Down The Exxon Lane — 1
My journey from a college teacher to a salesman
After graduating from Peshawar University, I unexpectedly won a scholarship to study in the US for a Master’s in Soil Science. This was unexpected because I hadn’t applied for it and had only a vague idea of Soil Science. My major was Chemistry.
It was a generous scholarship, with travel, tuition, and books paid for and $250 a month for living expenses—a lot of money for a student in the '60s. However, a string was attached to it: Upon completing my studies, I had to teach at Peshawar University for five years.
The thought of traveling to the US and spending a few years there was exciting enough to disregard any reservations. I signed the contract and went off to the US.
Having completed my studies, I returned to Peshawar to teach Soil Science at the College of Agriculture but soon got bored with the job. It was monotonous, didn’t pay well, and the teachers spent most of their time discussing institutional politics and drinking tea. I wasn’t good at politics and could only drink so many cups of tea daily.
I started looking for a way out.
One of the things we routinely did at the college, other than teaching, was to drop in at the secretary's office to the Principal to check our mail and, more importantly, sniff for any institutional news.
The secretary, or superintendent as he was officially called, one Mr. Shafi from Lyallpur (now Faisalabad), sat behind a large typewriter and a pile of papers. He was balding, wore thick-framed glasses, and a 3–4-day old stubble. He always looked overworked and sweated a lot, which gave him an oily appearance. But he was an amiable person. If you prodded him gently, he would share snippets of “confidential information” about what was going on in the Principal’s office.
Checking my mail in Shafi’s office one day, I noticed a pale-colored, business-size envelope lying in the usual clutter of papers on his desk. It stood out in the pile of papers because of a blue-and-red, oval-shaped logo embossed in the upper corner of the envelope. Printed alongside the logo was the address of the sender: Esso Pakistan Fertilizer Co. Ltd., P.O. Box 5736, Central Hotel Building, Victoria Road Karachi. (Victoria Road was renamed Abdullah Haroon Road in 1973.) The envelope was addressed to the college principal.
I knew Esso as a large multinational oil company, especially because of its vigorously advertised slogan, “Put A Tiger In Your Tank,” but I didn’t know it was also getting into the fertilizer business. A little coaxing of Shafi revealed that Esso Fertilizer Company was setting up a Urea plant at Dharki, Sindh, and was looking to hire agronomists before the plant went into production. The company had been in correspondence with the principal, requesting him to recommend potential candidates for the job.
I took down the address from the envelope.
The principal, a tall man with a dusky complexion and thick glasses, had recently returned from the US with a Ph.D. degree, considerable research experience — and a Chevrolet Impala car. His was the longest car on campus. The few others who owned cars — mostly returnees from the US — had Volkswagens, Fiats 600, or Vespa scooters. Most of them rode bicycles. I was among the majority and owned a green Sohrab bicycle. I could only save enough money from my stipend to bring a Smith Corona typewriter, a 35 mm camera, and an Omega Seamaster wristwatch. The watch, I remember, cost me $100, and I paid for it in installments, $10 a month. The Smith-Corona came with two LP records containing lessons on touch typing. That is how I learned touch typing, and I still do it. (I still have the three items almost in working condition.)
The principal was a hardworking man interested in science and research, but he played favorites, and I was not one of them. I didn’t know who he recommended to Esso for the job or if he recommended anyone at all, but I applied directly at the address I had picked up from Shafi’s office.
Soon, I received a call for an interview at the company’s head office in Karachi. A week later, I received a telegram of acceptance indicating a “four-figure salary,” a commonly used term for a high salary.
I accepted the offer.
Motivated by our “four-figure salary,” the new Land Cruisers, and the pep talks we had received during the orientation program, we plunged into the task ahead with missionary zeal.
The mission was to convert the “non-believers” to the belief that their lands were deficient in Nitrogen, that the use of Nitrogen fertilizer along with better farm practices would significantly increase their crop yields, that Urea (46% Nitrogen) was the richest source of Nitrogen; and it didn’t harm crops if used properly.
It wasn’t an easy mission in the 60s. Many farmers had never heard of Urea, and a vast majority were skeptical of its benefits. Many believed that chemical fertilizer would harm or “burn” their crops.
At the time, only two small fertilizer plants in the government sector, one at Daudkhel, in district Mianwali, and the other in Multan, produced a small quantity of nitrogenous fertilizer. The former produced Ammonium Sulphate (Nitrogen content of 23%) and the latter Ammonium Nitrate (Nitrogen content of 35%). Both had difficulty selling their products. They would end up selling it to the Agriculture Department, which would then distribute it to the farmers at a nominal price or, at times, free.
Selling fertilizer in Pakistan in the '60s was what selling air travel might have been soon after the Wright Brothers’ first experimental flight, in 1903, at Kitty Hawk, Florida.
Like missionaries, we started preaching fertilizer in our areas, meeting large farmers, planting demonstration plots, holding farmers’ meetings and field days, and liaising with research and extension officials.
Soon, salesmen were hired who, after going through a similar orientation course like ours, spread out in the country in their Volkswagens, selecting dealers in the mandi towns.
Salesmen and agronomists joined hands to educate the dealers about the benefits and correct use of fertilizer so that they could pass on the acquired knowledge to their customers.
By the time the first bag of Urea rolled off the conveyor belt at the Dharki plant, we had a network of fertilizer dealers and rented warehouses at key locations.
The brand name of our fertilizer, Engro, an acronym for Energy for Growth, was barely known in the farming community. A bag of Engro, weighing 50 Kg, was priced at RS 20, and we had great difficulty selling it.
After spending about 8 months in Multan, I was transferred to Karachi to the Marketing Services group. I was happy to escape the summer heat of Multan, work at the company headquarters, and live in a cosmopolitan city. Karachi was then a peaceful and fun city with bars, nightclubs, and entertainment. The prohibition and bans came much later.
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