Not sound logic, but it is logic nonetheless.

Layers upon layers lie before me, idyllic, resting.  Local legend has it that the seemingly infinite rock formations protruding out of Halong Bay’s waters are the petrified remains of a descended dragon; who am I to dispute it?  “That must be one big-ass dragon,” I thought.

As I relax on the bobbling junk, I close my eyes and imagine all the possible locations a dragon may choose to call home in today’s crazy crazy world.  Not China—nor Vietnam, for that fact—too crowded and polluted even if we pride ourselves as direct descendents of the species.  Not Japan for obvious reasons.  Not Europe, too broke and ‘austere’ to supply all the food and resources it needs.  And certainly not the United States since all the NIMBYDTOM (not-in-my-backyard-don’t-tread-on-me) folks may take out their shot guns and start shooting the poor thing while demanding the government to begin profiling all flying beings that appear foreign; “it’s illegal!  It doesn’t have papers!  Deport it to Mexico!”

As I engage in this impossible maze of queries, I remember the immaculate Latin American coastline donde nadan las ballenas y delfinas (I wrote about la ruta del sol of Ecuador here).  Surely the dragon would become fast friends with the other pristine creatures swimming in la costa latina…but I am once again dumbstruck by the realization that Hugo Chavez may capture the beast and exploit it as a prop in his many shameless campaigns of self-promotion.  I promptly exasperate, and resign to the fact that the dragon may not find a suitable residence on the planet earth I have become familiar with.

Granted, the list of places I touch on represents only a minute fraction of the world (nor can my zany simpleton musings be qualified as thoughtful analyses); but the point is this: when you find yourself bored one day, ask yourself this question: “would the dragon (or gryphon, phoenix, sphinx etc.) live in my community given its social and environmental conditions?”  If you recognize any negative traits that make you stop before you begin, think of why they persist, what you can do to rectify them, then act on it.  You might be glad that you did your part to make the surroundings more habitable for both yourself and the mythical being concerned.

Disclaimer: the mental health of this author is determined to be (sufficiently) intact by relevant authorities.

Under the dragon's belly.

Urbanity evolves.

Shame on me – from the beginning of 2007 to now, I have logged in roughly 18,876 air miles just from relocations alone, covering five cities in three different continents.  Such is the irony of being an urban planner in the international development context – our behaviours are inherently contrary to the very principles we espouse.  We fly long distances as we lament the escalating global carbon count and gun for short-term projects in disparate corners of the globe while preaching the virtues of developing indigenous solutions.  Somehow all these are justified by the belief that our work helps nurture local capacity and will, but do the reports and studies I conduct translate to concrete action that leads to progress?  Only time will tell.

I care about my work and carry no regrets for the endeavors I have pursued, but I also have to admit that as of now, the places I have called home—along with their inhabitants—have taught me a lot more than what I have offered them.

For that, I am thankful.

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Hanoi continues to surprise me with its multi-faceted urbanism and burgeoning subcultures.  The eclectic sights and sounds registered in the past couple weeks have left much food for thought; as the city continues to open its arms to the outside world, it is bombarded by myriads of influences that are either complementary or in conflict with what is perceived as Hanoian or Vietnamese.

But what is Hanoian or Vietnamese?  As I did deeper I was inevitably reminded that places and the identities tied to them are not fixed in time.  They evolve with time and circumstances: baguettes and coffee that were once consumed by French colonialists had become staples of Vietnamese life; movements such as hip hop and rock, though foreign in origins, are manifesting in forms that are distinctive to Vietnam and thus are becoming parts of the country’s cultural palette; I too, expatriate and all, have merged into Hanoi’s urban fabric over a short span of six-months.  As such, we are all part of the amorphous localities we reside in regardless of our backgrounds, beliefs, and interests.

Now if only we can live harmoniously with one another and work together for the good of the societies we are based in.

I can hope, right?

Vietnamese or not - a corner in Hanoi.

Living under the drizzling cloud in Hanoi.

Icky-shticky, drip drop drabby, rainy weather seems to be all the rage in Hanoi these days.  I always have a good giggle when Hanoian natives / transplants I speak to flash a knowing smile when I bemoan in conversations that there had been precisely one good day of sunshine in the seven weeks leading up to today – they know which blessed day I am referring to.  Not since my boarding school days in England have I abhorred the colour grey and rain with such intensity.  But somehow I persevere in Hanoi; it might just be an indication that something is working out for me here.

Weather aside, I have come to uncover and embrace some of the hidden charms in this informal and slightly-rough-around-the-edges capital of Vietnam.  Behind the city’s downtrodden veil that is the aging stock of buildings is an abundance of art galleries, straw-mat-on-the-floor and hole-in-the-wall type establishments serving mouth-watering nibble-fare and delicious Vietnamese coffee variants such as ca phe sua chua and ca phe trung for the price of pennies.

Don’t know what I am talking about?  Well, you will have to come experience it for yourself, especially if you are one thirsty for the perfect cuppa.  There are coffee shops for everyone in this urban wonder: the bohemians, the caffeine addicts looking for a quick fix, the expats, the hipsters, the old-school, the outcast, the tourists, the yuppies…  Somehow, inhabitants of the city can always muster the time and peace of mind to lounge for ca phe in improbable spaces surrounded by bustling chaos, be it by the roadside, in an alley, or in the attic of a seemingly dilapidated building.

“Coffee, sir?”  “Yes.  Hallelujah.”

Overlooking Central Park? No, it is a cafe built on a Hanoian rooftop, likely to be an illegal building extension.

Vietnam in anecdotes.

Living in Vietnam means that I am constantly straddling the murky line between formal and informal.  On the surface, Hanoi seems like a city where anything goes: incessant two-way traffic occurs on narrow roads with lanes drawn only for aesthetic purposes; hawkers litter the myriads of alleyways that mark the seams between the city’s numerous fragments, selling anything from bras to tasty bowls of bun cha.  Pavements here are a lot more than just pedestrian walkways; they are homes to parked SUVs of the wealthy, as well as café-sua-da-sipping locals and Chinese chess-playing seniors.  Once you leave your apartment, you have nowhere to hide – not in this densely constructed beast of a city filled with street life.  In urban Vietnam, public spaces are public, in every sense of the word.  And I love it: finding democratic public spaces occupied by all walks of life in a country under authoritarian rule, no less.

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“Doy muon mot cai,” I stressed and pointed at the spring rolls as I kneeled next to a food stall on Hang Ma.  “Những gì???” was the response from the vendor.  I attempted to enunciate the Vietnamese words with deliberation but it clearly did not register.

Damn.

I thought as a native speaker of Cantonese—a tonal language, like Vietnamese—I would have a distinct advantage over the average foreign expatriate; after all, many Vietnamese expressions and vocabularies are inherited from millennia of Chinese occupation.

Wrong.  Just because I can spot the difference between an up accent and a down accent does not mean I can correctly pronounce words that begin with ng and nh, such as ngu or nhi.

Such is the life of a southern Chinaman in Vietnam: everything seems so familiar yet inaccessible at the same time.

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Working as an international development professional in this formerly-socialist (at present it is only communist in name) country also means that I get a full frontal of its bureaucracy.  Public sector agencies in Vietnam, much like ones I have come across in Latin America and other developing nations, are characterized by not-so-subtle exchanges of winks, handshakes, and envelopes stashed with American dollars.  UN and World Bank projects all reserve budgets for informal payments (note: bribes); cash is required whether it is a request for a meeting with the minister or government data needed for a public needs assessment.  This highlights the irony of development efforts in Vietnam and elsewhere: in order to help craft better living conditions for those who are less-privileged, we have to enrich those who are (at least partially) responsible for the pervasive socioeconomic injustices.  Necessary evil?  I do not dare answer.

Relaxation spots can be found anywhere in Hanoi.

Slum tourism a folly? And a reflection of personal encounters with informal communities.

Rocinha in Rio de Janiero, Dharavi in Mumbai, and Kibera in Nairobi are all informal settlements that have gained global infamy as the poster-children of urban development gone wrong. Through increased exposure in cinema and other forms of media, these haphazardly built communities have become defining features of the dichotomized megalopolises they are based in. They are considered worthwhile case studies for anthropologists and urban practitioners, and are ostracized by the cities’ public officials and wealthier classes. They have also in recent years emerged as breeding grounds and exporters of fashionable urban trends (think “City of God”, “Slumdog Millionaire”, hip hop, and “Baile Funky”) and burgeoning tourism destinations for intrigued and wide-eyed visitors – “slum tourism”, many call it.

I personally have never been a fan of slum tourism—I fear the caricaturization and the overly-simplistic views of urban poverty it may engender—but I am not one to question tour operators’ (usually consisting members of concerned informal settlements) means of generating income for their disadvantaged communities. Nonetheless, I came across a New York Times op-ed that triggered this posting and wish to share a particular statement with readers. A member of the Kibera community, Kennedy Odede piercingly sums up the pitfalls of fleeting slum tours with the following:

“…it’s just as likely that a tour will come to nothing. After all, looking at conditions like those in Kibera is overwhelming, and I imagine many visitors think that merely bearing witness to such poverty is enough. Nor do the visitors really interact with us. Aside from the occasional comment, there is no dialogue established, no conversation begun. Slum tourism is a one-way street: They get photos; we lose a piece of our dignity.”

The social fabric that exists within informal settlements is complex and multi-faceted. The pervasive poverty present in these tin-foil communities are often symptoms of greater systemic problems such as discrimination, poor planning, inequitable economic development, and public and private sector neglect. Truth is, no article, film, or tour will ever do the resident experience justice; outsiders like you and I, sans lengthy immersive experiences, would be hard-pressed to develop a nuanced understanding of the hopes and obstacles harbored in these irregular urban forms.

In the summer of 2008, I had the opportunity to interact with Rio’s favela residents for a project that assessed the city’s municipal urban upgrading efforts. After three weeks of dialogues and settlement visits in a cidade maravilhosa, I had only begun to comprehend the complexity of that beast called slums. With all said, I would like to conclude the posting with a couple paragraphs from a journal entry I wrote after a visit to the informal community of Morro de Estado in Niteroi:

“Government neglect appeared to be a reality that is confronted daily by the residents of Morro de Estado. The worn-down community clinic was not open during our visit, and the police station located next to the football pitch was surrounded by a concrete wall, while the military police officers seemed detached from the area they were assigned to. Local hip-hop artist Vitor said of service provision by the government: “there is a lack of services and racial discrimination from government agencies is severe. We don’t speak to these policemen, they don’t speak to us. Often, they treat us poorly.”

Amidst the negativity and harsh living conditions, stories of success displayed positivity and resourcefulness amongst the community’s residents. Jorge’s parents proudly told of their son’s training to become a pastor, while fourteen year-old Jefferson taught himself English albeit the lack of school supplies; it is easy to envisage any of these individuals succeed in more favorable environments. Ultimately, outsiders have to understand that the only ingredient missing for residents of informal settlements is the right set of circumstances and opportunities.”

For Kennedy Odede’s Op-ed “Slumdog Tourism”, click on the following: http://www.nytimes.com/2010/08/10/opinion/10odede.html?_r=1&scp=1&sq=slumdog+tourism&st=cse

 

It is more than just tin huts and poverty.

 

The ungodly northeastern heat. And climate change.

Alternating between New York City and the DC metro area suburbs over the course of my search for employment, I have lived and tasted the whole spectrum of America’s built environment. Ever since I started calling a two-storied Virginian mansion my (temporary) residence in January, I have transformed from an urbanophile to the not-so-native son of suburbia. My 4-door Honda Civic, though mechanical and free of blood and veins, has become a vital organ for my survival just west of the nation’s capital. Thankfully, I can keep in touch with my urban roots and replenish my once-legit street cred (note: sarcasm) by running amok in the big apple’s rat-infested subway stations. In short, dichotomy and paradox have become the defining words of my existence and lifestyle.

Despite the vast differences between Vienna, VA and New York, NY in their densities and urban forms, the two localities inevitably share an inextricable link: they are both plagued by the sweltering summer heat of the Atlantic Northeast. Oh yeah, I remembered the miserable winters (you do not forget) when I resided in Los Angeles, but memories of suffocation in the New York tube stops during the summer months eviscerated into thin air. In a series of mindless banter / texts with San Francisco-based buddy Dave in which I extolled the virtues of NYC summer living and bragged how it cannot be paralleled by that of SF’s, Dave put the nail in the coffin with “at least peeps ain’t dying due to heat waves in SF”. True, Dave, True. That stopped my yapping pronto. And for readers who are unfamiliar with the aforementioned experience in New York’s underground stations during July and August, think of steamed pork in a Chinese wok – at least that is how I feel when I wait for the L train that never seems to come.

How I feel like in the New York subway, but not as tasty.

To continue with the theme of climate and extreme temperatures, I was recently gripped by a lively discussion about climate change and current renewable energy technologies on KCRW’s “To the Point”. Unsurprisingly, experts on the panel agreed that the global agenda to promote carbon-free energy production is mired in a three-way tug-of-war between moral obligations, economic considerations, and scientific limitations. While few progressive-minded readers here would debate the urgent need to ramp up renewable energy infrastructure in both rural and urban areas, the relatively low efficiency of today’s technologies and their prohibitive upfront costs have disallowed implementation on a sufficient scale.

According to Bjørn Lomborg of the Copenhagen Consensus, the quest to green our energy sources has become a tool for manufacturers and politicians to score political points and profits. The funding for research and development into more cost and energy efficient means of energy generation, he added, is incongruent to the dollars plunged into the manufacturing of expensive instruments. “Look at the Germans. They put up solar panels everywhere despite of the high production costs of photovoltaic cells; but does that make green energy more accessible on a global scale? Unless the cost of renewable energy can be lowered to compare with that of coal energy’s, it is unlikely that countries such as China and India will sign on for the long-term. Likewise, the US government is not going to subsidize domestic solar and wind energy anytime soon.”

Although I personally do not adopt such a dim view of what countries like Germany have accomplished—they have proactively pursued paths that they believe to be the best for the environment and in the process set examples for other nations to follow—such a statement nonetheless highlights the gap between the moral ideals and economic realities of clean energy production and the need for comprehensive, long-term thinking when tackling climate change. The fact that major carbon producers of the world view each other as adversaries in the race to become top clean energy product manufacturers only adds to the siloing and fragmentation of efforts to mitigate the global problem.

Can the relevant power brokers abandon their short-term views and work collaboratively to devise accessible solutions and technologies that achieve both economic and environmental sustainability? Only time will tell.

Fellas, not everyone can afford this.

The ongoing saga and political realities in Washington, DC.

New York City beckons.

It’s been exactly 66 days since I have plopped my belongings down in the nation’s capital, and the city is already beginning to feel a little minute for my oh-so-worldly (note: sarcasm) palette. I am an ardent supporter of walking through the mostly compact and human-scaled streets of DC, and have diligently adhered to the ritual of strolling through neighborhoods during early days off and weekends, selected by methods somewhat akin to throwing darts at an area map. Most times, I have a couple cameras lunged over the shoulders for good measure. However, eleven weekends and more than eleven metro area segments later—from the Daniel Burnham-esqe glitzy to the relatively obscure; from the pedestrian-friendly to the deadly-for-pedestrians; in the snow and in the midst of the cherry blossoms—my fountain of ideas is about to run on its last trickles.

Is it a hopeless case of the itchy feet, or is it a yearning for the contiguous, amorphous urban forms and diverse social dynamics that are so prominent in the ginormous and semi-rotting apple? Of course, it may just be a sign of that incurable ADHD that I need to have checked out. Either way, New York City beckons.

Where outside of New York City can you catch this on the daily?

Meanwhile, a lot has transpired recently; and being in the modern world’s alleged political center means an unobstructed front-row view of the good and ugly of policy-crafting. The passage of the healthcare bill means that many vulnerable populations previously precluded from healthcare will now have access to some form affordable coverage. But it also brought out the worst human behaviours in the forms of indiscriminant Republican obstruction, and Tea-Party hooliganism; the opposition party’s inability to think outside of short-term gains, and the tea-baggers’ reluctance to consider the plight of others are as mind-blogging as they are atavistic.

Fast forward to Obama’s recent lift on the moratorium on limited off-shore drilling; as pundits say, this is ultimately a move to garner the one or two critical republican votes needed to pass the eventual climate bill. Such is American-styled, incrementalist democracy: you take one step back in the hope to gain two steps forward. One sure hopes that when the political machines inches forward, it is moving towards the right direction.

I am not willing to go down the path of advocating for benign authoritarianism, but it does look attractive on occasions, doesn’t it?

Well, at least for now, sakura petals have replaced snow-residue as DC’s ground ornament as spring comes to full-bloom.

The sakura flowers come to full bloom.

P.S. Proud DC folks, my suggestion box for places to visit is now open.

Tales from a capital: Washington, DC.

12:05 p.m.: On highway 695, between Washington DC and New York City.

After two years and some change in the rather surreal and sprawling megalopolis of Los Angeles, settling in DC is equivalent to living in smallville—at least in terms of distance; but I am, by all means, having a ball.  Between a fantastic new job working with global microfinance and community building-related issues, cheap intercity bus rides (with wifi connection, no less), free public events, accessible underground trains, and compact, human-scaled neighborhoods, I am finding myself sipping the fountain of youth and re-living my early-twenties when I pranced around the East Coast; except in those days I did not fall asleep on the couch drooling when the clock struck midnight.  It is remarkable how a well-planned, walkable city can energize the mind and spirit.

Joys of riding the metro.

Washington DC is a microcosm of its own kind, and its dominant political culture is palpable in the air.  You would be hard-pressed to find another city where you can so frequently encounter random groups of twenty-something talk about their meetings with congressional and senate leaders, or the grants they are writing to help rebuild Haiti.  Suffice it to say, I was blown away when it struck me that the State of the Union address a week ago was happening only a few miles away from me.  “(Insert expletive)!  I can throw eggs at house minority leader John Boehner if I so choose to!”

The fantastic Kramer Books in Dupont Circle.

But like any other city, Washington DC has its own share of imperfections.  For those who have not been there, think of the city as a piece of pie cut into four segments: the NE, NW, SE, and SW quadrants, divided by Connecticut Avenue in the middle.  Most of the action we hear and see on the news takes place in the NW quadrant, within a half-mile radius of where that pretty popular guy named Barack resides.  Taking a stroll in vicinity of DC’s national monuments on a Saturday afternoon, I was struck by several images of contradiction and irony: visible homelessness just outside the monolithic headquarters of the IMF and the World Bank, and mentally ill wanderers mumbling to the air by the Lincoln Memorial.  Otherwise, the NW is dominated by political heavyweights and younger professionals trying to do some good or climb the political hierarchy, both of whom rarely step foot into other quadrants that are less aesthetic and sanitized; and you wonder why policies devised nowadays are so out of touch.  Sadly, I am guilty as charged in fueling this path to homogeneity.

But there are glimmers of hope.  Several key topics are emerging to be the talk of the capital and are slowly capturing the attention of legislators.  In the two short weeks following my arrival, I sat through progressive panels on urban agriculture and green building designs and will be attending a lecture on smart growth policies.  Concepts brought up in these events were nothing new, as they were emphasized repeatedly in class and in the educational rants of buddy Evan; yet, the sheer number of people in attendance—federal employees, municipal officials, students and practitioners in the public and social sectors—indicate the potential of reaching a tipping point in the quest for a more equitable, just, and verdant DC and beyond.

And just like other great metropolises I have experienced, Washington DC is a less-than-perfect city marked by a mixed bag of beauty, burgeoning activism and hints of social injustice.

The road to political stardom.

The UN Climate Summit and our prospects of growing some sexy gills.

Between coffee, cameras, family and rolls of film, I had an uneventful yet relaxing Christmas, a much needed respite from the upheaval that characterized my last days in LA. During this time I had fulfilled my master degree requirements, decided on my next city of residence, packed my possessions in a hurry, and returned to Hong Kong to catch the festivities – but chit-chatting about these happenings is not why I am laying ink onto paper.

It has likewise been an action-filled December for enthusiasts of global affairs and politics: we witnessed the near-passage of a less-than-perfect healthcare reform bill in the US, escalating conflicts in Central Asia, and ah, the UN climate summit that concluded in Copenhagen two weeks ago. Who remotely concerned about the environment can forget about this convoluted, feet-dragging, and heartbreaking affair?

Despite two weeks of bartering and wrangling (and imaginary strangling for some), world leaders had little to show except for a non-binding agreement struck between five exclusive haves and will-haves; and Russia of “BRIC” was not even among them. Naturally, nations with less economic and political might were less-than-thrilled to accept a unilateral treaty that fails to hold the globe’s main culprits of carbon production accountable. Unfortunately, these less advantaged countries—island-states or countries dependent on agricultural productivity—also stand to be the most adversely affected by the rapidly changing climate. For those who caught it on the news, the footage of a Vanuatu minister pleading to fellow summit participants in tears should be a gut-wrenching reminder of the matter’s urgency.

Not that any of this was surprising, what transpired from 7th Dec to 14th Dec was in many ways symbolic and a reflection of current global dynamics; in other words, the summit was a three-way tug-of-war between the industrialized nations, the crouching tiger and the hidden dragon (India and China), and the aforementioned developing countries. It is unfathomable that a universal treaty can be struck between two-hundred odd stakeholders with greatly varying interests in a two short weeks. One can cite the Kyoto treaty ratified in 1997 to refute my statement, but said agreement was signed by a self-selected coalition of the willing, consisting mostly of countries in Western Europe.

According to NPR calculations, the carbon footprint generated from the summit equates to what 40,000 average Americans produce each year; as buddy Dave says, “That just doesn’t fly.” While the summit’s conceptual and symbolic significance is undisputable, a once-a-decade congregation is not going to solve the gargantuan challenge ahead. Tackling global warming requires consistent dialogue and collaboration amongst stakeholders from across the spectrum—world leaders, scientists, communities at risk and the likes—and the devise of binding agreements that are consistently modified according to evolving conditions. For this to occur, a more powerful and unified narrative is needed from vulnerable parties and the proponents of more stringent carbon emission controls.

Although we have heard more frequent tales of agricultural decline and rising sea-levels from various parts of the globe, they have been scattered and incohesive. Meanwhile, scientists recite findings that are at times abstract and hard to grasp for many. Perhaps, this failure to produce a universal story that is accepted by all serves as the biggest obstacle to the mitigation of greenhouse gas emission.

Going forward, those combating climate changes will have to bring these disparate stakeholders together to weave a coherent message that is accessible and irrefutable. A large group with a unified voice fosters political will and the presence of political will in turn forces policy makers to create corresponding legislation. In particular, communities in China, India, United States, and other recalcitrant nations that are confronting the consequences of global warming should come in unison to remind their national governments, that without aggressive measures, large swaths of their countries are just as likely be submerged under water like the Maldives and Vanuatu. Economic interests no longer seem so significant when the nations’ survival is at stake.

Remember the less-than-savory flick Waterworld featuring Kevin Costner? Do not call me cynical, but I do not fancy the prospects of us growing some gills in time.

Satirists Bruce Kluger and David Slavin’s exceptionally piercing yet candid commentary on the UN Climate Summit.

Primate cities just found a new source of migrants - climate refugees.

The fight for organic food: the dangers of misinformation.

I have let my pen stay idle for a short while.

I work with issues pertaining to environmental justice, and am a staunch local and organic farming supporter.  I generally have a strong distaste for industrial farming and corporates that promote it — such as Cargill and the likes.

Recently, much information has been floating on the web regarding the food bill HR 875.  Many postings claim that the bill would suffocate local growers and doom the future of organic farming; and they are inciting a viral wave of livid responses from supporters of small-scale agriculture.  This is immensely dangerous: from my understanding, the bill in question does not strive to kill small farms, but to minimize unethical practices conducted by manufacturers — e.g. the recent salmonella cover-up of peanut butter maker King Nut in Ohio.

As stated in Factcheck, HR 875 is actually sponsored by a consortium of 41 public interest groups, including healthy food advocate Food and Water Watch; go to their website http://www.foodandwaterwatch.org/about and you will see their position against industrialized farming.  It appears, that the bill aims to regulate against bottom-line-driven processes that may negate public health concerns–the same practices that propel us to stand against the Cargills and Monsantos–by creating a more independent agency that oversees food safety of large scale productions, not of small local growers.  This, is perhaps needed in a time when news of E.Coli outbreaks and other deleterious nuisances in mass production facilities become more frequent.

I write this because like you, I am a proponent of the organic and health food movement.  When there are copious amounts of unregulated content online, it is easy to be influenced by misinformation that fans our emotions — I nearly was.  It is important that we not be consumed by knee-jerk reactions, and kill something that maybe—I am no expert in HR 875, nor its downstream consequences—beneficial to public interest, and our well-being in the long-term.  The best we can do is to check the facts before reaching a verdict, and taking subsequent action.

The bill:

http://www.govtrack.us/congress/billtext.xpd?bill=h111-875

Fact checking:

Illegal Backyard Garden? (Factcheck.org, Mar 09)

“HR 875″ Myth Sows Terror Among Organic Gardeners (Huffington Post, Oct 09)

Organic farming: in danger?