Alan Sipress - The Fatal Strain

As we turned off the main road, we began see the scores of metal-roofed chicken sheds that Suphan Buri’s farmers had raised in making their region one of Thailand’s most prodigious poultry producers. These were long, open-sided structures on wooden stilts that all seemed to jut out over ponds and reservoirs. Under an ingenious system, chicken droppings are not cleared away but allowed to fall between the wooden floorboards into the water, which are stocked with carp, tilapia, and barb. The droppings serve as nourishment and save on fish food. The fish themselves often command better prices at market than the birds. But when the chickens die, the fish go hungry.

Now, as we ventured deeper down the rural roads, we drove past one eerily vacant shed after another. A legion of cullers had swept across the countryside ahead of us, killing an estimated 7 million birds over previous days in Suphan Buri and two other provinces. More than five hundred workers from the agriculture ministry were again fanning out across Suphan Buri to continue the mass slaughter. Teams clad in masks, rubber gloves, and high boots were storming through the sheds, cramming squawking birds into sacks and spraying disinfectant from tanks. Hundreds of Thai soldiers and several dozen prisoners were also being pressed into service, many with brightly colored shower caps to protect their heads. Though the government was targeting four hundred more farms on this day, Newin had warned that teams were running short of sacks and burial space. He told reporters that the cullers were now being forced to use the grounds of Buddhist temples.

Krisana’s family had been raising hens in Suphan Buri for twenty-two years in a village called Baanmai. At first, their aim was to produce just enough eggs for income between rice harvests. But when Krisana took over the farm from his father in 1994, the ambitious young man decided paddy was the past and poultry the future. He immediately quadrupled the number of hens to four thousand, adding more in the following years. It proved a lucrative business. He built an airy, two-story house with a solid brick facade. An upstairs veranda with a cheerful blue-and-purple balustrade looked out over the emerald fields. He bought a new Toyota pickup, parked it out front, and hired a farmhand. He never imagined that one day his livelihood would be buried along with his birds in a hole in the side yard.

Over the years, he had grown accustomed to a few chickens dying suddenly and mysteriously. But he had never witnessed the kind of epidemic that had been stalking his province for the last two months. “It got bigger and bigger and spread from one farm to another before it reached our farm,” he recalled. “Every night, three or four chickens would die.” He consulted a veterinarian, who prescribed antibiotics. They had no effect. Local livestock officers could offer no explanation. The provincial livestock chief reprised the official line that the affliction was fowl cholera. But Krisana was starting to suspect something else. When Vietnam confirmed its poultry had been infected by influenza, Thai television carried reports with footage showing the symptoms. The birds suffered from stiff muscles, reddening skin, and chills, then died. “I saw it on the news and saw the same symptoms here, and I was sure it was bird flu,” he said.

Krisana and his neighbors had alerted officials to their suspicions but were ignored. Now the farmers were livid. They were convinced their flocks could have been salvaged by a swifter government effort to quarantine contaminated farms. “They kept denying and denying and denying it was bird flu. If the government had admitted it earlier, they could have contained it,” he said. A thin smile passed across his sullen face. “Instead, farmers kept transporting chickens and eggs from one place to another.”

Slipping on his sandals, Krisana roused himself from his bench inside the kiosk. He led the way around the side of the house to give me a closer look at one of his chicken sheds, empty and deadly quiet. He shuffled along the wooden planks that served as a short causeway. Though the shed had been disinfected, I was still wary of following. I had the surgical mask and rubber gloves with me but Krisana had neither. I didn’t want to be rude. So with some trepidation, I left them in my bag and poked my head ever so briefly inside the entrance. I tried not to breathe.

When we returned to the kiosk, Krisana’s father came out of the house to join us. At seventy-six, Sompao Hoonsin was still vigorous, with thinning gray hair, and age spots on his broad face. He wore a jolly T-shirt with pictures of Winnie the Pooh and Tigger, but his manner was decidedly downcast. In his hand, he carried a small, handwritten note listing the family’s liabilities in blue ink. They totaled nearly $40,000. The family, he explained, netted about $2,500 a month from selling eggs to small-time retailers in Bangkok, and this had long been enough for Krisana to support his wife, three children, and his father, who had raised him alone since he was a boy. But the debts mounted over the previous two years as the price for eggs weakened. They had to put up the house and land as collateral. “Finally,” Sompao said, “things began to brighten.” Prices had picked up since summer, and the weather had at long last turned favorable for laying: not too warm, with a gentle breeze. “We thought we’d be able to get out of debt and buy all our chicken feed without borrowing money,” the elderly farmer continued. “Then suddenly, we had to bury all our chickens. We can’t even earn one penny. All the children in the family, before they go to school, they’re asking, ‘Will we have enough to eat today?’”

Often overlooked in discussions about bird flu, amid all the anxiety over a possible human pandemic, are the staggering economic costs already incurred by Asia’s farmers. For the poorest peasants, their few chickens were an insurance policy against hunger in bad times. For those who have proven more successful, like Krisana, the flu plague has jeopardized the investments and aspirations of a generation. Some of the farmers in Baanmai village, seduced by the riches that poultry promised, had gone so far as to ask their children to quit or forgo good jobs in Bangkok to help with the business back home. Now they faced bankruptcy.

A day before I stopped by the farm, Sompao had visited the bank to talk about the family’s debts. He had hoped to defer the interest payments of about $250 a month. Nothing was resolved. Government officials had floated the idea that they might pay some degree of compensation for culled flocks. But even if they did, Krisana vowed he was through with chicken farming. “Once they announced the results of the lab tests, I got worried about my health and the health of my kids. We don’t know if this flu would come back,” he said.

His voice trailed off. A white government van pulled up at the edge of the front yard. Krisana watched as officers from the animal disease control department got out to examine the pit where his birds were buried. Satisfied that they were properly interred, the inspectors got back in and drove off.

Krisana resumed his thought. Perhaps it was time to go back to rice farming. He certainly had abandoned his ambition to keep expanding. Maybe self-sufficiency was the answer, he suggested dejectedly. “You can’t imagine how it feels to sit and stay quiet when you see all you have suddenly disappear,” he went on mournfully. “Everyone around here is in shock. We’ve lost hope in life.”

Earlier in the day, Krisana had heard Thaksin might visit the province with his agriculture minister to inspect the culling operation and reassure local farmers. Krisana hoped they would. He said he had something for them—a lotus leaf. “If an elephant dies, you can’t cover it with a lotus leaf,” he quipped, reciting a Thai proverb. Don’t try to hide a large mistake once it’s in the open. “If a million chickens die, you can’t cover it with a lotus leaf,” he continued, embroidering on the original. He paused and reflected for a moment. Then he added, “I’d give them the leaf. But I’m not sure they would understand.”