Story by Ari Juniper.
As the sun peeks over the city, a polluted sky is tinted deep orange, and Altagracia rises, too. She moves slowly, lights kindling at the wood stove, the smell of fried plantain and rice fills the air. Her hand graces a dark spot on her right forearm. She dodges the thought, unsure what the doctor would tell her had she the money for a visit. She eats slowly, watches the sun rise and prepares for another long, hot day in the humid hills outside of Managua.
Altagracia arrives at the banana plantation at 6 in the morning and makes her way to her field where she will harvest the bananas and prepare them for their long journey North. As she reaches for the black flower, her sleeve falls and she sees the growth. “Did you do this to me?” she directs the unanswerable question to the banana tree. Altagracia removes the black plastic cover from the fruit, tying it around her to protect her clothing. She carefully cuts the fruit from its phallic stem, filling box, after box after box.
***
Two decades later, a white mini-bus pulls up to the curb and a collective sigh is released. Silence engulfs the space as we collect pens, notebooks and water bottles. Our group of 18 shuffles out of the van and we gather in front of the brightly colored dwellings. The greens, reds and yellows seem so cheery, but we soon learn the story of these homes, which carry a weight we can only empathize with, and a story of a long deserved respect of a carefully ignored people.
Inside the corner dwelling, we sit in a circle and smile at our hosts, 4 ex-bananeros who live in this small community. Altagracia, poised and confident, rises to the front and with tired eyes gazes out upon us. “When we talk about the United States, we are not talking about you all,” she spoke, almost defensively as if she wanted to be sure she didn’t offend us. “You are all here to listen to our story and to learn. We do not blame you for this. But we hope you will tell our story to your people, so they can know what is happening to us.”
Just outside of the walls, stand dozens of protesters, who tell passers-by of the injustices faced by the ex-bananeros, demanding justice, or at least recognition. Inside the walls, these stories resonate. “Look at my arm,” Altagracia cries, as she pulls up her sleeve to reveal a dark growth. “I used to pull the toxin-soaked black plastic from the fruit to use as an apron. They never told us those liquids were poison.” Next to me, I see my friend, tears in her eyes as she holds a picture of a dear, young friend, dying of cancer back home. “We are deteriorating. We are 40, 50, 60, and we are dying.”
Alberto stands at the front of the room with Altagracia. He has remained silent but in his face I see his reaction to Altagracia’s words. During his time as a bananero, Alberto was one of six men chosen at the plantation to apply the chemical fertilizer to the banana trees. He told us that when the air is calm, they would water the trees for 45 minutes, then apply the fertilizer for 15 minutes so that the toxins would be absorbed by the roots of the trees. “We found dead fox and rabbits in the irrigation ditches. This is when we began to understand that it was poison we were feeding the trees.” Ten years later, doctors were seeing these workers suffering from the same symptoms: circulation issues, kidney infections, bone deformities, loss of eyesight, skin cancer. Their lives had been poisoned.
Altagracia breaks in. Though I can only understand pieces of her quick, blurred Spanish, her voice is passionate. She is angry as she asks, “Is it so much to ask for the dignity of knowing our work will kill us? For years, we have protested. We walked from Chinandega, 145 kilometers, to demand support from our government. We asked only for necessities: for homes, food and medical care. But they did not listen. Not until Daniel Ortega; he finally listened. Now we have these homes. We used to live under tarps. Now we have food and electricity, but we are just waiting here to die.” She pauses, gazing at each of us with those sad, tired eyes. She adds, “Maybe our children will see progress.”
For a moment, the room is silent as her words, translated, sink in. I look around at somber faces. N raises her hand and asks, first in Spanish, then repeated in English: “Your story shows how we are connected. The bananas you nurtured, whose pesticides poisoned your body… those bananas were eaten by us, by those in the North. My question is this: should we stop eating bananas? If we stop buying, will this hurt those who work? Will it eliminate jobs? What can we do?” In her voice, I hear echoes of the anger felt by the bananeros, I feel the human connection between our lives and their lives.
Altagracia laces her fingers and considers. “I do not think you should stop buying the bananas. But buy the bananas that are not grown with poison. Where you spend your dollar is how you can support the ways that are better. Support the health of the workers and the environment. Do this, and share our story with your people. You must teach others of these injustices.” We nod and smile weakly, inspired yet saddened by her words.
For thirty years, Altagracia woke with the sun, worked terribly long hours in the heat, only to be left for dead by her employer and her government. Her hands picked fruits that nourished bodies thousands of miles away; bodies who know not the pain endured by the bananeros. Our lives seem so distant, but when I imagine the journey a banana makes from South to North, I will always remember Altagracia’s cry for dignity. I will remember how close we really are.
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