Toxic bananas
Chiquita’s broken bodies
At dawn, the banana plantation begins to stir even before the sun pierces through the damp mist of Guatemala’s southern coast. On these plantations subcontracted by Chiquita, agricultural workers with gaunt faces thread their way between banana trees, rubber boots sinking into black mud, machetes sharpened and strapped to their belts. They know the day will be long: 10 hours, sometimes 12, for a paltry wage – often below the legal minimum.
José Maldonado* mechanically rubs his forearms, irritated by the itching caused by pesticides sprayed over the fields. His hands tell the story better than words: they’re knotted and scarred by years of labour, with one wound still raw. “The human body is not a machine,” he murmurs, holding up his latest payslip. On it is a sum of 1,198 quetzales – or about 105 Swiss Francs in net, his pay for two weeks of work. The amount is 35% less than the national agricultural minimum wage.
In the shade of the banana trees, José looks down at the payslip. His brothers, Rogelio* and Luis*, repeat the same motions, breathe the same chemical-laden air and count the same number of quetzales at the end of each fortnight. In the Maldonado family, banana work is shared – as is the wear and tear on their bodies. The brothers’ story is also that of this land and of the people who work it.
The land of green gold
Due to the climate of violence on plantations in southern Guatemala, we have anonymised most testimonies.
Due to the climate of violence on plantations in southern Guatemala, we have anonymised most testimonies.
In November 2025, Public Eye travelled across Guatemala – tracing a diagonal line from the northeastern port city of Puerto Barrios to Puerto San José in the south – to document working and living conditions on plantations run by Chiquita, headquartered in the Swiss canton of Vaud since 2008, and its subcontractors.
At the foot of the banana fields and in makeshift housing units, we met dozens of pickers, fumigators, leaf trimmers, packers and sealers: a broad cross-section of workers employed either directly by the multinational or through its many subcontractors on the country’s southern coast, where we were able to identify numerous work sites. Everywhere, we heard the same accounts: extreme fatigue, inadequate pay, unprotected exposure to chemicals, restrictions on the freedom of association. Each one of the plantations we visited in the south – where we observed the worst conditions – are nonetheless certified by the Rainforest Alliance, a US-based NGO whose label is meant to attest not only to the protection of biodiversity but also to workers’ rights and safety.
Read our previous investigation:
Le prix à payer Chiquita et les droits du travail en Équateur
Our investigation documents clear exploitation of banana workers, violations of fundamental rights, and working conditions that breach international standards (including the UN’s International Covenant on Economic, Social and Cultural Rights and the core conventions of the International Labour Organization, both ratified by Switzerland). In a country marked by poverty, drug trafficking, impunity and endemic violence, a climate of fear and mistrust prevailed from one Guatemalan plantation to the next. Maldonado summed it up bluntly: “Here, nobody can say no. You have to put up with the hours and the chemicals on your skin, or they find someone else.” To protect the individuals we interviewed from dismissal or physical reprisals, we have anonymised most of them, as well as the plantations that employ them.
The testimony of the Maldonado brothers is far from unique. In the south of the country, where 85% of banana jobs are concentrated, companies managing plantations on Chiquita’s behalf rely on a young, isolated and weakly unionised workforce – ideal conditions for maintaining harsh working regimes and strict control. Here, green gold refers to not-yet-ripe bananas: though the crop sustains the entire regional economy, Guatemalans themselves rarely see the fruits of their labor.
This report takes us deep inside the plantations where the global economy meets the silence – and often complicity – of local institutions. It’s a world where thousands of people labour in near-total invisibility. Here, Guatemala’s brutal history is still being written with a machete; it’s a story not of progress, but of sweat, pesticides and drug cocktails.
A workforce doped up on la bomba
At his parish in Puerto San José, a small town on Guatemala’s Pacific coast, Father Leonel welcomes the few remaining members of his community who dare to speak out. He describes exhausted workers, anxious families, and young people who disappear for two weeks at a time to work on plantations in the south. “They came to the church. First for God… and then, they started to talk. It couldn’t be ignored,” he says, resting his hands on the lectern. In this part of Guatemala, fear is omnipresent. “You never know who you’re talking to,” the clergyman confides. “Here, many don’t just fear losing their job; they fear for their lives.”
Father Leonel nonetheless describes himself as “a facilitator, not an agitator”, and says he wants to “shed light on and guide social issues through religion”. That was enough to have him barred from a small church near a plantation. “The doors are always locked,” he says quietly. In a region dominated by the agrobusiness industry, even a priest can become a threat if he helps give words to those who have none.
Father Leonel moves cautiously across this land of veiled threats: “Aquí en San José todo se resuelve con la muerte.” Here, everything is settled through death.
Father Leonel moves cautiously across this land of veiled threats: “Aquí en San José todo se resuelve con la muerte.” Here, everything is settled through death.
From his parish in Puerto San José, Father Leonel lends a compassionate ear to the exploited workers of the banana industry.
From his parish in Puerto San José, Father Leonel lends a compassionate ear to the exploited workers of the banana industry.
Violence in the shadows of the plantations
Around the ports of Puerto Quetzal and Puerto Barrios, fear takes another form. These strategic logistics corridors attract traffickers and criminal networks, and several cocaine seizures hidden in banana shipments have been documented in recent years. Agribusiness groups present themselves as victims of this trafficking. For some trade unionists though, the supply chain should be cleaned up “from end to end”.
The fear is rooted in a long history of union repression. In Guatemala, the labour movement still bears the memory of Plan Sacapa, a clandestine programme developed at the end of the civil war (1960–1996) to dismantle unions in sectors deemed strategic. The document – long kept secret and consulted by Public Eye – was written in a context of close collaboration between the army, intelligence services and certain companies.
Between 2004 and 2024, 110 trade unionists were murdered in Guatemala, often in targeted attacks carried out by gunmen on motorcycles. In October 2023, a worker at a Del Monte subsidiary who had organised two days of strike action was shot dead outside a plantation. Most of these crimes have never been solved.
Many workers come to the plantations around Puerto San José from Cobán, an Indigenous city in the highlands, a 10-hour drive away. Cut off from their communities, without access to information or support, they accept whatever the agricultural estates demand. Their plight has only deepened since local NGOs – until recently supported by USAID funds – began to disappear. In the gap that has opened up, another form of relief has taken hold in recent years: this one, however, is chemical, clandestine and dangerous.
Week after week, the same word comes up: la bomba. This homemade concoction is made by dissolving tramadol – an opioid pain medication – in Raptor, an energy drink. “It hits faster” that way, explains Pedro*, a young, overworked man from the area. The explosive cocktail suppresses hunger, dulls fatigue and produces an artificial sense of wellbeing. Workers here consume up to seven a day just to keep going. “It makes you feel like your body can carry on,” Pedro explains.
Tramadol circulates hand to hand, sold by more experienced employees tasked with sourcing and distributing the drugs. Supervisors claim to know nothing, Pedro says. But workers repeat the same phrase: “Without the bomba, many wouldn’t last.” Faced with a relentless pace, high heat and lack of breaks, the substance has become a survival tool – a sort of daily narcotic passed around the rows of banana trees.
Juan Alberto López (50) fractured his spine after falling from a banana tree. He describes himself as a “miracle survivor” but believes he was treated well by Chiquita.
Juan Alberto López (50) fractured his spine after falling from a banana tree. He describes himself as a “miracle survivor” but believes he was treated well by Chiquita.
Gustavo Vázquez is a leaf stripper, one of the most difficult and lowest-paid jobs on Chiquita plantations.
Gustavo Vázquez is a leaf stripper, one of the most difficult and lowest-paid jobs on Chiquita plantations.
The consequences of this drug cocktail could be severe. In a long investigation published in October 2024, the Guatemalan magazine No Ficción documented what they described as a silent “epidemic” affecting the entire southern coast. While acknowledging that the causes of chronic kidney disease – now one of the leading causes of death in the region – are disputed, it highlights agro-industrial labour as a key risk factor cited by many experts. Health data show a rise in chronic kidney disease in the department of Escuintla, where Puerto San José is located: although the Pacific coast accounts for only around a tenth of the country’s population, it bears a disproportionate share of deaths linked to these conditions.
Scientific studies and observations by medical organisations such as Médecins Sans Frontières also confirm an increase in kidney damage among agricultural workers, without establishing a direct link to tramadol. One study of Guatemalan workers estimated the prevalence of kidney diseases of unknown origin at around 3%, with an even higher rate in the banana sector. In Puerto San José, many attribute physical collapse – fainting, illness, and sometimes even death – to extreme heat, sugary soft drinks, forced labour conditions and the bomba.
A curse that falls from the sky
We meet the Maldonado brothers again on their doorstep. In southern Guatemala, bodily wear doesn’t only stem from heavy workload or stimulant cocktails. Another poison is ever-present on the plantations. Almost invisible, this one is sprayed from the sky week after week.
Beside him, José’s brother Rogelio is silent. His eyes are fixed on an invisible point in the distance, as if he can still see the small planes swooping low over the banana trees, spraying mancozeb, an agricultural fungicide. Across thousands of hectares of banana plantations in Guatemala, this fungicide is ubiquitous. It’s plantations’ main weapon against Black Sigatoka, a leaf disease that devastates the precious “green gold” of the bananas. But for workers, it’s a daily threat.
A sign at the edge of a plantation prohibits access and warns of pesticide spraying.
A sign at the edge of a plantation prohibits access and warns of pesticide spraying.
“They fly very low, and the yellow powder falls straight on us. Sometimes we manage to cut a banana leaf to cover ourselves, but it’s not enough,” says Rogelio*, the eldest of the Maldonado brothers, who, like José and their brother Pedro, is also employed by a Chiquita subcontractor. When the fungicide is sprayed, workers are given no break – not even a warning. They simply must continue cutting the bananas, loading them into carts, and pulling the cables that support the bunches. Sometimes, he says, the acidic spray catches them during their lunch break, eaten in the shade of the banana trees. The mancozeb seeps into their clothes, their food and through their pores, carried by the thick mist that is omnipresent in southern Guatemala.
In this excerpt, Rogelio Maldonado recounts exposure to pesticides:
Mancozeb was banned in the European Union in 2020 and in Switzerland in 2021, after being classified as an endocrine disruptor that’s toxic to reproduction. Studies have shown that exposure to the fungicide can cause brain malformations in unborn children. European authorities also suspect it of being carcinogenic. Despite this, the agrochemical giant Syngenta – which sells the fungicide locally under the name Ridomil – continues to market it in countries like Guatemala, where regulations are weaker. Other companies also produce it. In 2024, the Bulgarian company Agria exported 180 tonnes from Europe to Guatemala, according to a previous Public Eye report.
Fungicides are sprayed by plane, often directly over banana pickers at work. Mancozeb is associated with high risks of sterility.
Fungicides are sprayed by plane, often directly over banana pickers at work. Mancozeb is associated with high risks of sterility.
Contacted for comment, the Basel-based group Syngenta said it operates “in full compliance with local laws and regulations.” The company said it is a mid-sized player in the mancozeb market and stated that its product Ridomil Gold is “not registered for use in banana plantations in Guatemala.” It also stressed that tropical agriculture differs fundamentally from that practiced in Europe and that, consequently, “plant protection approaches must also be tailored to local realities.”
In the fight against Black Sigatoka, mancozeb remains widely used. The certification body Rainforest Alliance has granted an exceptional authorization for its use in Guatemalan plantations until December 31, 2028, citing the need for “rigorous disease management.”
On Guatemalan banana plantations, exposure to fungicides is systemic. Light aircraft spray mancozeb once, twice, and even three times a week, all year round. In the documentary Banana Land: Blood, Bullets and Poison (2014), one researcher recounted how Ecuadorian pilots admitted suffering brief losses of consciousness or impaired cognitive function during certain flights, due to fumes from the fungicide. Official statistics show that 43 crop-dusting planes crashed in Guatemala between 2012 and 2025, mainly in the department of Escuintla – for an average of three accidents a year. Among the causes cited in reports is an enigmatic “situational loss of consciousness” by the pilot.
Mancozeb is just one of many chemicals used on these plantations. Other fungicides, herbicides and insecticides are applied throughout the growing cycle, both from the air and on the ground, using backpack sprayers. On its Guatemalan website, Syngenta lists 18 pesticides for banana cultivation. Eight contain active substances now banned in Switzerland and the EU because of risks to human health or the environment. Yet at the plantations, these products continue to be used routinely, often entering into direct contact with workers.
Relentless Taylorism
In the banana fields, none of these risks, wear or injection of toxins is rewarded. Pay is by unit of production – often equalling the maximum of whatever the body is physically capable of enduring. The wage system is no secret, but it is a heartless mechanism. For employers, the low wages are a tool of efficiency; for workers, a trap that drives them to exhaustion. Trabajo a destajo – piecework – shapes every minute of the day, regardless of weather conditions.
In Puerto Barrios, in the northeast, the nine area plantations are directly controlled by Chiquita. Here, 2,700 employees (20% on fixed-term contracts) earn barely one franc more per day than the minimum wage – provided they meet precisely defined output targets. These are set out in a collective bargaining agreement (CBA), a copy of which Public Eye has obtained.
For pickers, the rule is simple: 14 seconds to cut a bunch of bananas, according to the CBA. Working in groups of three, they must then load around 350 bunches a day onto the cables that criss-cross the 2,069 hectares of plantations, according to one trade unionist. “We support each other as best we can,” says a picker, “because if one of us slows down, the whole group earns less.”
Attached by a belt, the hauler (halador) then pulls groups of 20 bunches towards the processing unit, where the fruit is sorted and stamped with the Chiquita label. The CBA states that he must cover 250 metres in 2.7 minutes – an average of 1.56 metres per second – hauling half a tonne of bananas. On some days, the distance can reach five kilometres, to be covered in 53.4 minutes.
The “hauler” walks for miles, carrying hundreds of kilos of bananas attached to his belt.
The “hauler” walks for miles, carrying hundreds of kilos of bananas attached to his belt.
At the processing unit, many women are employed. They too have production targets: 390 boxes per person per day according to the CBA – or around 17 tonnes of fruit. “We can’t leave until we’ve finished, often at 8 pm,” says one packer, whose name, like many of the others in this piece, we have had to anonymise to protect the identity of the employee.
Banana packing stations also maintain strict monitoring protocols, according to a 2021 report by the State University of Pennsylvania (PennState). “Each worker is individually tracked and workers are reprimanded if they go too slowly,” the report notes. The investigation considers such a working rhythm incompatible with individual “productive capacity”, a concept protected by Guatemalan regulatory standards. The report concludes that “pushing workers at a pace of production beyond that which a reasonable person would consider humanly possible constitutes a violation of Social Security regulations in Guatemala”.
At Chiquita, those who manage to exceed targets can earn slightly more than the minimum wage. For Manuel Rivas, the president of the Colsiba union, which represents the plantations surrounding Puerto Barrios, this is the glass half full view. Rivas acknowledged the hard-won union gains even if he admitted that they “do not offset annual inflation of 4–5%”. “We still have a debt to the working class,” he concluded.
Chiquita: a century of globalisation
At the turn of the 20th century, Chiquita’s ancestor, the United Fruit Company (UFCO), developed the Caribbean port of Puerto Barrios to ship its refrigerated banana vessels, forming what it calls the “Great White Fleet”.
Today, Puerto Quetzal and Puerto Barrios are integral parts of Chiquita’s logistics circuit in Guatemala. At processing units, boxes prepared by female workers are loaded into refrigerated containers and transported by Chiquita-branded lorries, a common sight on the country’s roads. From Puerto Barrios and Puerto Quetzal, they are shipped to international markets.
With 2.5 million tonnes a year, Guatemala is the world’s third-largest banana exporter. The United States is the main destination (around 80%). Part of the volume is shipped to Europe via the Netherlands.
A wage hacked out with a machete
At this supplier of Chiquita, explicit threats are barely veiled: “They need a good scare.” Others suggest that people “will start showing up one by one in the sugarcane fields” – a phrase implying that their bodies might be found there.
At this supplier of Chiquita, explicit threats are barely veiled: “They need a good scare.” Others suggest that people “will start showing up one by one in the sugarcane fields” – a phrase implying that their bodies might be found there.
Conditions are even harsher in the south, where Chiquita relies more heavily on subcontractors. According to PennState, the contrast between the two regions is stark: in the unionised north, workers earned an average of $586 a month and worked 54 hours a week in 2021, compared with $308 and 68 hours in the non-unionised south. Conditions in the south are also far tougher, the report says. Breaks are shorter and verbal or sexual abuse is more frequent, while protections are weak and access to healthcare limited. This is despite the fact that all of the NGO’s observations were made in companies supervised by certification schemes such as GlobalG.A.P. (a global agricultural standard) and Rainforest Alliance, which supposedly guarantees worker welfare and safety.
Public Eye confronted Rainforest Alliance by confidentially sharing the names of two farms where particularly serious abuses have been documented. The certification body stressed that audits cannot “find everything, everywhere, all the time,” and that no system can guarantee 100 percent compliance across a supply chain. The organization also stated that, since the launch of the 2020 Sustainable Agriculture Standard and its grievance mechanism, no complaints had been received regarding Guatemala’s banana sector. In the case of a private producer — a major supplier to Chiquita Brands International and holder of a certificate covering several plantations — the most recent audit took place in mid-February 2026 and its results are still being processed. “In the case of the plantations concerned, earlier audits are currently being reassessed, and appropriate measures will be taken, as appropriate”, a Rainforest Alliance spokesperson said, adding that she could not provide further details at this stage.
Chiquita in Guatemala: Responses from the Rainforest Alliance
Rosalía* welcomes us into her home and shows us her last four payslips. She is paid the national minimum (about 11.90 Swiss Francs a day), but for months she has been repaying a loan granted by the Chiquita subcontractor that employs her, at an interest rate unknown to her. She says equipment costs (gloves, mask) are also deducted from her pay each fortnight – illegally, according to a trade unionist we consulted. Significant membership fees to a cooperative she belongs to are also deducted. In total, nearly about 40 Swiss Francs are withheld every fortnight, for reasons she does not fully understand. When we ask how she manages to live on such a low wage after three years, her eyes fill with tears: “How are we supposed to manage?” she asks. “You tell me.”
At Chiquita, banana bunches are wrapped in blue bags containing insecticides.
At Chiquita, banana bunches are wrapped in blue bags containing insecticides.
Rosalía’s pay does not cover the expanded basket of basic necessities for her household in this agricultural region (around 290 Swiss Francs a month for two people). Cumulative inflation has reached 29% in Guatemala compared with pre-pandemic 2019 levels. Her take-home pay level highlights the gap between real agricultural incomes and what the UN covenant on economic, social and cultural rights and ILO minimum wage conventions define as a living wage, e.g. a wage sufficient to ensure decent living conditions.
Despite repeated findings that suggest as much, Chiquita has failed to demonstrate effective due diligence throughout its production chain. The multinational relies on a network of suppliers and contract farms, while outsourcing social, health and human risks. Without credible mechanisms for prevention, independent monitoring or remedy for affected workers, this amounts to a failure of the duty of care expected of a company domiciled in Switzerland. When contacted, the Etoy-based multinational did not respond to Public Eye’s questions.
The origins of the ‘banana republic’
Behind the company’s contemporary practices lies an older underlying issue: an economic model shaped long before Chiquita’s arrival in Switzerland, in the shadow of its ancestor, the United Fruit Company (UFCO).
From the late 19th century on, UFCO built an immense economic and political powerhouse in Central America – controlling ports, railways, land, exports and even entire governments. This private-sector domination of fragile foreign states gave rise to the term “banana republic”. UFCO’s power peaked in 1954, when a CIA-backed coup organised at the company’s request overthrew the democratically-elected government of Jacobo Árbenz. A descendant of Swiss migrants, Árbenz had introduced agrarian reform as a way to redistribute uncultivated land held by the banana company to peasants. The coup plunged Guatemala into a situation of profound instability, culminating in a 36-year civil war (1960–1996), one of Latin America’s longest and deadliest.
In Central America, this history is not merely a relic of the past. The multinational, now operating under a different name, continues to exert pressure on local governments. It hangs the threat of relocation like the blade of a guillotine. In Panama, amid a strike over pension reform, Chiquita dismissed all 6,500 employees in summer 2025. After twisting the arm of the local government, the company – once dubbed “the octopus” for its multiple gripping arms – agreed to resume operations in early 2026, but under a new “sharecropping” model. In this arrangement, land is made available to local landowners to produce bananas, without ever transferring ownership. In southern Guatemala, as Public Eye observed, this system translates into the clear precarisation of workers.
The city of Puerto Barrios was built a century ago by United Fruit to export its bananas to the East Coast of the United States.
The city of Puerto Barrios was built a century ago by United Fruit to export its bananas to the East Coast of the United States.
The Panama episode sounded a warning across Central America: the company is prepared to leave an entire region overnight if workers become too demanding. This is not unprecedented. As early as 2003, the closure of five multinational-linked farms in northern Guatemala triggered wage collapse and the exodus of entire families. Rivas, the Colsiba union president, referred to this as a “trade union debacle”. Poor decisions were made, he said, but the hard-ball tactics were above all a show of force by the company. Since, fear has taken root. “If Chiquita were to leave, it would be devastating,” the unionist repeated. Some middle managers have reportedly warned workers against “excessive” demands, citing the Panamanian layoffs.
Structural fragility is linked to Chiquita’s global transformation. In the early 2000s, the multinational faced a financial crisis and declared bankruptcy. It reorganised, sold part of its Central American assets, and shifted its operational heart to French-speaking Switzerland, in Etoy, where it found stability, tax advantages and discretion. In 2014, Chiquita left the stock market, reducing its transparency obligations. In Guatemala, this was observed with a mix of concern and resignation: decision-making centres moved further away, but the consequences remained local.
María Victoria (Maru) works as packing worker and lives with her husband in a Chiquita camp that houses 40 families. Her home was flooded and she received no assistance from the company.
María Victoria (Maru) works as packing worker and lives with her husband in a Chiquita camp that houses 40 families. Her home was flooded and she received no assistance from the company.
Sa voisine et belle-soeur Araceli est femme au foyer. Elle souhaiterait travailler pour la multinationale car son foyer n’a pas perçu l’aide humanitaire suite à l’inondation de 2022.
Sa voisine et belle-soeur Araceli est femme au foyer. Elle souhaiterait travailler pour la multinationale car son foyer n’a pas perçu l’aide humanitaire suite à l’inondation de 2022.
Her neighbour and sister-in-law Araceli is a homemaker. She would like to work for Chiquita to bring a second income to her household.
Her neighbour and sister-in-law Araceli is a homemaker. She would like to work for Chiquita to bring a second income to her household.
The “red list”
In this landscape of dependency, every act of dissent becomes a risk. Targeted dismissals serve as warnings. And when one worker falls, they rarely fall alone.
The Maldonado brothers all worked on the same banana plantation until a few years ago. The family of agricultural labourers was entirely dependent on banana industry payslips – modest but essential to their households. When one of them attended a union meeting – not to join, he explains, just to understand his rights, and mainly for the 50 quetzales given in exchange for attending, to buy food and fuel for his motorbike – a few days later, each brother was summoned separately and dismissed.
In Puerto Barrios, the entire local economy still seems to revolve around bananas.
In Puerto Barrios, the entire local economy still seems to revolve around bananas.
José still cannot believe his name was passed on to his employer. “I think the union was working for the boss,” he concludes. His surname was added to what workers call the “red list” – an informal but feared register of those deemed “problematic” – no longer to be hired.
“You don’t find work in the banana industry anymore once you’re on that list,” says Pedro, who was dismissed a second time for attending a union meeting, along with 15 others. Pedro’s attendance was immediately reclassified as “abandonment of work”. As for the Maldonado brothers.
Since being fired, some of the Madonado brothers have found jobs with an independent producer, still under harsh conditions. Pedro, however, has not set foot on a plantation again. Since his ordeal, he says he has lost his appetite for the yellow fruit: “They say it comes from nature, but when you know what’s behind banana production,” he says, trailing off.
Outside the gate of his plantation, Rivas remains cautiously optimistic, pointing to a thin row of new shoots. “Chiquita is still investing. Look at these banana plants: in six months they’ll bear fruit, and in nine months the bananas will be exported.” In Guatemala, as elsewhere, the promise of a growing plant remains fragile.
Swiss NGO Public Eye offers a critical analysis of the impact that Switzerland, and its companies, has on economically disadvantaged countries. Through research, advocacy and campaigning, Public Eye also demands the respect of human rights and of the environment throughout the world. With a strong support of some 28,000 members, Public Eye focuses on global justice.
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Text: Adrià Budry Carbó
English editing: Phineas Rueckert
Photos & videos: Tomás Ayuso / Panos Pictures
Grafic & web implementation: Fabian Lang
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