Banana Land: Our Delightful, Delicious Delusion

The eye-opening backstory to 19 cents of fruity fantasy.

Promo for “Banana Land: Blood, Bullets and Poison” movie.

Five young women gather for tea in a swanky suburban home.

“Were you raised here?” asks Laurel, addressing Dora, the attractive 30ish Latino woman.

““I’m originally from Guatemala,” Dora says, setting her napkin on her skirt, “but I lived here since I was 13.”

“Kent and I had such an incredible time in Central America,” says Kylie. “We stayed at a gorgeous resort on a lake with hot tubs heated by a volcano!”

“You’re kidding!”

“The rainforest looks so amazing,” says Julianna. “So tropical and green. Is that what it’s like where you’re from, Dora? It must be beautiful.”

Dora thinks a moment before speaking. “My village is in the middle of miles and miles of banana plantations.”

“Bananas!”

“That sounds so quaint.”

“I love bananas,” says Laurel, “and they’re practically the same price as 10 years ago.”

“We need to learn the story behind our food so we can eat healthy,” says Julianna. She presses a hand to her neckline and leans forward to spear a piece of fruit with a toothpick. “What’s the story behind this banana? I’d hate to find out it’s full of chemicals that will kill me.”

“Or my baby,” says Autumn, placing a hand to her belly.

Dora opens her mouth as if to speak, then hesitates.

“I’ve never met anyone who was raised on a banana plantation,” says Laurel.

“What’s it like?” asks Kylie.

Dora pauses, moistening her lips.

“Are you sure you want to hear?” she asks. “It’s a lot different from what you’d imagine.”

“Of course we want to know!”

“That’s why we’re asking.”

“We want to know everything,” says Julianna. “The story behind our food.” She dips a banana slice in chocolate and slips it between her lips. “So …?”

“Okay,” says Dora with a nod, “but you need to know that where I’m from, U.S. companies have controlled the banana trade for over a hundred years. They even overthrew our government so they could control our land and our workers.”

“Is that so?”

“I had no idea!”

“They did the same thing in other Central American countries,” Dora says, her eyes darting from face to face, reading the emotions in the room.

She’s so tiny and timid, thinks Laurel, sitting there with her hands in her lap.

“Can’t workers get a job somewhere else?” Julianna asks.

“That’s what I was thinking,” says Autumn. “Or they could strike.”

“There are no other jobs,” Dora says. “And for many years, the company has hired militia to end the strikes. It’s taken the lives of thousands of workers and their families.”

“Oh my gosh!” says Laurel. “That’s what the cavalry did to the American Indians.”

“It seems like Central American is so unstable,” says Autumn. “Why can’t they get their act together?”

“We have never really been free,” says Dora, “After we gained independence from Spain, the United Fruit Company came to take their place. Their successors still control us today. But … I’m sorry,” she says, her eyes falling. “I haven’t said a word about bananas.”

“That’s okay!”

“It’s the story of our food.”

“We want to know everything.”

“What’s a plantation like?”

Dora nods and continues. “The plantations are bare dirt, irrigation ditches and banana plants. There are warehouses and railroad tracks. It’s not like pictures you’ve seen of the rainforest. They use poisons to kill everything but the bananas.”

“Oh, no!”

“I was afraid of that!”

“They drop chemicals from the sky. The planes flew over my elementary school all the time. Lots of people get sick. Some are sterile. Babies are born deformed.” Dora turns to Autumn who looks shocked. “I would be terrified if I were pregnant there. These chemicals were banned decades ago in the United States but they’re so cheap down there that they still use them.”

“I would be outraged!”

“I can’t believe that’s happening.”

“Workers should demand safety!”

“Before we left Guatemala, my father tried to organize a strike,” All eyes are fixed on Dora, intent on every word. As water pools in her eyes, her posture radiates strength. A tear cascades down one cheek and splashes to her blouse.

“It was early Sunday morning, Easter 1997, and we heard shouting. The door burst open and they dragged us out in the streets. ‘Get back!’ they shouted to the women and children. I held on to my mother as soldiers grabbed my brother and my father and threw them to the ground. It happened so fast. Then they just started …”

Dora gasps, clutching her belly. With horror, the other women see vivid pictures of the gruesome scene in their heads. Laurel hands Dora a tissue.

“They shot all the men. Every one. And the soldiers … they were laughing … boasting. Then they gave the women a look that you can never forget … a look I pray to God that you will never see. ‘You!’ they shouted. ‘And you!’ Their faces …”

Dora closes her eyes and shudders. The women lean in closer, intent on every word.

“One man grabbed my oldest sister — I clung to her but she wrenched herself away. ‘Save yourself!’ she shouted. He dragged her into the backyard. Others were raped right in front of us.”

Dora inhales sharply and presses a tissue to her eyes. The women’s faces are etched with horror, sorrow and anger. Dora takes a deep breath, lifts her chin and continues.

“Soon after, we moved to the city. We did what we could to survive until we saved up enough money to travel north. But my sister … a year later … she was dead.”

Dora straightens her skirt and fills her chest with air.

“They call it the banana massacres … or the banana wars. It happens whenever our people rise up. If the company can’t handle the uprisings, they make up lies about Communist dictators. Then the U.S. army or CIA comes in and kills our next Abraham Lincoln or George Washington or Dr. Martin Luther King. So the rich become richer while we are slaves on our own land.”

She places a hand on the edge of the fruit platter and taps gently with her slender fingertips.

“So that’s the story behind our food,” she says with a sarcastic smile. “When you look at a banana, I imagine you have many fond thoughts and memories. And who can blame you? You might see Banana Republic jeans or a lovely Chiquita dancer with fruit on her hat. But what I see … is violence. I see rape and murder. I hear guns. When I see bananas, I smell blood and death. I hear the cries of my people.”

“I’m so sorry,” says Autumn.

“Oh, Dora,” says Laurel, dropping to her knees and giving the petite woman a hug. “I just don’t know what to say.”

“I had no idea,” says Kylie.

“How do we even process this?” asks Julianna, slumping back into her leather chair.

Laurel draws a deliberate breath and blows air through her amber bangs. “How do we process this?” Slowly she picks up a slice of banana and stares at it with anguished intensity. After a few wordless moments, she speaks, one word at a time:

“I … . honestly … don’t … know.”

With a gentle thud, the lovely little banana slice crashes into the silver platter.[1]