Experiences of an ethical coffee drinker - Joni Hillman

As a lifelong devotee of that healthy ‘buzz’ received from the staggering number of caffeinated beverages I manage to consume during a normal day, it was decided that I should tout myself out as a guinea pig in the quest to discover just how difficult (and pricey) it is to be an ethical addict.

Studying at an institution that is so politically correct it’s physically impossible to purchase the Daily Telegraph anywhere on the premises, finding a cup of Fair Trade coffee or tea is pretty straightforward. Indeed, there are machines dedicated to the provision of nothing but ethically sourced hot drinks, jostling for space with posters advertising lectures on eco-feminism in Tajikistan, and all for the bargain price of 40p (and the milk’s free). However, this is not the real world. I am not usually forced to choose between anti-capitalists’ target of choice, Starbucks, and any of the other bland chains that proffer their over-priced fayre to unsuspecting members of the general public.

So, for one day, and one day only, I became a normal person. I walked the streets of London in search of a cuppa that was good for the Arabica farmers, yet did not break the strict budgetary stipulations of someone who has not received a pay-check since June 2003. It turned out to be a pretty tall order.

I have to confess that I’m very fussy about tea and cannot quite bring myself to drink Fair Trade tea (although I’m sure it’s very nice). I am wedded to Twinings Lapsang Souchong and cannot contemplate another bedfellow in the mornings (although I have been unfaithful with Earl Gray a few times). So, during the experiment I was forced to choose between Nescafé (discarded on the basis of Nestle goods being somewhat inappropriate in a study of ethical products), fruit tea (not really enough kick for 7am), and some Union Coffee Roasters Fair Trade Maraba Bourbon ground coffee from Rwanda, which I found behind the fish fingers in the freezer.

I can’t remember exactly how much I paid for this packet of mind-blowing caffeine hits but I recall it was a lot and that it was only purchased after a battle between poverty and principles in the supermarket aisle. I think I finally plumped for it on the basis that, firstly, it had a nice picture of Grace, a Rwandan coffee farmer whose children were clearly going to benefit from my patronage, and, secondly, I have actually been to Rwanda (for 24 hours) so I felt some, admittedly tenuous, personal connection to that beautiful but blighted country.

Under normal circumstances I reserve ‘proper coffee’ (non-instant) for special occasions only. For example, it has its uses for perking you up when someone suggests a late night trip to the local dance hall after a heavy session on the red wine. I don’t think I have ever in my life consumed it before at least 11am, apart from on the back of an all-night essay crisis perhaps. Nevertheless, for the purposes of important research I brewed some up and took a deep breath.

It’s not something I would recommend as an early morning experience but I guess life’s for living. It was certainly a sensation I won’t forget in a hurry. I was ‘wired’ for the remainder of the day and pining for the comfort of being eased in to the morning with nice smoky tea. At least I could console myself with the thought that Grace would be in a marginally less desperate situation.

On the morning in question, the short distance from my front door to Clapham Junction was covered in record time, as I power strode my way round roadworks and school children, oblivious to the usual irritants of the journey. By the time I got onto the platform I was in what could be described as ‘a bit of a state’. In my caffeine-induced madness I thought it would be a stroke of genius to buy a chai latte from the little stall, ‘Cuppacino – ethically sourced, organic coffee’, that sells nothing but Fair Trade drinks to bleary-eyed commuters. After all, I was researching ethical shopping for a publication that has a special interest in India. Two birds, one stone and all that. Big mistake. I had forgotten how long chai sits about brewing for, allowing all that lovely caffeine to properly infuse with the diabetes-inducing amounts of sugar. All that pleasure for only £1.90 – who needs drugs.

Commuter hell, as its name suggests, is not enjoyable at the best of times. That morning, however, plumbed new depths of sardine-style misery as I buzzed and wobbled my way into central London. The tube was another matter entirely. So traumatic that I’m not sure I can talk about it yet.

On arrival at my chosen venue for yet more higher education, I was not really in the right frame of mind for a two hour lecture on the finer points of structural adjustment. But needs must and I somehow struggled through, fighting my desire to stand up and jog on the spot, anything to burn off this irritating high and get my heart rate back to normal. By some miracle I felt almost sane again by the end, and had somehow gained the selective memory of a trauma victim. I was ready for more.

I’m ashamed to say that I cheated early on in the challenge. I bought in-house coffee when I should have taken a short walk to the panoply of cafés up the road. But I was in need of routine by now. I proffered a polystyrene cup under the spout and pressed the button, rolled a cigarette (I wonder if we will ever be able to buy Fair Trade tobacco?) and settled down to an academic conversation about ‘Footballers Wives’.

However, the afternoon brought me back to the real challenge in hand and Starbucks it was. After all, how could I have missed out on an opportunity to visit the epicentre of capitalist evil and bad lift music? Having not actually set foot in a branch of the Seattle coffee house for some time I was pleasantly comforted to find that the dreadful music was still apparent and its products were reassuringly overpriced: in short I felt like a character from ‘Friends’, although perhaps with slightly less perfect hair.

Although it is possible to purchase FairTrade coffee in Starbucks, they don’t really seem to want you to. I had great difficulty getting my order received and understood but once it was finally translated into Serbo-Croat I was informed that I could only have FT filter coffee. This and a ‘skinny’ blueberry muffin did not leave me much change from five whole pounds, although I was delighted that I could negate the undoubtedly disastrous thigh effects of the chai sugar with diet products.

However, the actual coffee was a huge disappointment and not a patch on Grace’s brew earlier in the day. It tasted a bit like creosote diluted with warm vodka – I was convinced I could detect the presence of some kind of cheap alcohol in the aftertaste. Not pleasant. And the muffin was full of air – which I suppose is not unusual for slimming food.

I did notice that it was possible to buy a fairly traded bag of whole coffee beans for home grinding for the princely sum of £3.90 (only £3.40 for pro-poverty coffee), as well as FT chocolate bars (at 75p a pop, it’s not cheap to care).

After a futile and fruitless period of pretend reading in the library (the caffeine jitters were not good for productivity levels) I decided that another trip up the road was in order. Café Nero was my destination of choice this time, an establishment that proudly claims to serve the best espresso this side of Milan. That may well be so, but it’s not very ethical espresso. Not a FT bean in sight.

At this point I must confess that I was mightily relieved to have got out of having another cup of coffee and was content to leave Café Nero without giving a short lecture on the devastating effects of fluctuating commodity prices on the world’s poorest farmers.

Perhaps next May Day those looking to hurl some green paint about in the name of anti-globalisation and good fun should reconsider their coffee shop target of choice. After all, Italian sophistication does not make up for the absence of any attempt to pay coffee producers a fair price for their labours.