politics of products challenge the dis-
tinction between the market and the world outside the market—the cos-
mological divide that corporate citizenship mediates but never seeks to
eliminate (and not only for legal reasons). In so doing, they equally chal-
lenge familiar distinctions between public and private, political and eco-
nomic, citizenship and consumption. In this light, not only consumption,
but all market activity must be conducted in morally informed ways—
guided by values, virtues, and ethics as well as by self-interest. This dictum
applies especially to the conduct of relations between employers and wage-
laborers, but in principle the extent of its application is almost boundless.
Such a possibility is perhaps most readily apparent when considering the
environmental or ecological ramifications of globally produced and con-
sumed products (consider, for instance, a PET bottle of spring water
imported from Fiji and drunk in Canada). For a global corporation like
The Coca-Cola Company, the politics of products potentially represents a
loss of control over delimiting exactly who or what the company “touches”
and who or what the company is obliged to “refresh”; a loss of control over
the borders of the polity in which the company obliges itself to act as a good
citizen. This loss of control is, in other words, an inability to align perspec-
tives within a product network or even to keep the network—ever responsive
to the agendas of its diverse constituent agents—from falling apart.
The politics of products, moreover, when coupled with an emergent
form of transnational governmentality that includes but exceeds the agen-
cies of territorial nation-states, means that the legitimate concerns of con-
sumer-citizens need not be restricted to their own countries of political
citizenship. Consumer-citizens, like anthropologists, are free to follow the
thing, to track branded consumer goods through value chains of vast geo-
graphical extensiveness, reacting in Rochester, New York, to morally trou-
bling situations unfolding in Colombia or South Africa. These reactions,
like the operations of NGOs and interstate agencies, form a dimension of
transnational governmentality. They potentially open up a new space for
the creation of transnational alliances and deterritorialized communities
in which some of the inequities of neoliberal economic globalization can
Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies of Citizenship 171
Fire up your search engine and enter “boycott Coca-Cola.” You will find
unequivocal evidence of the risks of being a high profile global consumer
goods corporation in this moment of the politics of products. Reasons for
boycotting Coca-Cola include protests over groundwater takings in India
and over corporate support for the state of Israel. In addition, groups
including the Pacific Green Party of Portland, Oregon, and the National
Union of Students in the United Kingdom have called (the latter unsucess-
fully) for boycotts of Coca-Cola products in solidarity with trade unionists
in Colombia, who have accused the company of complicity with anti-union
violence (Chapter 6). Updated reports of consumer tactics directed against
the company and its bottlers can be found on Web sites including Coke-
watch.org. There is no doubt that new media technologies have expanded
the possible scope of an old weapon of consumer politics—the boycott.
Long lists of ongoing boycotts can be found on the Web sites of groups
ranging from the Ethical Consumer Research Association to the American
Federation of Labor and Congress of Industrial Organizations (AFL-CIO).
Boycotts are a form of negative political consumerism, a kind of anti-
shopping well suited to the quick and unambiguous expression of moral
outrage. For example, in the wake of the U.S.-led invasion of Iraq in March
2003, consumer boycotts were initiated across Europe against American
products, including Coca-Cola (see Figure 5.3). While it is difficult to
assess the effectiveness of this antiwar action, it is worth noting that the
most recent spate of boycotts in connection with accusations of labor vio-
lence in Colombia has prompted the company to respond publicly, using
the same sort of electronic means available to consumer activists. For
example, a Google search of “boycott Coke” in 2005 called up a “sponsored
link” to CokeFacts.org, a company Web page with the heading, The Truth
About the Coca-Cola Company Around The World. The page not only
responds to allegations about human rights abuses in Colombia, but also
provides background on the history of the company’s operations there and
a copy of a commissioned report that “found no instances of anti-union
172 Coca-Globalization
Figure 5.3 Anglet, France, March 2003. Three members of a Basque antiwar group stage a “die-in”
inside a supermarket. The group protested the U.S.-led war against Iraq and called for a boycott of Amer-
ican goods. AP IMAGES/Bob Edme.
Figure 5.4 Insertions into Ideological Circuits; Coca-Cola Project, 1970. © Cildo Meireles, Image cour-
tesy Galerie Lelong, New York.
178 Coca-Globalization
Figure 5.5 Teshie, a suburb of Accra (Ghana), January 2004. Carpenters opening a coffin shaped in the
form of a Coca-Cola bottle. RUETERS/Wolfgang Rattay.
Figure 5.6 Lighthouse II, by Chris Woods. Image courtesy the artist and Diane Farris Gallery.com.
is a group of four men that since the 1980s has been producing “tape-col-
lage compositions” using “sonic bits from here and there to critique the
culture industry” (cited in Negativland 1995, 2). The art group attracted
unusual publicity in 1991 when it was sued for violation of U.S. trademark
and copyright law in connection with a collage CD that reproduced frag-
ments of a song by the rock band U2, and outtakes from announcer Casey
Kasem’s popular syndicated radio show, American Top 40. The entire
episode, as documented in Negativland’s 1995 book, Fair Use, illustrates
the group’s commitment to recycling and remixing pieces of corporate-
owned commercial culture in an attempt to communicate humorous anti-
corporate messages and to validate, if not extend, the provisions of fair use.
Negativland’s Web site includes numerous articles and helpful resources on
fair use and copyright law, including the group’s own original essay on fair
use, which advocates the “practice of fragmentary appropriation” and the
values of free speech and artistic freedom. Negativland’s position thus con-
verges with that of Coombe (1998; see Chapter 3), who also regards pre-
vailing intellectual property law as an antidemocratic curtailment of
individual creativity and the public domain (see Lessig 2004).
In 1997, Negativland released a new CD, Dispepsi. The recording con-
sists of found sound-collages that incorporate bits of Pepsi advertisements,
including jingles, as well as statements from past celebrity endorsers (such
as actor Ricardo Montalban), corporate officials, radio talk show partici-
pants, and television news readers. Dispesi’s liner notes observe that “All of
the cola commercials that were appropriated, transformed and re-used in
this recording attempted to assault us in our homes without our permis-
sion.” Accordingly, the appropriated (without permission) fragments are
woven into songs that parody the messages of Pepsi commercials and
recreate—for example, in repetitive sound loops—the banality of con-
sumer goods marketing. Dispepsi includes such catchy titles as “Drink It
Up,” “Why is this Commercial?” and “Voice Inside my Head.”
Negativland anticipated a legal reaction to Dispepsi similar to that pro-
voked by their sound appropriation of U2 and Casey Kasem; they conse-
quently designed an ambiguous album cover for which the group could not
be sued over trademark violation (see Figure 5.7). They anticipated, however,
legal challenges on the grounds of copyright infringement. In the event, how-
ever, no lawsuit followed. In fact, Entertainment Weekly reported the casual
reaction of a Pepsi spokesman: “It’s no Odelay, but it’s a pretty good listen”
(the reference is to an album by Beck, known for his use of sampling and
sound collage; review posted at http://www.negativland.com). Dispepsi,
moreover, was reviewed in prominent “alternative” magazines such as
Mother Jones, the Onion, and Rolling Stone. (The Negativland Web site
Corporations, Consumers, and New Strategies of Citizenship 183
Figure 5.7 Album cover of Dispepsi, 1997. Cover design by Shawn Wolfe and Negativland™.
&*
Shareholder Activism
Consumer Citizenship inside the Corporation
At a time when 51 of the world’s 100 largest economies are corpora-
tions, lobbying governments to ensure our collective well-being is
now simply inadequate. Corporations wield tremendous influence
over nearly every element of our existence, and they must be held
accountable. The multinational scope of their power signifies one
thing clearly: Protest, too, must become globalized.
—Sukant Khurana and Jordan Buckely, University of Texas students,
from an opinion piece in the Daily Texan, November 16, 2005
business.” Daft first referred to a lawsuit filed in Florida on July 20, 2000,
against the company and its Colombian bottlers over anti-union violence.
He said that there was “no evidence to support the allegations.” Daft then
affirmed the company’s support of human rights and worker rights—“we
practice social responsibility”—and pointed to a code of conduct for sup-
pliers consistent across the entire Coca-Cola system. He also raised the
controversial issues of diet and obesity, again contrasting a sedentary
lifestyle with an active Coca-Cola lifestyle and claiming that the company
offered a wide variety of beverages that fit into a healthy, active lifestyle. But
for a single mention of accounting concerns about off-balance sheet debt,
Daft’s prefatory remarks addressed issues of social responsibility rather
than corporate governance, a complete inversion of the priorities pursued
at the Sydney meeting.
Daft knew well what was coming, namely, a disturbing echo of the
protests taking place simultaneously on the sidewalks outside Madison
Square Garden. Three of the four shareholder proposals on the agenda
concerned corporate responsibility with regard to the environment (con-
tainer recycling), human rights (code of conduct), and ethical business
practices in China; the fourth proposal concerned executive stock options.
Similarly, shareholder questions from the floor to directors focused on cor-
porate responsibility, twice noting how much good might have been
accomplished with the $5 million reportedly spent on the day’s entertain-
ment spectacle (Leith 2002). A Maryknoll priest turned the company’s
marketing rhetoric against itself, urging Daft and his directors to “connect
with workers” and to “do the real thing.” An AIDS activist likewise called on
the board to provide comprehensive healthcare for all Coca-Cola system
workers in Africa, employees of bottlers as well as of the parent company,
in order to redeem the promise of life “because life tastes good.”
By all measures, shareholder activism is on the rise. The Christian Sci-
ence Monitor (MacDonald 2004), citing statistics from the Investor
Responsibility Research Center, reported that in 2003, the number of
shareholder proposals brought to a vote at company meetings jumped to
1,082 from 802 the year before. (The number was up again in 2004, with
1,147 proposals voted on by mid-year.) Of the 2003 proposals, the great
majority (772) concerned corporate governance—election of the board of
directors, executive compensation, separation of the roles of chairman and
CEO, and so forth. But some 311 proposals were resolutions on social
responsibility, with twenty-six resolutions on global warming alone (Mat-
tera 2003; http://www.corp-research.org). While the increase in proposals
dealing with governance might be understood as a direct response to the
new millennium’s string of corporate malfeasance scandals, the growth of
Shareholder Activism 189
Recycling Containers
Item 4 on the agenda of the 2002 meeting was a shareholder proposal sub-
mitted by Walden Asset Management, the “socially responsive investment
division” of Boston Trust and Investment Management Company, along
with similar institutional cofilers (Domini Social Investments and Tril-
lium Asset Management). The proposal requested the board to report to
shareholders within a few months the company’s efforts to achieve a
recovery rate of 80 percent for its beverage containers and to increase
190 Coca-Globalization
law) corporate concerns (Bakan 2004). Even so, only one year later, Pep-
siCo could revise its position by claiming, “We know it is technically and
economically feasible to produce a food-grade container made with 10%
recycled content, so we believe achieving that rate is a reasonable action”
(PepsiCo 2002, 21).
Providing Healthcare
Standing outside Madison Square Garden, before the start of the 2002
meeting, I was handed a letter enclosed in a flyer, sealed with a label that
read, “Welcome! Coca-Cola Shareholders.” The letter was addressed to
Douglas Daft; a blank space was left for me to add my signature as a share-
holder. In the letter, I would be urging Daft to extend the benefits of the
company’s HIV/AIDS workplace policies to all African employees in the
Coca-Cola system; to cover workers employed by the company’s affiliated
bottlers as well as the twelve thousand to fifteen thousand workers
employed directly by the company: “Particularly, life-sustaining HIV/AIDS
medications and treatment for HIV-infected workers and their dependents
will save lives and decrease untold suffering among Coca-Cola’s vast
African workforce” (which the company estimates to number sixty thou-
sand people). The flyer reiterated this demand, as well as several others
regarding HIV testing and counseling and HIV/AIDS prevention and edu-
cation programs; it also noted the high profit margins that the company
recorded in Africa in recent years. It invited me and other shareholders to
join in the campaign with Health Global Access Project (Health GAP) and
ACT UP (AIDS Coalition to Unleash Power) in order to demand that
“Coke provide healthcare to HIV-positive workers in Africa.”
The letter and flyer signaled the launch of a protest campaign coordi-
nated by Health GAP and ACT UP that was prompted by an act of corpo-
rate citizenship, namely, The Coca-Cola Company’s own well-staged
announcement the previous year (during the UN General Assembly Spe-
cial Session on HIV/AIDS) of its partnership with UNAIDS. Indeed, this
was the partnership between UNAIDS and the Coca-Cola Africa Founda-
tion (the philanthropic arm of Coca-Cola Africa) that the company cele-
brated in its citizenship report, Keeping Our Promise, and for which
Nelson Mandela offered videotaped thanks to the shareholders inside
Madison Square Garden. Through this partnership, the company would
offer logistical support for the distribution of AIDS literature, condoms,
and testing kits as well as marketing resources for the dissemination of HIV
prevention messages. While the company thus sought to validate its sense
Shareholder Activism 193
that shares the Coca-Cola business systems best practices and approaches to
managing the business risks associated with the [global] HIV/AIDS Pan-
demic. The report would consider the potential economic effects on the
Coca-Cola system’s business and highlight Coca-Cola’s initiatives in
response to the issue. The report will also consider the issues of tuberculosis
and malaria. The report will be developed at a reasonable cost, omit propri-
etary information and made public in a manner and within a timeframe
agreed to by the Company and the investors filing this proposal.
the Company has fully analyzed the future business risks of the pandemic
and shaped their response accordingly” (ICCR 2004). The proposal, how-
ever, was not reintroduced at the 2005 annual meeting.
In August 2004, The Coca-Cola Company released the report suppos-
edly requested by shareholders: “Our HIV/AIDS Initiatives in Africa: A
Report of The Coca-Cola Africa Foundation.” The ICCR shareholders
expressed their pleasure at the “candor and depth” of the report in a letter
to newly appointed CEO Neville Isdell, claiming to “know of no other
company with this level of comprehensive regular reporting to sharehold-
ers on HIV/AIDS risks and opportunities.” They also used the letter as a
friendly opportunity to identify shortcomings of the report and to urge the
company to respond to HIV/AIDS outside Africa. And maybe more: “We
believe that Coke can build on the momentum of our company’s
HIV/AIDS response . . . to strengthen the company’s other corporate
responsibility initiatives and address ongoing concerns about broader
human rights and workplace issues” (http://www.iccr.org/news/press
_releases/cokeletter100704.PDF). Sister Vicki Bergkamp, ASC, of the Ador-
ers of the Blood of Christ, signed off by looking forward to continued
collaboration.
It is, in fact, continued engagement and ongoing dialogue that share-
holder resolutions such as this one seem designed to accomplish; propos-
als are regularly withdrawn by shareholders when companies agree to
meetings to discuss the issues at hand. Even in this singular case of a “suc-
cessful” resolution, the company did not produce the report that the reso-
lution specified. No mention is made in the report of malaria or
tuberculosis. Nor does the report say anything about the company’s poli-
cies with regard to HIV/AIDS outside Africa. It is neither more nor less
than a report of the Coca-Cola Africa Foundation, one that makes no
explicit reference to the shareholder proposal that ostensibly brought it
into being. This silence affirms the insistence of the company that it acts in
response to nothing but its own motivations. For example, in a section of
FAQs on the company’s Web site about its Africa HIV/AIDS activities, one
finds the question, “Weren’t you embarrassed into starting this program by
protestors?” to which one finds this answer, “While the Company certainly
listens to what concerned people have to say about the AIDS issue in Africa,
its policies and programs are the results of its own commitment to address-
ing AIDS in Africa.” And these commitments must attend—as must any
corporation’s commitments—to the bottom line. Accordingly, the Adorers
of the Blood of Christ cite a Harvard Business Review study (Rosen et al.
2003) on the wisdom of funding HIV/AIDS treatment programs, thereby
tinging their proposal with Christian concern and economic rationality in
Shareholder Activism 197
Protecting Workers
James P. Hoffa not only spoke outside Madison Square Garden next to an
inflatable rat, he also spoke inside the annual meeting in support of Item 5,
a shareholder proposal submitted by Christian Brothers Investment Ser-
vices that urged the board of directors to adopt a global code of conduct
and standards for its suppliers. The proposal specifically mentioned con-
cern over accusations that Coca-Cola bottlers in Colombia had used a
right-wing paramilitary group to intimidate and, in some cases, to assassi-
nate labor organizers. Hoffa likewise called for an end to the violence in
Colombia, and he alleged that Coke system workers’ rights had been vio-
lated in Zimbabwe and the Philippines, and that in the United States,
Florida workers producing Minute Maid juices had been intimidated.2 A
flyer calling for the meeting-day “Rally for Justice at Coca-Cola” sponsored
by the International Brotherhood of Teamsters also alluded to a grim his-
tory of workplace violence at Coca-Cola bottling plants in Guatemala (see
Frundt 1987; Levonson-Estrada 1994). Before discussion was cut off by
CEO Daft, Hoffa demanded a negotiated code of conduct; the problem, he
insisted, was one of human resources (HR) not public relations (PR).
My notes from the meeting record few signs of audience support for
Hoffa’s intervention, and even loud snickers from some audience mem-
bers. The company’s written rebuttal of the proposal was less dismissive,
but nevertheless unequivocal: “We already have in place a program
designed to ensure that the rights of our employees are respected and pro-
tected in our day-to-day operations” (The Coca-Cola Company 2002, 41).
The company’s adherence, moreover, to the Global Sullivan Principles of
Responsibility (http://www.thegsp.org) made redundant any further
demonstration of commitment to recognized human rights conventions.
No specific mention was made in the written rebuttal of the charges being
aired regarding the situation in Colombia, though Daft denied them ver-
bally at the meeting.
The charges against the company were serious; they concerned past and
ongoing political violence in Colombia. Since 1990, at least eight Coca-
Cola workers have been killed. In December 1996, right-wing paramili-
taries shot and killed Isidro Segundo Gil at the gate of a Coke bottling plant
198 Coca-Globalization
in the small town of Carepa. Gil was a member of the executive board of
the labor union—SINALTRAINAL (Sindicato Nacional de Trabajadores de
Industrias Alimenticias [National Union of Food Industry Workers])—
representing workers at the plant. An hour later, paramilitaries kidnapped
another union leader at his home and set fire to the union’s offices. The fol-
lowing day, paramilitaries “returned to the plant, called workers together,
and gave them until 4 p.m. to sign a statement resigning from the union on
stationery the unionists claim bore the bottler’s letterhead—or else.” Some
union members complied; others, including the union’s president whose
life was threatened, quit their jobs altogether and fled Carepa. Union lead-
ers charge that both the company and its bottlers were complicit in this
violence, the former by not intervening to condemn it and the latter by
directly ordering it (Foust and Smith 2006). In July 2001, the International
Labor Rights Fund and the United States Steel Workers Union filed an
Alien Tort Claim Act (ATCA) suit on behalf of SINALTRAINAL in U.S.
Federal Court in Miami. The suit was against The Coca-Cola Company
and two of its bottlers, Bebidas y Alimentos and Panamerican Beverages
(see Kurlantzick 2005 on the use of ATCA in holding American corpora-
tions responsible for crimes committed overseas). The suit charged the
company and its bottlers with intimidation, detention, and murder of
trade unionists working at Coca-Cola bottling plants in Colombia.
Both The Coca-Cola Company and its bottlers in Colombia have con-
sistently and strenuously rejected these charges. The company’s Web page
notes that in a country where “violence against union members has
deterred all but four percent of workers from unionizing, 31 percent of the
employees of our Coca-Cola Colombian bottling partners belong to
unions” (http://www.cokefacts.org/facts/facts_co_keyfacts.shtml). The
deaths of the Coca-Cola workers, according to company officials, can be
attributed to the longstanding civil war that has left 35,000 dead since the
mid-1980s, including some 2,500 trade unionists (Foust and Smith 2006).
Two separate judicial inquiries in Colombia “found no evidence to support
the allegations that bottler management conspired to intimidate or threaten
trade unionists,” although the company readily admits that “impunity with
respect to violence against trade unionists continues to exist and that trade
unions face several obstacles in both law and practice regarding the full exer-
cise of freedom of association” (http://www.cokefacts.org/facts/facts_co
_fact_sheet.shtml). In addition, a Miami judge in March 2003 removed the
company from the ATCA lawsuit on the grounds that the company does not
determine labor policies at independently owned bottlers (Girard 2004). The
company says, “We are confident that as the case proceeds, the court will
Shareholder Activism 199
&*
Figure 6.1 Yale University, March 31, 2004. Then CEO Douglas Daft lectures on ethics while sur-
rounded by a die in. Yale Daily News, April 1, 2004. Photograph by Stephanie Dziczek.
204 Coca-Globalization
&*
Shareholder Activism 207
EMC Corporation took the extra step of trying to change the state of Mass-
achusetts’s business law to “allow companies broadcasting their annual
meeting over the Internet to dispense with their in-person annual meet-
ings all together [sic]” (http://www.waldenassetmanagement.com/social/
topics/02062c.html). The effort failed, but other methods enable corpora-
tions to set meeting agendas.
At the 2002 Coca-Cola meeting in New York, almost two hours were
devoted to extravagant entertainment; thirty minutes or so were allocated
to discussion of both company and shareholder resolutions. Microphones
are turned off when shareholders exceed time limits of a few minutes to
make their comments. Ray Rogers was forcibly removed from the 2004
Coca-Cola meeting—held in Wilmington, Delaware, with only three hun-
dred people attending as compared with 1,200 at the 2002 meeting in
Madison Square Garden—as then CEO Daft implored security staffers to
be gentle and to “stand down, please, please” (Leith and Kempner 2004). It
is such rudely vivid moments that remind us that shareholder activism
does not equal shareholder democracy. How could it, when one director,
Warren Buffett, controls about 200 million shares of The Coca-Cola Com-
pany (and thus 200 million votes), and I own five? This is a brute fact of
inequality that Andy Warhol failed to notice in his observation that the
president, Liz Taylor, you, me, and the bum on the corner all consume
the same Coke. The resistance generated by shareholder activism, like that
of the anti-Coca-Colas, is diminished if not deflected by the very tactic of
working within a hegemonic relationship.
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Chapter 7
Pouring Rights
Politics, Products, Agency, and Change
Limiting calories in schools is a sensible approach that acknowledges
our industry’s long-standing belief that school wellness efforts must
focus on teaching kids to consume a balanced diet and exercise more.
Schools provide an opportunity to create a healthy environment that
equips our children with these skills. Our industry will continue to do
its part to contribute to that environment.
—Susan Neely, American Beverage Association President and CEO,
regarding the partnership with the Alliance for a Healthier
Generation on a new school beverage policy, May 3, 2006
In the early 1990s, Coca-Cola and Pepsi bottlers began to acquire “pouring
rights” at public high schools and middle schools around the country
(Nestle 2000). These contractual arrangements gave the bottlers exclusive
rights to vend the products of either The Coca-Cola Company or PepsiCo
in machines at a particular high school or middle school or at all schools
within a particular district. In effect, the contracts greatly extended earlier
agreements in which the soft drink bottlers had provided schools with ath-
letic equipment such as scoreboards in return for the opportunity to adver-
tise on the scoreboards. By 1997, the number of schools and school
districts signing contracts for pouring rights was noticeably on the rise.
Multiyear contracts that brought school districts large cash payments up
Pouring Rights 213
system and Coca-Cola” and enacted a total ban on the sale of soft drinks in
school (Groves 2001).
In January 2001, the U.S. Department of Agriculture issued a report,
“Foods Sold in Competition with USDA School Meal Programs,” that
urged Congress to “strengthen USDA’s ability—and the ability of states and
local schools—to foster a healthier school nutrition environment in com-
munities across America.” The report expressed concern over the availabil-
ity of “foods of minimal nutritional value” (FMNV), such as soft drinks,
that compete with USDA-funded school meal programs, and it specifically
cited “pouring rights” contracts as one factor driving schools to provide
students with such foods. A few months later, Senator Patrick Leahy of Ver-
mont introduced the Better Nutrition Schoolchildren Act of 2001, which
would ban the donation of sodas during lunch in school cafeterias (where
sales were already banned) and mandate the agriculture secretary to con-
sider a ban on sales and donations of sodas and other FMNV before
lunch. The senator’s own press release quoted him as saying, “School-
children are a captive market for soda vendors. Our kids pay the price
when we give soft drink companies free reign to market their products in
schools” (Leahy 2001).
It was not the first time Senator Leahy had introduced such a bill; he had
done so in 1994. Nor was it the last; he reintroduced a version of the 2001
bill with Senator Richard Lugar of Indiana in 2003 (as well as a Child
Nutrition Initiative Act that would create a new farm-to-cafeteria program
to supply locally grown fresh fruits and vegetables to school cafeterias).
Nor was it the first time that the USDA sought to strengthen (or exercise)
its ability to regulate so-called competitive foods. Indeed, there is a long
history of USDA struggles to assert the priority of children’s health and
nutrition over the interests of corporations and school boards seeking rev-
enues from the sale of FMNV. This history perfectly illustrates the sort of
cynical politics that have compelled consumer citizens to seek redress for
their concerns outside the legislative process—to mobilize as sovereign
market actors rather than as enfranchised constituents of democratically
elected representatives in order to regulate corporations.
Since the early 1970s, USDA rulings about permitting the sale of FMNV
foods in schools at certain times and places—as well as the USDA’s author-
ity to make regulations about all competitive foods, which was turned over
to state and local boards of education in 1972—have been challenged and
overturned. For example, in 1978, the USDA proposed restricting sales of
FMNV from the start of the school day until after the last lunch period, but
the proposal was withdrawn in response to comments. The following year,
the USDA again proposed restrictions, having redefined FMNV to mean
Pouring Rights 215
Committee that rewrote the bill had received campaign contributions from
the Oregon Soft Drink Association, which contributed $91,000 to lawmak-
ers in the 2004 fall election cycle (Cain 2005). In Connecticut, where a sim-
ilar bill had already passed the state Senate, lobbyists for the Connecticut
Pepsi Bottlers Association and the Coca-Cola Bottling Companies of New
York and New England contributed to delaying a vote on the bill in the
House (Hladky 2005).2 The lobbyists were joined by a range of interest
groups that all fear a loss in revenue—from school boards and high school
coaches to the International Brotherhood of Teamsters (perhaps ironically,
given the union’s adversarial position on The Coca-Cola Company’s
accounting of its business in Colombia).
If regulation can not be blocked, moreover, other means are apparently
available to circumvent bans on soft drinks. In Hernando County, Florida,
where the local school board voted to ban carbonated soft drinks (but
allow sales of other beverages), machines vending soda during the school
day were still in operation despite complaints from a school district official
(Quinlan 2004). Asked about the ban, a representative from the bottling
company said, “If business declines more than ten percent . . . Coca-Cola
Enterprises has the right to conduct a review with the board, offer recom-
mendations, and seek a compromise to improve the state of business.” In
Sacramento, such compromises were forwarded by school district repre-
sentatives themselves. Concern over a projected $27 million district budget
shortfall prompted the suggestion to decrease gradually the sale of soft
drinks in schools rather than enacting a complete and immediate ban on
sales (Macdonald 2004). The spirit of compromise similarly infuses the
agreement brokered in May 2006 by the Alliance for a Healthier Genera-
tion, a collaboration between the American Heart Association and the
William J. Clinton Foundation. According to the voluntary agreement,
the top three U.S. soft drink companies (Coca-Cola, PepsiCo, and Cad-
bury-Schweppes) pledged to begin removing sweetened drinks from
school cafeterias and vending machines in the fall of 2006 (Burros and
Warner 2006). The concession was an apparent response to credible threats
of litigation, modeled on lawsuits against the tobacco industry, made by
the Center for Science in the Public Interest. Some critics saw the response
as an unenforceable and weak substitute for legislation such as California’s
ban on soda sales. Perhaps significantly, the agreement said nothing about
banning the advertising and marketing of soft drinks in schools; the sym-
bolic means for recruiting new consumption workers.
The saga of soft drink marketing in schools demonstrates how the pol-
itics of products and consumption potentially slides global issues into local
frames and vice-versa, thereby enabling a kind of scale jumping that allows
220 Coca-Globalization
The future of the battle over pouring rights might be read most clearly in
the marketing moves of soft drink companies and the global sugar indus-
try. In March 2005, Coca-Cola North America announced the introduc-
tion of Coca-Cola Zero, a zero-calorie cola targeted at “young adults”—“a
new brand they can call their own” (“Coca-Cola Announces Plans to
Launch Coca-Cola Zero” 2005). Coca-Cola Zero is sweetened with aspar-
tame and acesulfame potassium (ace-k), yet one more blow to the sugar
industry which has long relied upon soft drink corporations as key cus-
tomers worldwide. The sugar industry, for its part, is busy revising the
farm-to-table narratives it uses to represent sugar to supermarket shop-
pers. In order to differentiate sugar from other sweeteners, especially
industrial sweeteners such as high fructose corn syrup, these narratives
now appeal to notions of place, freshness, and environmental sustainabil-
ity (Hollander 2003). As hidden sugar consumption continues to increase
(in the form of sweeteners as components of all sorts of foods), visible
Pouring Rights 221
the three largest school districts in the United States, where actions regu-
lating the sale of soft drinks in school have been taken.
In many Pacific island nations, this situation is alarming. In Nauru, for
example, 70 percent of the inhabitants are obese according to WHO stud-
ies—a consequence of both material and cultural conditions, namely, a
population flush with revenues from phosphate mining that is able to
afford imported foods, and a local aesthetic that values large body size.
Even in Papua New Guinea, a country with a much lower per capita
income and much greater variation in access to imported foods, evidence
suggests that many people are on “the rocky road from roots to rice”
(Sawyer 2001), substituting bread and rice for starchy root crops such as
sweet potato and taro. This substitution characterizes the diets of urban
wage earners, in particular: “Average calorie intake for the wealthiest 25%
of the population is well above requirements and people are likely to
become overweight or obese. Most of this group are people in formal
employment, businesses or waged jobs, which are physically less demand-
ing” (Sawyer 2001, 155). Hence the jibe,“One can easily pick out politicians
and those who do well in private and public services by their heavier
weight, large size and potbelly.” (Taufa and Benjamin 2001, 109). But peo-
ple living in urban squatter settlements and in rural areas close to large-
scale development projects (such as mines) are also experiencing
accelerated changes in diet, which includes increased consumption of
“modern” foods such as rice, tinned meat, biscuits, and snack foods.
Although difficult to measure precisely, incidence of noninsulin dependent
diabetes mellitus appears to be on the rise (Taufa and Benjamin 2001).
The health implications of modern diets are a matter of concern to indi-
viduals and organizations practicing the politics of products in the South
Pacific. For example, the South Pacific Consumer Protection Programme,
an affiliate of the NGO Consumers International, has launched awareness
campaigns designed to educate secondary school students about their
rights as consumers, including the right to a healthy environment. One of
the program’s publications, Cola or Coconuts? (South Pacific Consumer
Protection Programme 1996), specifically addresses the problem of rising
rates of diabetes in conjunction with increased consumption of imported,
processed foods (as well as a range of other topics including fair business
practices, advertising, product safety, and human ecology). The goal of the
publication, which is meant for use in schools, is “to empower Pacific
Island students to create safe, informed and fair marketplaces in our island
nations.”
While no one can deny the value of such a goal, it is important to note
some of the challenges that will confront even the most educated and
Pouring Rights 223
United States, the European Union, and India; Alden et al. 2004; Vernon
2004). But by the middle of the following year, the industry seemed to be
losing its allies in the Bush administration over the industry’s opposition to
the administration’s top trade priority, the Central American Free Trade
Agreement (CAFTA) (Barrionueva and Becker 2005). CAFTA would open
up the American market to approximately 1 percent more sugar from Cen-
tral American producers.
Similarly, the industry’s allies in agribusiness were withdrawing support
for the quota system that protects U.S. sugar producers from competing
with less expensive imported sugar (many of these allies, of course, are
themselves beneficiaries of U.S. taxpayer subsidies). Much is at stake for
U.S. cane and beet growers: “If you go to free trade, Brazil wins and every-
body else gets killed,” said the president of the American Sugarbeet Grow-
ers Association (Alden et al. 2004). It remains to be seen whether U.S. sugar
producers, already witnessing the departure of American candy manufac-
turers to Mexico and Canada in search of lower sugar prices, will ultimately
succumb to the pressures of neoliberal trade policies. It is already clear that
these same policies have elsewhere reduced the size and scope of state
activities and perforce created the conditions for an expansion of corpo-
rate citizenship and transnational governmentality. For just as transna-
tional corporations benefit from reducing barriers to trade such as
(selected) state subsidies and tariffs, these corporations perversely benefit
from reduced state support of public education, taking advantage of cuts
in public spending to promote private consumption as an alternative
source of revenue for schools.
Michele Micheletti (2003) has made a strong and thoughtful argument for
recognizing the positive political potential of virtuous consumption. As I
also have tried to do here, she shows how a politics of products (boycotts
and buycotts, smart shopping, socially responsible investing) attempts to
bring moral values of fair mindedness and social justice into a marketplace
otherwise given over to the demands of practical reason or “need and
greed,” as Sahlins (2004) would say. In so doing, the distinction between
public citizens and private consumer disappears. Furthermore, the distinc-
tion between “culture” and “economy”—a product of the great historical
transformation that disembedded “the market” from social life (Polanyi
1957)—likewise disappears. The politics of products thus promises to
reembed everyday economic activity within a moral framework, to hold
everyday activities of production and consumption accountable to the
226 Coca-Globalization
same moral standards we use on a daily basis to tell right from wrong, good
from bad.
Put differently, and in terms that Micheletti (2003) also uses, the politics
of products is trust-generating activity—activity that diffuses trust
throughout the networks that such activity constructs. These networks can
be both shorter in length, like the network mobilized to ban soft drink sales
in Los Angeles schools, or greater in length, like the networks mobilized to
advocate on behalf of HIV-positive workers in the African Coke system or
threatened workers in the Colombian Coke system. These networks might
take the form of commodity chains that link southern producers with far-
away northern consumers; or they might take the form of strategic
alliances between preexisting groups of various sorts—as when representa-
tives of ACT UP encourage people to join with the Teamsters to support
the cause of workers in Colombia. If transnational alliances of this latter
sort are indeed typical of the so-called anti-globalization movement, then
it is evident how important a role the politics of products—branded, mun-
dane, widely distributed consumer goods, or worldly things—is destined
to play in this movement (Klein 1999; Graeber 2002).
I am sympathetic with Micheletti’s view, and I have demonstrated here
some of the modest gains that the politics of products focused on soft
drinks has been able to achieve. Gains on issues of environmental sustain-
ability and worker’s rights, for example, testify to the slow process of incre-
mental change that the politics of products entails. The process should
certainly not be confused with a revolution in the capitalist mode of pro-
duction, but it makes gains, nonetheless. Soft drink politics, however, also
demonstrate some of the persistent problems that confront any effort to
shift the orientation of political activism from production to consumption
and to engage with corporations in the role of consumers rather than the
role of workers or rights-bearing citizens. These problems cling to two
of the promises held out by the politics of products, namely, the promise of
political agency and the promise of civilizing capitalism.
The attraction of political interventions such as buycotts and share-
holder activism lies in their capacity to enable individuals to do some-
thing—to take immediate and personal responsibility for realizing moral
values perceived as unimportant to public policy makers. While some crit-
ics might dismiss such actions as purchasing Fair Trade coffee as an incon-
sequential quick fix for solving structural dilemmas (cf. Micheletti 2003,
161), my concern is different. I worry that consumption is always an
overdetermined site of moral activity, at which individuals confront com-
peting moral agendas. For example, Micheletti (2003, 151) speculates that
green political consumerism, which simply regards certain products as
Pouring Rights 227
&*
Figure C.1 Chennai, India, June 2005. Billboard with picture by Sharad Haksar. Getty Images/AFP.
perspective, the legal action threatened against Haksar was an attack on his
right and capacity to produce semiotic value, in other words, to make
meaning. The question asked by one Indian blogger commenting on the
case is entirely appropriate: “The question is, when a brand and it’s [sic]
slogan becomes [sic] part of the popular culture, how far can it—or should
it—be ‘protected’” (Bansal 2005).
This disjunction in the product network—between the perspectives of
Sharad Haksar and the attorneys for Hindustan Coca-Cola—recalls the
extent to which consumption work rather than raw material or productive
(manufacturing) labor is a source of commercial value, perhaps the pre-
eminent source of value of globally branded consumer items or worldly
things (Chapter 3). If this condition holds true for carbonated soft drinks,
how much more true must it hold for the fastest growing beverage of soft
drink companies, bottled water? The Coca-Cola Company addresses this
question on its Web site: “When The Coca-Cola Company sells drinking
water in its various forms, it is not charging for the water per se, but rather
for the value we add to the water to make it a branded beverage. For
instance, we treat water to high safety and quality standards, put it into
convenient packages to suit different needs, distribute the product to places
where people want to consume it, and cool it for immediate consumption”
(The Coca-Cola Company 2005). It is not the value of the product per se—
which is, after all, municipal tap water, already subsidized by consumers—
for which the consumer is charged (again). Instead, the value for which the
consumer is charged allegedly derives largely from the activities dedicated
to evoking a consumer response to the product (branding) and inserting
the product into as many potential contexts of consumption as possible
(distribution). Since the product itself apparently has no intrinsic value,
the whole process of realizing commercial value depends upon the work of
consumers in recognizing “the branded beverage” as endowed with quali-
ties for which the consumer is willing to pay the going price. This qualita-
tive endowment is as much the work of the consumer as that of the
producer, if not more so. And it is precisely this tacit collaboration between
producers and consumers—ideally a joint project of meaning making—
that some (though not all) disjunctions in a product network put at risk.
The disjunction between Haksar and the attorneys’ perspectives also
recalls the extent to which misalignment and misrecognition in a product
network are capable of producing unanticipated outcomes. Haksar’s own
billboard cannot escape this contingency. For example, one consumer
posting to a Chennai blog is quoted as confessing, “I’ve passed this hoard-
ing a million times on Nungambakkan High Road and have been under the
impression all this while that it was a Coke ad that used one of Sharad
232 Conclusion
&*
The power of consumer politics stems from its capacity to connect every-
day private acts of consumption—drinking a bottle of Coke or wearing a
pair of Nike sneakers—with issues of larger public significance. It was pre-
cisely this connection, Mark Weiner (2002) notes, that The Coca-Cola
Company sought to make in its efforts to supply Allied servicemen with
Coca-Cola during World War II and in its wartime advertising (see Chap-
ter 2). The company’s initiatives, like wartime propaganda more generally,
established a kind of “moral equivalence” by suggesting that “objects of
236 Conclusion
peaceful domestic use were intricately tied with objects employed on the
field of battle, so the consumption of those objects in the United States tied
individuals to remote people and events” (Weiner 2002, 130). This equiva-
lence blurred any distinction between the personal and the civic, the
domestic and the public: saving pan grease at home supported the produc-
tion of anti-tank shells for fighting Nazis abroad. (Such a distinction is
similarly elided today in the logo of the company’s Civic Action Network—
a red silhouette of the continental United States, with a white dynamic rib-
bon spreading from California to New Jersey, and the words “Civic Action
Network” stamped across the heartland in the inevitable trademarked script.)
By the same token, soldiers drinking a Coke on the field of battle reconnected
themselves with home, their private memories of kith and kin put in the
larger civic service of lifting morale and defining the war’s purpose.
Scholars and critics have pointed out how a civic language modeled on
a language of consumption usually portends the demise of republican
ideals of participatory democracy. Stuart Ewen, for example, argues, “We
are witnessing the swift debasement of the concept of ‘citizen’—the person
who actively participates in shaping society’s destiny—to that of ‘con-
sumer,’ whose franchise has become his or her purchasing decisions. The
pernicious tendency to equate the freedom to choose between products
with the concept of democracy is bringing about the humiliation of a pro-
foundly empowering political idea” (1992, 49). Promoting consumerism as
practical patriotism might thus connect individuals to remote people and
places, but these same connections hide anti-democratic relations of eco-
nomic power, such as the collusion between the U.S. state and The Coca-
Cola Company that enabled the provisioning of Allied combat soldiers
with soft drinks. Instead of promoting a collective, participatory kind of
politics, consumer citizenship in this view privatizes citizenship, reducing
civic fellowship to shopping and limiting democratic expression to only
those individuals with the means to buy. This critique is surely applicable
to the politics of consumption in postwar U.S. history, through which ear-
lier campaigns by working-class and middle-class movements that seized
upon consumer citizenship as a way to advance the public interest were
absorbed by a state project dedicated to the interest of private capital
(Cohen 2003). But is this critique a necessary correlate of all consumer pol-
itics? Can there be a consumer politics that begins with social relations
rather than isolated individuals and that champions mutual cooperation
and care rather than freedom of choice?
A product-centered politics of the sort that has taken shape around
brand-name soft drinks seeks to establish connections among people and
events in remote places through the medium of a global commodity. It
Conclusion 237
brings about these connections not only through its coalitional nature, but
also by connecting consumers in one place to other agents in a spatially
extensive product network. Through these perspectival connections, prod-
uct-centered politics make visible what is hidden in plain view, namely, the
shared concerns (as opposed to shared identities) of people linked, how-
ever tenuously, by associations with a worldly thing. These are not the cola
connections of which Douglas Daft spoke in his 2000 marketing speech on
globalization (see Introduction), nor do they signify the “tiny bit of com-
monality between all peoples” represented by the multinational gathering
of youth chorusing their desire to buy the world a Coke in the company’s
famous 1971 Hilltop ad (Backer 1993, 7). They are, instead, connections
that, once made, close disjunctions in a network of perspectives (between
Coke consumers in Michigan and Coke system workers in Colombia) at
the same time that they open up new disjunctions (between the perspec-
tives of company officials and socially responsible shareholders). These
connections—convergences in perspective—comprise new kinds of
knowledge that carry with them new possibilities for coordinated action
on social issues that go well beyond a limited significance to individual
consumers.
Disjunctions in product networks are neither new nor unusual; indeed,
they have been longstanding conditions for creating commercial value in a
globalized economy, the means by which long-distance traders qualify
merchandise acquired cheaply in one place as dear in another faraway
place (see Chapter 1). Activists such as Ray Rogers and Amit Srivastava rec-
ognize, however, that disjunctions in perspectives enable a contemporary
form of labor and environmental politics that takes shape as a wired poli-
tics of knowledge. The management of knowledge, what different actors
connected in spatially extensive networks of production, exchange, and
consumption know about their place in the network and their connections
to other actors, is a crucial feature of value creation in the current economy
of qualities. This much is clear from the campaigns of so-called anti-glob-
alization activists who strive to make visible the conditions of production
in which Nike sneakers, Gap blouses, and Mattel toys originate. The goal is
to overcome a disjunction in perspectives, to connect persons with other
persons whose diverse interests implicate a particular brand-name product
or a whole category of consumer goods. Hence a report in the New Inter-
nationalist, a magazine devoted to issues of global social justice, of an
attempt to bridge worlds of knowledge with the visit of a Ghanaian cocoa
farmer to the United Kingdom. The farmer toured various sites along the
cocoa trail, including the large chocolate processing plant, Cadbury World,
to learn what happens to the crop he grows (Swift 1998). But it is equally
238 Conclusion
Given these and no doubt other difficulties, wherein lies the promise of
an enhanced knowledge of product networks? I suggest that this promise
lies in the potential for transforming the moral geography of value-
creation. Let me phrase this suggestion in the Lovemarketing terms dis-
cussed earlier. The goal of a product-centered politics of knowledge would
be to replace one kind of love relationship with another; that is, to replace
the love of a consumer for a brand-name product with the love between
fellow participants in a geographically far-flung but shared moral econ-
omy. This latter kind of love is not amor (romantic, erotic, or sexual love).
It is closer in essence to caritas (charitable, self-sacrificial love) or what
might be called caring at a distance, the corollary of the capacity to act at a
distance so unevenly enhanced by globalization. But caring at a distance
must go beyond one-sided charity, the charity that active donors give to
passive anonymous recipients and that neither challenges inequalities nor
requires reciprocity.
Caring at a distance hinges on the respectful and serious regard given by
people, connected to each other as agents in a product network, for each
other’s concerns: a politics of mutual recognition. It is such an ideal that
motivates ethical initiatives such as Fair Trade that seek to enable growers
to exert more control over a product network, to reorganize the relations of
power in a product network instead of responding exclusively to the con-
cerns, ethical or otherwise, of consumers and retailers. Put differently, the
goal of a product-centered politics of knowledge would be to enlist caring
at a distance in a broader project of social justice, to embed caring based on
generic human motivations within particular and more symmetrical social
and political relationships, and to translate individual acts of beneficence
into collective action for social change. This project would begin by
redefining the connections between persons and (worldly) things, and
by identifying the moral relations and ethical responsibilities implicit in
the movement of products from one set of hands to another. But it would
end somewhere else altogether, in a form of economic life organized across
a range of spatial scales through cooperation rather than competition, and
premised upon the equitable distribution of value rather than the impera-
tive to increase profits.
Notes
Introduction
1. Australia ruled Papua (formerly British New Guinea) as a territory from 1906;
in 1921, Australia assumed rule of the Territory of New Guinea (formerly Ger-
man New Guinea) by mandate of the League of Nations. The two territories
were first jointly administered by Australia in 1949 as the UN Trust Territory of
Papua and New Guinea; a Legislative Council was established in 1951. In 1964,
the Legislative Council was replaced by a House of Assembly with an elected
indigenous majority. The territories were renamed “Papua New Guinea” in July
1971. Self-government was granted in December 1973, and full independence
followed on September 16, 1975.
Chapter 1
1. The scene was filmed at a site known as “God’s Window,” a popular vantage
point on the great escarpment along the Blyde River Canyon in South Africa.
2. Callon et al. (2002) use ideas associated with actor network theory to imagine
their “economy of qualities.” For example, processes of qualification are
instances of “translation”: “all the negotiations, intrigues, calculations, acts of
persuasion and violence, thanks to which an actor or force takes, or causes to be
conferred on itself, authority to speak or act on behalf of another actor or force”
(Callon and Latour 1981, 279; see Callon 1986). The sociological method
appropriate to actor network theory is one of following, that is, of following the
associations and dissociations by which actors (including non-human actors)
bind and unbind themselves and other actors into networks of varying length
and durability. In this regard, actor network theory and its method converge
with anthropological studies, such as my own, that track commodities in
motion and trace networks of perspectives (see Introduction).
3. In 1988, Moffet observed Tushum’s influence at work in San Juan Chamula:
“Whatever the motivation, Chamulans are undoubtedly some of the world’s
most fanatical Pepsi consumers. Chamulans use Pepsi in church ceremonies,
chanting as the bubbles fizz to the top of a just-opened bottle. A few cases of
Pepsi are a major part of a dowry. Almost invariably, a Chamulan trying to
patch up a serious dispute with a friend will set before him a bottle of Pepsi.
Nearly every Chamulan house displays a Pepsi poster, a crucifix and a red, white
242 Notes
and green banner of the PRI” (Moffet 1988). Belew (2003, 20) notes that in
2003, the majority of Catholics in San Juan Chamula preferred Coke over Pepsi
to burp out the evil spirits killed by the consumption of poch.
4. Belew (2003, 22) notes: “Conversions to Evangelical Protestantism continue at a
remarkable rate. One of the major draws of the religion is its prohibition on
alcohol consumption—the Catholics require alcohol consumption and the
Protestants forbid it at any cost. As a result, many women who are domestically
abused by alcoholic husbands push for conversions to Protestantism that sym-
bolize personal safety.”
5. The Belgian crisis reminds us of how consumer goods—especially ingestibles
and comestibles—can define flashpoints for struggles over trust relations. Such
struggles emerge particularly clearly in situations where people encounter
goods not previously seen in the local marketplace. Timothy Burke thus
describes the introduction of Stork Margarine to southern Africa in the 1940s
and 1950s. Originally marketed by Lever Brothers in a wrapper with a picture of
a baby on it, the margarine quickly prompted rumors that it was in fact “ren-
dered baby fat, proof of the ghoulish practices of the settlers” (Burke 1996, 162).
The rumors registered the way in which goods made in unknown places by
unknown people harbor the capacity to arouse fears and anxieties and to dis-
rupt the distanciated relations of trust intrinsic to modernity.
6. See Caplan 2000 on scares over eating beef in Britain. Caplan notes that the
response to a breakdown in impersonal trust is often a reassertion of personal
trust: “Trust, then, came from knowledge, ‘knowing’ where the meat had come
from, under what conditions it had been produced, and, above all, knowing the
person who sold it” (2000, 193). Similarly, the restoration of confidence in the
products of The Coca-Cola Company could only begin with a personal apology
by then CEO Douglas Ivester to all Belgian consumers, an apology seen by many
at the time as coming long after it was due.
7. It is precisely this misalignment that is exploited if not actually sustained by
advertising agencies that sell their expertise in knowing local consumers to
transnational clients marketing global brands (see Mazzarella 2003).
Chapter 2
1. Pasi Falk (1991) argues that Coke is the perfect “synthesis drink,” mediating the
oppositions between intoxicant and medicine, and pleasure and sobriety, as
well as tradition and modernity.
2. Confidence is the right word (trust in trust, impersonal trust, or systemic
trust), though the word that marketers themselves use is trust, in part because
they imagine and speak of the relationship between companies and consumers
in highly interpersonal terms (see Luhmann 1988).
3. TO Digest was a wartime publication of The Coca-Cola Company that ceased
operation in 1948. All quotes from TOs in this chapter come from issues of TO
Notes 243
Digest, a copy of which is held in the Mark Pendergrast Research Files, box 25,
item 1.
4. Melanesian men, who worked as stretcher bearers, scouts, and soldiers on
behalf of the Allies, were called “Fuzzy Wuzzy Angels” by the Australian and
American troops. The patronizing image of the “Fuzzy Wuzzy Angel” domi-
nates a particular version of Australian national history that depicts indigenous
Papuans and New Guineans as loyal “colonial subjects who did not exercise
choices in response to the war’s disruption of their lives” (Reed 1999, 162). The
image has also been invoked by PNG war veterans repeatedly seeking compen-
sation from the Australian government.
5. Friedman (1992) also discusses how the double-sided nature of Coca-Cola—
American and universal—was constructed and narrated in the exhibits at the
old World of Coca-Cola in Atlanta.
6. This view of global commodity culture inverts David Suzuki’s view (Chapter 1)
in one respect: whereas Suzuki denies any agency to Papua New Guineans in
negotiating the consumption of foreign imports, the Pepsi bottlers assign
Papua New Guineans complete agency, the sovereignty of the free market con-
sumer. At the same time, however, both views treat consumer commodities as
having fixed or inert meanings; soft drinks always and everywhere mean West-
ern modernity. These meanings can be accepted or rejected, but not trans-
formed or remade.
7. Nolan’s (1999) informative overview of the Coca-Cola product network (or
supply chain) documents the ramifications of selling soft drinks on a global
scale. The Coca-Cola system, Nolan estimates, purchases approximately 30
percent of the world’s total production of cans, 5 percent of glass containers, 4
percent of sugar, and 30 percent of high fructose corn syrup.
8. Friedman (1993) notes that The Coca-Cola Company responded to the Atlanta
Board of Education’s concern that there be enough clearly “educational” con-
tent in the displays at the World of Coca-Cola by installing video booths that
show five-minute clips integrating the history of Coke into the history of the
United States. As a result, the old World of Coca-Cola was regularly visited by
busloads of students visiting the nearby Georgia state capitol.
9. Insistence on quality control is a salient aspect of the company’s public face. A
1994 article in a PNG business magazine, for example, recounts a tour of the
Port Moresby bottling facility much like that on which we were led by David
Lane. The article notes that some bottles are returned “in a pretty filthy state,”
but that the bottle washing process is “rather severe” in removing dirt and
killing microbes: “CCA are concerned about their reputation because Coca-
Cola, USA, imposes rigid standards of quality control. If these are not observed
by the company which holds the bottling franchise, there is a clause in the fran-
chise agreement which can cause them to lose it” (“Your Quality Control”
1994). In the company’s 2002 citizenship report, quality control and manage-
ment of supply chains were offered as evidence of responsiveness to con-
sumers: “At The Coca-Cola Company, quality belongs to all of us, not just to
a single department. The Coca-Cola Quality System establishes standards,
244 Notes
self-assessments and continuous improvements that guide quality in products,
processes and relationships across the Company. This includes everything from
the conditions of physical facilities to advertising and trademark use to ingre-
dient sourcing, packaging and distribution, as well as regulatory compliance
and safety.”
10. Since at least 1997, PNG Recycling has purchased cans for recycling and export.
There is no facility for recycling plastic (PET) bottles in the country. In its 2004
annual report, CCA notes that since 1999, CCA Fiji has been buying back
empty PET bottles for recycling as part of the Mission Pacific program, in
which consumers are paid by the kilogram for returned containers: “Over this
period, an estimated 35 million PET bottles have been shipped to Australia for
recycling into new bottles.” It is unclear from the report whether a similar pro-
gram is operating in PNG, where concern over the environmental impact of
plastic waste led to the introduction of bans on the import, manufacture, and
sale of plastic shopping bags beginning in 2005.
11. “We designate certain bottling operations in which we have a noncontrolling
ownership interest as ‘anchor bottlers’ due to their level of responsibility and
performance. The strong commitment of anchor bottlers to their own prof-
itable volume growth helps us meet our strategic goals and furthers the inter-
ests of our worldwide production, distribution and marketing systems. Anchor
bottlers tend to be large and geographically diverse, with strong financial
resources for long-term investment and strong management resources. In
1998, our anchor bottlers produced and distributed approximately 43 percent
of our total worldwide unit case volume” (The Coca Cola Company Annual
Report 1998).
12. For more on Levitt’s vision of globalization and its effects on global advertis-
ing, see Levitt 1983, 1988; and Mazzarella 2003.
13. In the aftermath of the New Coke debacle, Goizueta applied the same sort of
calculations to his company’s products, arguing that the Coca-Cola
“megabrand” claimed a larger share of the soft drink market than rival Pep-
siCo, even if brand Pepsi-Cola outsold brand Coca-Cola Classic (a temporary
situation that ended—along with the idea of the megabrand—in 1987).
14. According to one estimate, 58 percent of Papua New Guineans are without rea-
sonable access to an adequate amount of drinking water from improved
sources (United Nations Development Programme 2001, 150). “Reasonable
access is defined as the availability of at least 20 litres per person per day from
a source within one-kilometre of the user’s dwelling. Improved sources include
household connections, public standpipes, boreholes with handpumps, pro-
tected dug wells, protected springs and rainwater collection” (United Nations
Development Programme 2001, 256).
15. The financial situation here is, in actuality, more complicated. SP Brewery is
majority owned by Singapore-based Asia Pacific Breweries Ltd., a joint venture
of the Heineken N.V. international brewing group and Fraser and Neave Lim-
ited. Fraser and Neave Limited owns 5.54 percent of CCA ordinary stock,
acquired from The Coca-Cola Company in exchange for Fraser and Neave’s 75
Notes 245
percent ownership interest in F&N Coca-Cola, which holds majority owner-
ship in bottling operations in Brunei, Cambodia, Nepal, Pakistan, Sri Lanka,
Singapore, and Vietnam.
16. Curiously, the company seemed to be recycling this strategy five years later in
the wake of Daft’s departure as CEO. In April 2005, Mary E. Minnick was
appointed head of a new department formed to coordinate global marketing,
new product development, and expansion plans. The New York Times reported:
“The analysts say it is no coincidence that someone who spent the last seven
years in Asia overseeing Coke’s most innovative markets is now in the de facto
No. 2 spot. In Japan, Coke regularly replaces 20 percent of its products each
year, introducing roughly 200 new products or varieties. Coke investors are
hoping Ms. Minnick . . . will apply companywide the product development les-
sons she learned in Japan, Coke’s most profitable market” (Warner 2005).
17. Doubts about how Goizueta and Ivester had accounted for the charges
involved in their huge bottling transactions had surfaced on Wall Street in the
mid 1990s (Greising 1998, 292). An article in Fortune magazine by Patricia Sell-
ers (2000) raised doubts about the long-term viability of the anchor bottler
system, wondering whether The Coca-Cola Company’s past success came at
the expense of bottlers who paid higher prices for concentrate and sustained
major losses in the economic turbulence of 1998 and 1999. These losses in turn
translated into a $184 million loss in equity income to the company in 1999
from its bottling investments (see Hays 2004 for details). For more on “creative
accounting” and dubious methods used by The Coca-Cola Company as well as
other companies and accounting firms to assign and manipulate the value of
assets, see McQueen 2003.
Chapter 3
1. A clear example of such use is the magazine Adbusters, which often contains
mock advertisements that put familiar cultural forms in the service of express-
ing alternative social messages (see Chapter 5).
2. In 1999, The Coca-Cola Company’s then wholly owned Singapore-based bot-
tler, Fraser and Neave Coca-Cola Pty. Ltd., similarly faced competition from
“parallel imports.” Because of the drop in value of the Indonesian rupiah,
Coca-Cola could be shipped from Indonesia and sold at a price cheaper than its
manufacturing cost in Singapore (Ismail 1998).
3. Coke also sued two small export companies in the United States, even though
these exporters bought directly from Coca-Cola Enterprises, the company’s
largest anchor bottler (40 percent of whose stock was then owned by The Coca-
Cola Company). Lawyers for the exporters claimed that Coca-Cola violated
antitrust statutes by trying to control prices worldwide (Hays 2000c).
4. Quoted from the World of Coca-Cola’s Web site (http://www.wocatlanta.com),
which was revised for the opening of the new World of Coca-Cola in May 2007.
246 Notes
5. This claim is, of course, the rhetoric with which local ad agencies create a space
for themselves in negotiating with transnational corporate clients; see Maz-
zarella 2003.
6. See Mazzarella 2003 for a discussion of the marketing category of “global teen”
and how the notion of “the Indian teen” required a significant modification of
the category’s premises about “family” and “cultural tradition.”
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Manuscript Collections
Films
actor network theory, 241n1, 249n1 Bakan, Joel, 56, 80, 192, 227
ACT UP, 192, 193, 194, 226 Bergin, John, 92, 94–95
Adbusters, 87, 180, 184, 186, 245n1 Berman, Marshall, 19
advertising: as capitalist realism, 89, 96, Bestor, Theodore, xvi
99, 123, 180, 248n8; and censorship, bottlers, soft drink: in Africa, 193;
124–25; for Coca-Cola, 78, 88–97, anchor, 61–62, 102, 200, 244n11; in
120–21; global, xx, 56–58, 89, Colombia, 197–202, 208, 250n5;
92–96, 119, 124, 134; international, consolidation of, 51, 61–62, 71, 75;
89–92; multilocal, 89–90, 91, 122; inventories of, 71, 245n17; in PNG,
for new products, 115–16; for soft 53–55; and school partnerships,
drinks in PNG, x–xi, xxiv–xxv, 212, 215; and standardization, 53,
114–25, 135–40, 248n23; for teens, 56–57
93–95, 97, 136, 218, 246n6; uniform boycott, xx; and Coca-Cola, 171, 172,
and pattern, 56–58, 91, 92, 124, 203, 206, 233; and political con-
sumerism, xxiii, 168, 173
248n19; wartime for Coca-Cola,
branding, 29, 76, 97, 231; standardized,
40–47, 89, 100, 139, 235. See also
95
Coca-Cola Company: advertising
brands: and commodity chains, 22–23,
for; Commercial Advertising Act;
76–77; imagery of, 78, 116; and loy-
Pepsi-Cola: and advertising in PNG
alty, xx, 116; management of, 28,
Advertising Missionaries, 99–101, 107
34, 72, 84; trust in, 79, 80, 163–64;
agency: of consumers, 7, 10, 23, 167, value of, 28–31, 77, 163, 164, 169,
168, 227, 243n6; rhetoric of, 175 190; and value creation, xviii,
Aitsi, Peter, 109, 110 xxii–xxiii, 76, 217, 229
Albro, Robert, 234 Buffet, Warren, 62–63, 209
Alien Tort Claims Act, 198, 250n6 Burke, Timothy, 13–14, 23, 242n5
Allen, Frederick, xiii Bush, George W., 224, 225
American Beverage Association, 211,
213, 215, 216, 224 Cadbury Schweppes, 51, 66, 219;
Anderson, Benedict, 36 brands of, 126
Appadurai, Arjun, 17, 22, 27, 30 Callon, Michel, xviii, 14, 23, 83–84,
Applbaum, Kalman, 101, 156 241n1; and product networks, xix,
appropriation: of Coca-Cola, 9, 63, 83, 7–8, 19, 22, 26, 35, 50, 80; and prod-
125, 129, 177, 178, 179, 181, 217, uct networks in PNG, 101
230; of commodities, 11, 13, 15–16, Cal Safety, 204, 205, 227
18, 24, 29, 80, 101, 178 Candler, Asa, 78, 79
Austin, J. Paul, 52, 60, 69, 199 cargo cults, 113, 135, 139, 238
270 Index
Center for Science in the Public Inter- 190, 213, 216, 219, 236, 250n2;
est, 153, 213, 219 localization of, 34–35, 47–56, 67,
charity, 227, 240; corporate, 113, 175, 70–71, 193; marketing of, xvii, 34,
227 158–59; as relationship company,
citizenship, consumer, xiv, xxii, 151–53, xii, 86; trademarks of, xxi, 22,
168, 186, 193, 220, 228, 236; 40–47, 247n16; and WWII, xviii, 36,
defined, 166; limits of, 173, 208, 37–47, 83, 235–36
221, 226; in PNG, 105; transna- Coca-Cola Enterprises, 63, 162, 201,
tional, xxiii, 170–71, 189, 208, 235, 205, 206, 217, 218, 245n3; and
238; and value creation, xviii school contracts, 215, 216, 219
citizenship, corporate, xiv, xxii, 151–53, Coca-Cola Export Corporation, 37, 38,
157, 189; and Coca-Cola, xxii, 52, 47, 48, 50, 51, 52, 58, 84; and adver-
69, 150, 152, 157–66, 170, 192, 212, tising, 56, 89; expansion of, 59
217, 243n9; and codes of conduct, Coca-Cola FEMSA, 200, 201, 204
206; defined, 155, 156; and gover- Coca-Cola Zero, 220
nance, 164–66, 193, 225; limits of, coca-colonization, 62, 63, 175, 176,
173, 194, 227; in PNG, 106; 177, 212; anti-, 174, 175, 180, 209;
transnational, xxiii, 164, 193; and de-, 177–85
value creation, xviii, 157, 161, 163 Cola Turka, xxvi, 46, 175–76
Coca-Cola: as American, 40–41, 46, 47; Colombia, 171, 172, 188, 197–202, 207,
as local, 48–50; as modern, 44, 46, 219
105, 243n6; per capita consumption Commercial Advertising Act, 247n14
of, 63, 64–66, 107, 218; ubiquity of, commodities: branded, xiii, 19, 23, 33,
48, 84–88; as universal, 42, 91 97, 135; domestication of, 6, 8,
Coca-Cola Amatil, 52, 62, 129, 244n15, 9–10; in motion, xv-xvi, 9, 26;
246n3; in Philippines, 160–61, 187, mutability of, xix, 7, 11–17, 83, 177.
246n4, 249n2; in PNG, 54, 64, 67, See also appropriation: of com-
101–104, 106, 108, 113–14, 116, modities
119, 125–26; and promotions, 111, commodity biography, 12–13
12, 120, 131–34, 132, 133, 248n22; commodity chains, xv, 22–27, 28, 63,
and quality control, 53–56, 243n9; 76–77, 226; defined, 22
and sponsorships, 104, 174, 246n5, commodity fetishism, 53, 82, 105
248n20 commodity network, xii, xiii, xix; and
Coca-Cola Company, The: accounting civic engagement, xxiv; and global-
methods of, 245n17; advertising for, ization, xvi, 22, 62, 154; and soft
xxii, 22, 40–47, 247n16; in Africa, drinks, xvii, 19, 125; and trust, xviii,
165, 192–97; annual meetings of, 201, 226. See also product networks
xxiii, 149, 150–51, 151, 152, 153, connectivity, complex, xxiv, 10, 97;
187–88, 192, 204, 209, 234; and defined, xii-xiii, 26; and inequality,
antitrust, 66, 70, 245n3; foreign xix, 26; and soft drinks, xiv, 140;
expansion of, 37–38, 47–56, 48, 67, and worldly things, 17, 22, 237
70–71, 193; and franchises, xx, 34, consumerism, 72, 100, 101, 176, 185,
36, 47–56, 71, 193, 249n4; in India, 236, 239; anti-, 87; modern, 135;
xxiv, 67, 93, 165, 208, 229–35; lay- political, xxiii, 166, 168, 169–70,
offs at, 70–71; lobbying for, 162–63, 171, 226
Index 271
consumption: cross-cultural, 13, 17, distanciation, 41, 240; defined, 18; and
20, 24; ethical, 173–76, 225–26, 227, trust, 19, 242n5
238–39; of soft drinks in Mexico, Dobb, Paul, 104, 108
20–21; of soft drinks in PNG, Dunn, Jeff, 86
126–29
consumption work. See labor: of con- economy of qualities, xix, 7–8, 10, 34,
sumers 237, 241n1, 249n1; competition in,
Contractor, Dhruti, 208, 234, 235 88
Cook, Ian, 26 EM TV, xxiv, 108, 115, 122, 135,
Coombe, Rosemary, 76, 77, 80, 81, 82, 247n11, 247n12, 247n13. See also
83, 182 Papua New Guinea: television in
cooperatives, consumer, 167–68 Errington, Frederick, xxv, xxvii, 53, 54,
corn syrup, high fructose, xvii, 220, 224 55, 56, 94, 113, 114, 129, 130, 131,
corporate personhood, 156, 157 221, 223, 247n10
corporate social responsibility, xxii, Evans, Mike, 223
151, 155, 160, 163; and the state, Ewen, Stuart, 236
173
creolization, 9, 17, 119–20
fair use, 182
culture: hybrid, 119–20, 131; tradi-
Farley, James, 49
tional, 117–18, 119, 120, 129,
Frank, Thomas, 184, 185
130–34, 138–39, 141–45. See also
Frenette, Charles, 96, 97
global culture; national culture
Friedman, Jonathan, 6, 10
culture jamming, xxiii, 153, 180–85,
Friedman, Ted, 43, 243n5, 243n8
181, 211, 212; defined, 180
Cup, The, 4–5, 6–7, 12, 99 Friedman, Thomas, 58
Funil, Somanil, x, xxvii
Daft, Douglas, xi, xii, xv, xxi, 27, 35, 53,
70, 71, 86, 96, 192; and annual Geertz, Clifford, ix
meeting, 187–88, 190, 197, 209; and Gewertz, Deborah, xxv, xxvii, 53, 54,
citizenship, 150, 157, 161, 163, 171, 55, 56, 94, 113, 114, 129, 130, 131,
203, 203; and cultural diversity, 178; 221, 223, 247n10
on globalization, ix, xiii, 67–69, 88, Gibbon, Peter, xxi, 7, 23, 55
237; and obesity, 160, 178 Giddens, Anthony, xv, 18–19, 24, 25
democracy: consumer, 69, 135, 207, Gill, Lesley, 172, 201
208; participatory, 227–28, 236; and global culture, 91; and consumerism, 4;
soft drinks, 137, 139, 212 and diversity, 35–36, 58, 72; and
Departmant of Agriculture, U.S., 214, homogeneity, xi, xvii, xix, 6, 10, 16,
215 33, 63; and youth, 94, 136, 139
Department of Health and Human global high-sign, xx, xxi, 36, 40–44, 89,
Services, U.S., 224 95
diet: and disease, 221, 222, 223; of globalization: anti-corporate, 233, 237;
Pacific Islanders, 222–23 and commodity connections, xi;
disembedding: of social relations, defined, 17; dialectics of, 19–20, 21,
18–19, 35, 37–47, 70; and trust, 76. 35, 70; economic, 168, 223, 225; and
See also distanciation health, 70, 223; methods for studying,
272 Index
xv, 22, 23, 26, 238; strong, 6, 8, 21; India Resource Center, 232, 235
weak, 6–7, 8, 10, 21 internationalism, utopian, 43, 57
global teenager, 92, 93, 94, 95, 97, Isdell, E. Neville, 52, 196, 204
246n6 Ivester, Douglas, 66, 67, 70, 87, 190,
glocalization, 33–37, 58, 68, 104, 175, 242n6, 245n17
178; defined, xx
Gods Must Be Crazy, The, 3–4, 5–6, 99, Jacka, Jerry, 125
100, 132 Joyce, Stan, 112
Goizueta, Roberto, ix, xiii, 51, 59, 67, J. Walter Thompson, 89, 90
68, 70, 72, 75, 87, 200, 245n17; on
globalization, 60–62, 63, 247n15; on Kendall, Donald, 59–60, 90
trademarks, 78, 81, 244n13; vision Keough, Don, 84, 86
of, 62–66, 88, 103, 135, 160 Killer Coke, Campaign to Stop, 153,
governmentality, transnational, 203, 204, 205, 207, 232, 236
164–66, 170–71, 193, 195, 202, 205, Knauft, Bruce, 100, 101
239 Kopytoff, Igor, 12
Grassroots Recycling Network, 152,
150, 190, 191 labor of consumers, xviii, xix, 11, 26,
Greising, David, xiv, 60 29–30, 72–73, 80, 219; control over,
83, 86, 87, 96–97; and value, 28–30,
Hagelshaw, Andrew, 215 80, 85, 164, 217, 231
Haksar, Sharad, 229, 230, 230, 231, 232 Leahy, Patrick, 214
Hannerz, Ulf, 25–26 Lederman, Rena, 14–15
Hau‘ofa, Roger, 141, 142 Levitt, Theodore, 63–64, 72, 92,
Hays, Constance, xiv 244n12, 247n15
health: and betel nut chewing, 141–42; Lindstrom, Lamont, 113, 135
and diet, 221, 224; and soft drinks, Löfgren, Orvar, 36
106–7, 108, 159–60, 214–20 Louis, J. C., xiii, 90
Health GAP, 192, 193, 194, 208 Lovemarks, 28–31, 84, 240
Hega, Alphonse, 131–34, 132, 133, 139
Herbert, Ira, 75, 86, 113, 121 Malinowski, Bronislaw, xii, 13
Hertz, Noreena, 163, 174, 227 marketing: and children, 108–9,
Hindustan Coca-Cola Beverages, 229, 212–20; and Coca-Cola, 78, 83–84,
231, 232 86, 188; community-based, 103,
Hirsch, Eric, 131, 132, 133, 134 107, 108, 110, 113, 248n20; gray, 81;
Hoffa, James P., 150, 151, 197 integrated, 90; micro-, 58–59, 68,
Holmes, Oliver Wendell, Jr., 79 88; occasion-based, 87–88; in
home: and Coca-Cola, 11–12, 21, 41, schools, 161–62, 205, 212, 215, 218,
42, 72, 95, 114, 139, 140; and Coca- 219; social science of, 91; for soft
Cola Export Corporation, 58; drinks in PNG, xxv, 100–114, 116
mutability of, xix–xx, 11–12, 17–22, Marx, Karl, 18, 29, 36, 77
114, 208, 234 materialism and modernity, 4, 39–40,
Hosler, Mark, xxvi, 184, 185 136
Howes, David, 14, 17 Matten, Dirk, 154, 164, 165
Hunter, John, 52–53, 61, 68 Mauss, Marcel, 227
Index 273
Mazzarella, William, 72, 81, 242n7, Noor, Farish A., 175
246n5, 246n6
McCann Erickson, 89, 90, 94, 135 objectification, 11, 80. See also appro-
McQueen, Humphrey, xiv, 79, 81, priation
245n7 O’Hanlon, Michael, 15, 15–16
Mecca-Cola, 174, 175 Oliver, Thomas, xiv
Meireles, Cildo, 177, 177–78, 179
Micheletti, Michele, 153, 166, 168, 173, Papua New Guinea: anthropology of,
225, 226, 227 xiv, xxii; and diet, 222, 246n7; field-
Michigan, University of, 206, 207, work in, ix, xvii; political history of,
250n5 241n1; radio in, 109–10, 141–43;
Miller, Daniel, 11, 23, 24, 26, 29, 227, soft drinks in, 43, 44–46, 99–145;
239 television in, 134, 246n1, 246n7,
Minnick, Mary, 245n16 247n12
Mintz, Sidney, xv, 8, 38, 83, 87, 106, Partui, Bonaventura, x, xi, xxvii
127, 128, 134 Pendergrast, Mark, xiii, xxvi, xxvii, 47
Minute Maid Company, 197, 249n2 PepsiCo, 64, 95, 102, 126; annual meet-
Miyoshi, Masao, 33 ing of, 190, 208; and bottlers, 62,
modernity: and Anthony Giddens, 18; 205; formation of, 59; and recy-
global, 5, 8, 18, 44, 63; and soft cling, 191–92; and snack foods, 60,
drinks, 105, 130, 138–39, 243n6; 218
vernacular, 8. See also materialism Pepsi-Cola: and advertising, 90, 182,
and modernity 183, 184, 218; and advertising in
Monserrate, Hiram, 201, 207, 235 PNG, 46, 117–18, 121, 122, 124,
Moreira, Marcio, 89, 91, 92, 134 129–30, 135, 136–38, 140; and mar-
multilocalism: and advertising, 89, 91, keting, 22, 50
95; and Coca-Cola, 33, 47, 66, 69; Pepsi-Cola International, 44, 50; adver-
and globalization, 58, 67–68 tising for, 57, 89, 90, 92; franchises
for, 57; overseas expansion of,
national culture: in PNG, 104–5, 118, 59–60, 67
121–23, 143–44; and soft drinks, 45, politics: of consumption, xix, 166–71,
46, 64, 176 212; of knowledge, 31, 167, 221,
National Soft Drink Association. See 229, 237–40; and nation-states, 154,
American Beverage Association 156, 164–65, 211, 220; of products,
Negativland, xxvi, 181–84, 183, 186, xxii, 153, 166, 168, 177, 189, 225,
249n5 226, 227
Nestle, Marion, 212, 213, 215 Ponte, Stefano, xxi, 7, 23, 55
network of perspectives, xvi, xviii, xix, Pottasch, Alan, 90
10, 30, 73, 123, 131, 145, 235, procurement, global, 50–51
241n1; and Coca-Cola, 63, 134; and product networks: alignments within,
soft drinks in PNG, xxii, 27, 101, xviii, xx, xxii, 25, 28, 30–31, 80, 123,
103, 110, 114, 129, 140; and worldly 125, 131, 145, 170, 231, 237; and
things, xx, 25, 117, 125, 237 imagination, 26, 133, 140, 144; and
Niugini Beverages, 102 inequality, 8; and qualification,
Nolan, Peter, xii, 50, 65, 75, 76, 243n7 xviii, xix, 35, 49, 55, 101, 218; and
274 Index
worldly things, 19, 226, 237. See also 211, 214–15, 216, 218, 219, 221,
network of perspectives 227; and school partnerships,
promotions: in PNG, 110–13, 116, 130; 212–14, 217, 250n1
for soft drinks, 110–11 Solomon, Elizabeth, 27, 28, 137, 139,
property, abstract: and copyrights and 140, 221
trademarks, xviii, xxi, 77, 78, 80, 81, South Pacific Brewery, 67, 102, 118,
234; and goodwill, 79–80, 83; laws 244n15, 246n8
about, 182, 185 South Pacific Consumers Protection
Programme, xxvi, 222
Qibla Cola, 174, 175 South Pacific Holdings, 102, 106, 112,
qualification: of Coca-Cola, 40–41, 46, 126, 129
49, 129, 157, 218, 230; control over, space-time, 18, 75, 87. See also distanci-
77, 79, 81, 82, 83, 97, 153, 193, 238, ation
239; of Pepsi-Cola, 138; of prod- sponsorship: and Coca-Cola, 52, 88,
ucts, 7–8, 14, 22, 23, 55, 71, 72, 158–59; and music, 108–10, 123,
75–97, 119, 231, 241n1 129–30, 137; Olympic, 104; in PNG,
quality control: in advertising, 56–57; 103, 104–14, 119, 131, 246n6,
and Coca-Cola, 53–56, 231, 243n9 246n8; and youth, 159–61, 205
Sprite, 54, 93, 94, 97, 185
Ramu Sugar, 53–56 Srivastava, Amit, 232, 233, 234, 235,
recycling, 189–92; in PNG, 244n10 237
Red Violin, The, 12 sugar industry, xv, xxiii, 220, 224–25; in
rights: of consumers, 212, 222; pour- Brazil, 224, 225; in PNG, 53–55
ing, 212, 213, 215, 218; of workers, Superflux, xxvi, 249n5
197–202 surplus value: and commodity chains,
Roberts, Kevin, 28–30 22; and copyrights, xviii, 80; extrac-
Robertson, Roland, xx, 34, 36, 72 tion of, xviii, xxi
Rogers, Ray, 203, 204, 206, 209, 233, Suzuki, David, 6, 243n6
237
Tanga Islands, ix-xi; and soft drinks, x-
Sahlins, Marshall, 225 xi, xi, xii
schools. See marketing technical observers, 38; in New Guinea,
Schudson, Michael, 89, 96, 99, 248n18 38–39, 43–44. See also TO Digest
shareholder activism, xxiii, 188, 189, Tedlow, Richard, xiii, 84
207, 208, 209, 211, 212, 226 Thomas, Nicholas, 16, 44
shareholder resolutions, xxiii, 187–89; Thorne, Lorraine, xvi
for healthcare, 192–97; for recy- TO Digest, 38, 242n3
cling, 189–92; for worker rights, Tomlinson, John, xii, 18, 19–20, 26, 97
197–202 trademarks: and Coca-Cola, 78–84,
SINALTRAINAL, 198, 200, 201, 206, 229, 230; litigation over, 79, 81, 182,
250n3 186, 229–31; value of, 82. See also
soft drinks: and children, xxiii; as col- property, abstract
lectibles, xiv, 13, 83; and obesity, Trobriand Cricket, 20
215, 216, 221; sales of in schools, Trotter, John C., 199, 200
Index 275
trust: and brands, 76, 163–64; in Coca- 231, 234, 249n3, 249n1; fountains,
Cola, 24–25, 36–37, 52, 69, 162, 87, 128; privatization of, 233–34;
242n6; of consumers, xviii, xxi, tap, 65–66
xxiii, 28, 30, 35, 242n2; loss of, xx, Watson, James, 7, 95
24–25, 70, 164, 201, 242n5, 242n6; Weiner, Mark, 235–36
and modernity, 19, 24; and politics, Whatmore, Sarah, xvi
226; and trademarks, 79; and value, White Label campaign, 167, 228
xviii, 162–63 Wilk, Richard, 36, 46, 58, 72, 175
Woodruff, Robert, 37
use value and consumption, xviii, xx, Woods, Chris, 180, 181
36, 84 Worker Rights Consortium, 169, 206,
227
value: chain, xxi, 23, 29, 50, 51, 55, 170; World of Coca-Cola, 82, 82, 85, 135,
and consumption work, xix, 28, 76, 243n5, 243n8, 245n4
231; creation of, xvii, xxi, xxiv, 82, World Health Organization (WHO),
155, 169, 217, 229; and knowledge, xxiii, 221, 222, 223, 224
30–31, 240; and network of per- World Trade Organization (WTO), 223
spectives, xx, 28; tournaments of, worldly things: Coke bottles as, 4, 21,
22. See also use value and consump- 86, 178–80, 179; embedding of, xix-
tion; surplus value xx, 17–22, 34, 95, 134, 139, 201; and
home, xvii, xix, 21, 27, 72, 86, 114;
Wallerstein, Immanuel, 22 meanings of, 83, 85; value of,
Wal-Mart, 172, 173, 174, 191, 205, 227 28–31, 231
Wardlow, Holly, 9, 9 Wrynn, V. Dennis, 43
Ware, Carl, 69
Warhol, Andy, 81, 135, 209 Yazijian, Harvey, xiii, 90
water: access to, xxiv,164–65, 171, 230,
232, 244n14; bottled, 66, 71, 163, Zyman, Sergio, 88, 97, 185