Ghana, Shea Butter and silly hats...

In March last year (2007) Alan Witt and myself visited our friends in Ghana supplying our Shea butter. The resulting trip inspired the best selling hand cream 'Handy Gurugu' :

"As Ghana celebrates its 50th year of independence from British occupation it is closely watched by the world as an example of West African prosperity. It has had the most stable economy and political history of any of the West African countries and as the first nation to achieve independence from British colonialism in the region, is a shining example to the world. However, it has by no means had an easy ride, the first President, Kwame Nkrumah was overthrown several years later in 1966 in a coup by the army and over the next fifteen years several presidents came and went as corruption and coups became ever more rife. Eventually Flight Lt JJ Rawlings took the reigns in 1981 and was the countries president until a few years ago. During his time in office he imposed a strict regime on the Ghanaian public and often opposition to his party would quietly disappear. Now things are looking up and there is a much more healthy democratic process in Ghana. However, the economy is still experiencing troubles as it struggles with inflation which can be seen in the ridiculous amount of notes required to pay with. At roughly 18000 cedis to the pound and the largest notes being 20000 it took quite some time to pay a three hundred pound hotel bill at five in the morning. It also is the main base for UN peacekeeping in the area and as such has strains put on it helping to accommodate this.



Arriving in Ghana it is immediately evident that the country is still developing. There are few buildings over two storeys and those with a consistent supply of electricity and water tend to be hotels and the Kofi Anan UN training facility. Many live down dusty, unpaved streets in small corrugated iron roofed huts or part finished concrete buildings. Large areas are subject to random blackouts through the night due to energy shortages and in recent years water has been the same. The weather is hot and humid, around 30 degrees Celsius, as the rainy season approaches.

After a day to acclimatise and visit the local sites it was a 5:30am start to catch the bus up to Tamale, the capital of the Northern region of Ghana. Symptomatic of life in Ghana the bus was three hours late departing but Alan and I were soon wedged uncomfortably in for the fifteen-hour journey ahead. Along the way overturned lorries regularly littered the sides of the road, their goods spilled across the tarmac. Held up at these intervals we were soon provided all forms of strange plant and wildlife from the street hawkers. They were selling any thing from bananas to giant land snails, a delicacy when cooked in a stew. As the women in front of us picked eight of the juciest snails into a black plastic bag, Alan and I wondered where she would keep them for the nine hours we still had left to travel. Eventually we reached Tamale station at 2 in the morning where our guides met us.

The next day we proceeded to the village Gurugu, which is local to Tamale. It is here that the main body of the cooperative operates producing Shea Butter from the Shea nuts bought locally. The village houses roughly 5000 people and the co-op have roughly 120 women working for it. Some are from the village and others are from another local cooperative who have joined to increase production. Work is by demand and varies as orders are placed. The village itself is made up of basic mud huts, which cost around £150 - £200, to build. Although primitive looking the houses withstand strong winds and rains during the rainy season. Standing on the dusty road the site of production is a collection of these rudimentary buildings, their straw roofs tightly bound, and a large sheltered concrete platform which has been recently built with the help of a local NGO group, led by a WTO initiative to encourage industry.

As Alan and I arrived we were at once welcomed with approximately thirty women all dressed in large, brightly patterned dresses and equally garish headscarves. Some have tribal scars on their cheeks others tattoos. Launching enthusiastically into song the women dance for us in a line, as an official village welcome finishing with a loud kiss noise which we all find funny. After this we are introduced to the various women leaders of the group all of who look like strong minded matriarchs and remind me of old schoolmistresses. We hear a brief history of the groups and how their work practises have been much improved since NGO training in November enabled them to reach commercial grade Shea Butter.



Then we are able to walk round the small ‘factory’ all of which is open air. Immediately in front is a large pile of Shea nuts surrounded by a crowd of women all bent over the pile removing the poor quality black nuts from the brown, something they are less inclined to do when paid standard local wages. From here the nuts are taken to be crushed in a grinder, a new addition to the facility as this used be done by hand. At the far right is the roasting area where small open fires roast the crushed nuts to soften them for blending. Here several large blackened cylinders house between 50 to 80 kg of nuts. They are spun continuously over the intense heat to prevent burning for around 45 minutes. As Alan experienced, this is hard work, smoke blowing in to his eyes, he lasted about 4 minutes before giving in to the heat.



Then two women will lift the heavy vessel and move it back to the concrete platform where its placed in a large aluminium bowl to be beaten by hand with a mixture of water to separate the butter from the other materials. Under the iron roof sit several women, there legs aside the bowls and there fists balls of brown Shea mix as they beat the Shea whilst occasionally breast feeding one of several small children strewn about.

Alan and myself can say that it wasn’t as easy as it looked having to beat the mix until it became a smooth blend. As we both tried to master the art the women laughed raucously and pointed as sweat dripped from our noses, in the end we left, defeated, not even having produced one bowl of butter between us. Next the mix is washed a total of six times to separate impurities and the material begins to resemble the yellow/white material that will be carefully wrapped and sealed in a small building across the yard.



The entire process is manual and extremely hard work where the women are expected to lift heavy bags of 50kg or more and work through the day to produce the orders. They can make up to 900kg of Shea butter a day and were processing our order whilst we were there. The men of the village will not work and take casual labour in building huts and maintenance as and when. The tradition is for the women to bear the brunt of most of the work within the village. All though an intensive workload there was much laughter and sense of community here mixed with the hardy living conditions.

The next day Alan and I felt relaxed, following the formalities of the previous morning, songs and sit downs with the women out of the way we looked forward to stress free day. However, when our unexpected meeting with the chief was moved forward an eerie tension fell over our guides and the friendly faces of the village became wracked with worry. We were told that the chief and elders of the community would be presented with a gift of soft drinks from us and we must be gracious in accepting thanks. Alan and I exchanged disconcerted glances as a line of wizened old men, some clutching knarled canes, others missing teeth or with cataracts on their eyes, filed into a slightly larger mud hut. Following them some of the women leaders from the group and then us.

Nervously we sat on a creaking bench the stifling heat inside equalling the tense atmosphere. Sweat trickling down our backs, we were sat to the left of the circular ‘Palace’ and were facing the cross-legged elders. cold eyes staring out the gloom of the large hut. On our left, lounging on the raised platform in his throne was the Chief of the village. A heavy silence settled on the group and my heart began pounding in my throat. Suddenly I was wondering whose idea this was, maybe I could go and wait outside whilst Alan negotiated, at least one of us could report home on what had happened…





The leader of the womens group, Madame Jerang, slipped from her position on the bench to crouch on her knees and addressed the room. Ensuring she was suitably lower in stature than the Chief, she explained our business and what we were planning to do in supporting the village. Soon she asked if we had anything to add and I could feel beads of sweat dripping into my eyes. Quickly prompted I blurted out something about a “wonderful welcome” and “great working relationship for the future”. After this the soft drinks were served and we all breathed a sigh of relief as the atmosphere broke and smiles and cola began to circulate.



Looking round the palace there were a list of names in chalk on the wall. Each name was one of the chief’s children. Carefully counting up we could see that the chief had approximately twenty-six children with his three current wives. It was no surprise that he sat staring vacantly into space whilst members of his ‘board’ spoke for him. He must have been exhausted.

Expecting the worst was over Alan and I thought we were home free. Then they decided to present us with gifts. In true Gurungu fashion Alan stood up and was presented with traditional robes and funny hat. Convinced they had chosen the most ridiculous hat in the world for Alan, I roared with laughter until I spotted the sparkly green one they had for me. Stepping out into the hot sun wearing striped heavy tunic and glistening hats we stood with the Chief for photos. The entire event was very formal and steeped in traditions and codes of conduct, but we made it through and felt like we really had met the people we were dealing with.

After the tension of the morning passed we were taken to the Shea markets in a neighbouring village. Along the way the area was strewn with wild growing Shea trees. When the Shea fruit is ripe locals will pour into the area to harvest it. Competing with hungry snakes the process is often treacherous. The area is relatively un-cultivated with some rudimentary fields ploughed round the tress to grow yams and other local foods. No pesticides are used in the area as they are too expensive and are not warranted for the production here so the fruit is naturally organic. Recently mango plantations have sprung up and are threatening to turn local land to mass production of mango in the future. However, this is some way off for the time being and Shea trees can be seen growing far over the horizon for much of the journey to the markets.

Unfortunately there was no activity at the markets but the large empty stalls lining the dusty square of the village gave a good impression of the scale of the event. Here the nuts are brought from the surrounding area to be traded by the local processors. The women from the co-op will come here to buy up their quantities of nuts once we have placed our orders. To initiate this process we have agreed to pay 30% of the cost of the Shea upfront for each order.

Attracting more and more attention from the local school children we were soon amongst a throng of chattering kids. They took us to meet another local elder and we were granted permission to pick a baobab fruit from an eerie looking local tree. The fruit was a large dry cocoon, which was split open to reveal a powdery white substance tasting of sherbet. Apparently if you eat too much it can make you run to the toilet so we didn’t tell Alan and watched him take hearty mouthfuls of it whilst the congregation of school children giggled.



Soon it was the end of another busy day and one that both Alan and I will always remember.

Travelling to Ghana was a real eye opener. Images of Africa and its poverty are common in the UK, but to see a relatively prosperous country still have the majority of its inhabitants living in mud huts, burning timber as there primary energy source and living in tribal communities where its common to have several wives and eight or nine children was still shocking. It is easy to see how open to exploitation and corruption the area is and indeed this is a big problem for the local people. I felt that our support of the Shea project was one that was sustainable and benefited both sides, using a traditional local commodity and creating prosperity from trade with Lush. It is important to realise that we have entered into a longer-term commitment where we can build a relationship with these people and both profit from the business. We found everyone we met friendly and open who made us feel very much at home."

Palm oil part two

The second installment! :

"Bukit Lawang


Back in Medan we briefly rested at Panut's house where his wife prepared a delicious breakfast of rice and a fish soup. Soon we were in the back of another mud sprayed 4x4, the air-conditioning struggling in the fast rising temperature as midday approached.

Out of the bustling city the condition of the roads worsened, tarmac appeared intermittently but soon gave way to treacherous mud tracks. As we bounced further out into rural areas an odd monotony began to take over the scenery. Gradual at first it became apparent that the jungle either side of the track was oddly symmetrical. Uniform lines of large Palm trees loomed over us disappearing far off into the horizon, neatly standing to attention like columns of some vast temple. The ground beneath scrub or fern covered. We were passing through the Palm plantations.

Our four-hour journey saw no break in the plantations, occasionally rubber trees would peer out, each equipped with small taps but we’d soon return to the Palms spreading their large fronds out, covering the level canopy. Palm Oil is found in the kernels of the Palm fruits and a hectare of mature plants can produce approximately 4 tonnes of oil a year. Around 36 million tonnes of oil are sold each year and 5 million tonnes of this comes to European soil where the UK is the biggest consumer. Labelled vaguely as vegetable oil 1 in 10 products on UK supermarkets shelves contain it.

Even with these huge figures only 2% of the Indonesian work force is employed by the Palm plantations and the social responsibility of these companies is questionable. The roads we so painfully progressed along were in such disrepair due to the increasing convoys of palm laden lorries making their way to the city where the value of the exported oil will be realised thousands of miles away. Meanwhile locals line the roads in small houses while migrating Javan workers work the plantations. Currently 90% of the world’s palm oil originates from the plantations in Sumatra and Borneo of which there is now 6.5 million hectares. With Palm Oil being earmarked as the best option for bio fuels in the future demand is set to rise at an incalculable rate. The price of this development is that now there stands nearly 4 times more cultivated palm than natural forest in Sumatra. As the forest makes way for the plantations, we are losing its species and biodiversity with it.




As we reach the border between national conservation jungle and palm plantations the difference is remarkable. The jungle reaches out up into the hills densely packed with rich green trees and shrubs, concealing fruit and wildlife.

The area used to be a bustling holiday resort, many hotels and amenities lined the fast flowing river fed by mystical waterfalls cascading from the lush vegetation. Then three years ago a flash flood hit the area late at night sweeping 150 customers and locals to their deaths and with it electricity supply, sanitation systems and many of the buildings. Some of the locals say it was punishment for the debauchery and corruption that had started to establish itself here with prostitution, drinking and gambling. Now slowly rebuilding itself the community are perched high up the hill in makeshift housing. We make our way to the ‘Jungle Inn’ for the night.

Recently built the Jungle Inn has bags of character. The rooms are unique, perhaps a little too unique for Alan who, already complaining of feeling ill, asks to swap room with me due to his aversion to an amphibious companion in his. As I watch the frog harmless hop away in to one of the dark corners of the room I set my bag on the large double bed. What I hadn’t told Alan was that having spent ten minutes in what was now his room, I had heard an incessant chattering of a group of macaques making it quite clear that it was there territory and I was content to share with a frog rather have listen to that all night.

Sitting in the open restaurant the gentle sound of the river gurgling by and the smell of aromatic Indonesian cooking wafted over us. Dinner arrived and both Alan and I sweated through the local version of ‘not spicy’. Soon after we all slunk of to our respective rooms.

I’d had a fabulous nights sleep in my room with nothing but the soothing sound of the waterfall just outside my window to disturb me. Alan however, described a different night, one in which during the grips of a chillie/malaria tablet fever, unable to sleep from strange noises on his roof, he had struggled to Panut's room where he proceeded to be violently ill through out the night. Added to this, images of flash floods and the sound of the river rushing by he’d had a rather exciting evening.

After Alan’s breakfast of dry toast we crossed the river uneasily in a shallow boat more accustomed to distributing Indonesian body weight. Clambering out the other side there was a distant flash of brilliant red hair further up the bank, standing opposite us was a young female Orang-utan, her long crimped fur hanging down her arms which reached the ground from her squat shoulders. Suspecting an audience she began to lounge about gurning and coyly posing for the cameras.

As we ventured further up into the forest we came to the main feeding platform where the semi wild orang-utans congregate to steal bunches of small bananas from one another. Leisurely sweeping through the trees another came to see what was on offer, up to 15 can be seen here but the local fruit trees were in season and there was no need for the rest to visit today.

The Orang-utans have been fighting a losing battle recently, in a hurry to develop the Palm plantations locals clear their natural habitat treating the ‘men of the forest’ as pests. Burning, mutilation and forced captivity are common hazards for modern day Orang-utans. As vast swathes of their territories are replaced with unappetizing Palms, Orang-utans returning to areas once rich in fruits find themselves disorientated and if caught suffer at the hands of the locals. Projects exist both in Sumatra and Borneo for rehabilitation of Orang-utans saved from the deforestation or from captivity. However, reintroducing these animals back into forest that is only going to be felled again can be a somewhat futile task. With an estimated 7300 Sumatran Orang-utans left in the forest it could well be that in a decade they are facing extinction in the wild. As the world’s appetite for Palm oil continues to grow unabated it is these animals which will suffer.



As we made the final journey back to Medan before returning home we noticed the small fires every household had flickering away in their yards. Believed to refresh the earth and make it more fertile the tradition of burning is known as ‘cleaning’ in local tongue. Plantation owners take up this habit and dead trees and waste matter are quickly and cheaply burnt of. Unfortunately this leads to a vast heat haze carrying across much of South East Asia polluting the air and causing literally billions of dollars both in damage and in lost revenue.

Indonesian culture is one of using the forest as is seen fit. It’s their personal larder and convincing them that both Palm planting and illegal logging are prohibited is not welcome news. As is pointed out its western countries that, having already felled most of our forests to establish our economies, are now denying them the same right. Indeed if it were just Indonesia’s needs that were taken from the forests the problem would not be of the scale we see today. Unfortunately the West, India and Chinas use of Palm oil is having drastic consequences.

As our plane rose up into the blue sky the ground below faded into a rich green carpet, the bobbles of distant Palm trees covered every available surface like the ridges of a woven jumper. As I turned to show Alan I saw that jungle belly had struck him again, his seat lay empty and the ‘engaged’ sign quietly lit up the galley."

http://edgeforest.blogspot.com/search/label/Palm%20Oil

Palm oil part one

This time last year Alan Witt and myself ventured out to South East Asia in an effort to research the escalating Palm oil problem. In the next few posts are what we found about Palm oil, Tsunami charities , frogs and much more:

"Aceh Province



As the cumbersome coach lurched blindly round the bend into the beam of two large headlamps the air conditioning did little to stop the beads of sweat running down my back. Our driver dismissed the oncoming lorry with a brief cry from the horn before heaving the bus back onto the correct side of the road in front of a frail looking motorcyclist. “ Don’t worry this is how they all drive over here, to get a licence all you have to do is turn up with the fee” I was reliably informed after the ride, had I known this I would have shared more of Alan’s hesitance before agreeing to a 12 hr journey on the twisting roads from Medan up to the Tsunami torn Banda Aceh. Busy streets were filled with lean men in tattered clothes. Pedalling large boxes balanced precariously on their bikes they battled against the blaring horns of blacked out 4x4’s. Stalls hawked odd shaped fruits covered in grime off the muddy streets while partially paved back streets hid dingy rooms containing anything, from diesel engines to crates of live chickens. We were in Indonesia.


Arriving in one piece we were taken to find western friendly food by our SOS representative Panut Hadisiswoyo. Based in Medan he and his team have to take the treacherous journey to Banda Aceh regularly transporting the Oranguvan to the region in an effort to educate locals to the importance of caring for the environment. He had originally set up the organisation Orang-utans Information Centre (OIC) that now works in conjunction with SOS in Sumatra. Over, what both Al and I hoped was chicken at dinner, we discussed our plans for the next few days to visit several different projects that he had running.

On a tight timetable we were up and out of our basic accommodation the next morning and on our way to their mangrove project. As we pulled round the tight corners between ramshackle houses we were suddenly faced with a huge vessel lying amongst the village buildings. Cars crushed beneath it like empty coke cans trampled by this colossal steel foot, the vast mass of the once floating power station brought home the sheer force of the waves that had carried it five kilometres over land and indiscriminatingly dumped it here two years ago. Unable to move its gigantic bulk the victims remains still lie under its hull. A sombre memorial to the people of the Tsunami.


Reaching the mangrove projects we saw the modest wooden hut that they were using as an education centre, previously it was a building before it was washed away leaving nothing but its foundations. A group of around twenty women were busy selecting plants from the varying ages of mangroves developing in the makeshift nursery. “ They have to be the right age to plant, if they are too young or to old they won’t take” we were told. Another German NGO present expressed his frustration that he had purchased hundreds of saplings for his project to be planted but government bureaucracy meant that when the go ahead would be given the plants would be useless. Panut explained that they had had real trouble in establishing a successful replanting scheme. Early on they had lost large areas of sapling mangroves as they were incorrectly planted. He said he had sought specialist advice on the matter and now their success rate was much higher, other charities, however, were still experiencing problems. Indeed through out the course of the day it became evident that many of the mangrove planting schemes had failed, regimented lines of brittle twigs and piles of the small empty black bags they had arrived in lined the beaches.



The women were part of two volunteer groups who operated here, one female and one male. They make a wage from helping out, as they wouldn’t be able to do this work otherwise. As they dug deep holes into the muddy banks along the waters edge the sun beat down and we wondered how they could work in the close heat that became almost suffocating. Scattered along the banks of a small river mouth laid six or seven brightly coloured small boats, their oddly exaggerated bows pointing dramatically up to the sky. Some on their sides others muddy and unused this too became a common sight along the coast line. Donated to the fishermen of the villages during the aftermath of the disaster, these boats had been hastily built and as the first of the fishermen set out back onto the ocean with trepidation their villages watched in dismay as they gradually sunk into murky water. Now they lay discarded by the locals who were hoping for more improved vessels.

Next we visited Linda, an English NGO married to an Indonesian. She had been working in the area a decade prior to the Tsunami on social projects with locals caught in between the struggle for independence that raged before the Tsunami struck. GAM (Free Aceh Movement) were active in the province for many years and had had between five and ten thousand core members hidden in the surrounding jungle. Now they were largely employed by the government or local projects due to their unique knowledge of the area and the tempting influx of funds after a peace deal was brokered in Jakarta last year. Aceh had always been an area of concern for international governments and its strict Muslim society provides concern in the current climate. Efforts had been clearly made by the US and the West to ‘infiltrate’ the area. KFC and western restaurants had sprung up in recent years catering to the European and North American NGO’s, some of whom we saw lunching in the expensive Chinese restaurant we ate at. However, over the course of next year the permission from the government for NGO projects expires and many of the projects and the high wages they pay will leave the area. Accustomed to the benefits the Aid projects brought, locals have seen an unprecedented inflation of prices from property to food in the region. However, the impact this will have as global interest and cash drains from the area may have unknown social effects. Already communities are suffering from corruption and greed. This is alongside a newly implemented Sharia Law, a strict Islamic law running parallel to the state. It polices the predominantly Muslim community and has the ability to cut off the hands of thieves, stone adulterers and enforces mandatory headscarves for women.

After our lunch we ventured into the local villages worst affected by the disaster. Poorly painted houses sat like an odd patchwork across the often desolate landscape. Lime greens and bright pinks thinly disguised the shabby concrete walls of the homes, many unoccupied. Some allocated houses were for dead members of the community there names assigned by duplicitous authorities, empty schools looked out over childless communities, never had the area had such opportunity to build for free and they were taking full advantage.

We pulled up by a small unpainted mosque. Inside a project teaching arts and crafts skills on the brink of extinction to local women, a psychosocial event aimed both to engage communities and save traditions. Outside we found the Oranguvan, chased by a smattering of surviving children as they gleefully ran clutching books and leaflets, some in local language and others in English. Meanwhile the men of the village took frail looking shoots of fruit trees distributed by SOS to plant in their new gardens. These fragile communities were still picking up the pieces, children growing up with no grandparents, cousins or siblings, no one was complaining about the small houses they’d received because they had no one to fill them."

http://www.orangutans-sos.org/

In 2004 Lush has an ingredients crisis

Since Lush's inception one of our promises was to use pure and natural materials where ever we could. We also wanted to create our own fragrances so we knew exactly what went was going in them and also for the joy of making fragrance. Through out this time Mark Constantine, my Dad, was creating fragrances with pure and natural essential oils as well as safe synthetics with the help of Helen Ambrosen.

At this point I had joined the company after leaving college and begun to help out in our fragrance room, pouring the finished fragrances to be despatched all over the world and making the fragrance from recipes. Mike Honor, the department manager at the time, and myself began to notice that strange things had begun to happen to the oils we were using. Some were much more liquid than they ought to be and others had much less odour than we were used too. Then an old friend of Lush's Jeff Brown, the perfumer who had worked with the co-founders of Lush in previous business lives at Cosmetics To Go ,offered to help us with our quality issues by taking a few oils for testing.

Essential oils are quite complex things and can be very expensive ranging from £30 to £3000 for a litre of the precious stuff. The machinery he used breaks down the essential oils and takes a look to see if anything has been added to water it down, Using the Gas Chromatograph or GC machine, he came back to inform us that in fact our essential oils were adulterated with cheap synthetics. Some so badly that they only contained 30% of the original ingredient we thought we were buying. 

When we investigated this further our suppliers who were guilty of this insisted that we should have know because we could never have bought these products at the price we had purchased them for.

It was then that it became clear how important good buying makes to products.

From this point on Lush made it a policy to make thorough investigations into the materials we buy and to exactly what it is that we are buying. I worked closely with Agnes who took the role of fragrance buyer and between us and the fragrance team we worked on improving quality of our materials and our knowledge of them.

We began by visiting our suppliers, building up a good working relationship with each other and having open dialogue over things like quality, price or supply for example. We also implemented a clear quality control system that meant we were checking everything for purity and quality. During this time we visited Turkey, Morocco, India, Tunisia, France, Italy and more in an effort to build up our knowledge of our materials. Returning from these trips we also brought with us tales of smuggling, hijacks, environmental issues and a fascinating 'behind the scenes' of the world.

The inspiration from this bought about the conception of the Creative Buying department (the phrase was coined by Rowena Bird). As Lush has grown we have that the materials we buy and where we buy them from can have an impact socially, environmentally and ethically. In taking responsibility for this in a practical way our Creative Buyers have visited numerous countries and suppliers building a concise knowledge of our materials. It's a large and complex role that encompasses environmental, social and practical issues. The Creative Buyers have to strike a fine balance buying good quality ingredients that are affordable and ethically sound, not always an easy task and one we all take seriously.

This blog had been devised to offer an insight into the problems and solutions we encounter in our efforts to adhere to the promises we make to our customers.

Simon Constantine