The Hidden Cost of Bananas
A Call for Justice.
In the lush fields of Sixaola, Costa Rican bananas ripen for export on human and environmental exploitation.
Behind every banana stamped with the logo of multinational corporations lies a story of exploitation, suffering, and systemic abuse faced by the workers.
This exploitation can be seen as a form of modern slavery, where workers endure grueling conditions—long hours in the sun and humidity, blistered feet, hands torn by machetes, and lungs damaged by the constant inhalation of toxic pesticides. Despite the physical toll, they earn less than $300 a month, working more than 10 hours a day under inhumane conditions, with no access to healthcare or social security.
Workers on these plantations are often trapped in a cycle of poverty. They carry heavy loads of bananas, suffering from constant pain, injuries, and exposure to harmful chemicals. Yet, they receive no overtime pay or legal protections. Many face eviction from their homes and live under the constant threat of job loss. Racial discrimination and differential treatment, particularly of Indigenous people, add further layers of abuse. The spraying of toxic chemicals near homes, schools, and community centers exposes entire populations to grave health risks.
Multinational companies like Chiquita and Del Monte profit immensely from these exploitative practices. The global banana trade is one of the largest drivers of modern slavery, with workers’ suffering hidden behind glossy marketing campaigns. The Rainforest Alliance certification, often seen as a symbol of sustainability, does little to address the systemic exploitation of workers. It lowers carbon footprints but does nothing to mitigate the damage caused to human lives.
For over a decade, I have witnessed firsthand the human cost of bananas in the South Caribbean of Costa Rica. The true price of a banana is not just monetary—it is the suffering of the people who harvest it. This project aims to expose the harsh realities of banana plantations and the systems of power oppressing the communities. The conditions faced by these workers—exhausting labor, exposure to chemicals, and severe health risks—are a hidden cost of global consumerism.
As consumers, we often turn a blind eye to the true cost of the products we consume. If we continue to ignore or normalize the exploitation behind our goods, the patterns of consumerism will remain unchanged.
On the banana plantations of Costa Rica, behind the glossy fruit that reaches global markets, lies a hidden human and environmental cost. Workers—many from Indigenous communities like the Ngäbe Buglé—face dangerous and exploitative conditions akin to modern-day slavery. With wages as low as ¢30,000 colones ($56) per month and no formal labor rights, they endure long hours in hazardous environments.
Exposure to toxic agrochemicals like methyl chloride is routine. Workers report frequent nosebleeds, skin damage, and other serious health complications. A 2024 study by doctors at the University of Costa Rica revealed potential cases of skin cancer linked to prolonged pesticide exposure. Despite this, protective gear remains grossly inadequate—ill-fitting gloves, old masks, and flimsy plastic suits that fail to shield them from chemical burns and poisoning.
The risks extend beyond the fields. Planes routinely spray chemicals over plantations, often just meters above nearby homes and schools in areas like Sixaola, exposing entire communities to a range of health issues—from nausea and skin irritation to long-term illnesses.
The physical toll is equally brutal. Workers carry 60-kilo banana bunches using crude metal hooks known as “concheritos,” which dig into their shoulders, causing bleeding and chronic injuries. One worker, choosing to remain anonymous for fear of retaliation, has spent over 15 years in the industry—his experience a stark testimony to the long-term harm inflicted by this global supply chain.
Protective gear for those spraying agrochemicals is often dangerously inadequate. One worker’s “uniform” consists of a thin plastic suit with no eye protection, deteriorating masks unchanged for over a year, and ill-fitting gloves that leave his skin exposed to chemical burns. This neglect places workers at constant risk of serious injuries, including permanent blindness, respiratory issues, and skin damage.
Veteran laborers like Domingo Becker, who spent over two decades in the plantations, know these dangers well. A committed advocate for Indigenous rights, Becker has fought tirelessly to expose the human cost of the banana trade—facing imprisonment and threats for protesting unsafe conditions and the systemic mistreatment of workers. His activism is a lifeline for many trapped in cycles of poverty and exploitation.
Even children are not spared. Thirteen-year-olds work six-hour shifts for as little as $8 to help support their families, exposed to agrochemicals banned in much of the world. With dreams of continuing school, they instead handle pesticides and work under the searing sun—developing health complications that can include chemical burns and, over time, skin cancer.
Young workers, aged 20 to 30, are seen fumigating the plantations from 6 a.m. to 10 a.m., earning a daily wage of $15 to $20. Yet, they suffer from severe skin burns, headaches, and nausea. Despite the dangerous conditions, they are often forced to stay in the fields even after the plantations have been sprayed with agrochemicals. Workers endure these risks, knowing that exposure to harmful chemicals intensifies with the heat of the day.
In the banana washing stations, chlorine levels often exceed legal limits, yet workers’ equipment fails to properly shield them—resulting in rashes, headaches, and chronic fatigue.
Women workers, like one who recorded her supervisor shouting over deafening music, reveal another layer of abuse. Loud, nonstop music is used as a psychological tool to accelerate production, creating unbearable noise pollution. Combined with verbal harassment, this creates a toxic and stressful environment where workers are stripped not only of physical safety but also of mental well-being.
The human cost becomes tragically clear in cases like Rogelio’s. After suffering a chemical burn that left him blind in one eye and rapidly losing vision in the other, he received no compensation from Chiquita. Instead, he was quietly moved to another role—his injury ignored, his life permanently altered.
These conditions are not isolated incidents—they are part of a broader pattern of systemic abuse, where corporations prioritize productivity and profit over the lives and dignity of the workers who make the global banana trade possible.
The legacy of this exploitation is evident in the lives of countless families. One house, once owned by the transnational corporation Del Monte, now serves as a refuge for banana workers who have been on strike for over a decade after being unjustly dismissed without compensation. Many of these workers, now employed by Chiquita, still face the same cycles of exploitation they once protested.
The toxic burden of the plantation reaches beyond the fields, seeping into homes and harming the health of children and entire communities.
Eugenia, a 60-year-old matriarch, shares a two-room house with 32 family members, many of whom are minors working in the plantations. Despite their collective labor, they remain trapped in extreme poverty.
These stories, far from isolated, paint a sobering portrait of the true cost behind the banana supply chain—where Indigenous and local workers bear the brunt of corporate neglect, chemical exposure, and institutionalized exploitation.
