The question--the question as always, United and Standard Fruit Companies: Who are you?

From even the early years, others have wondered this. In 1924, the Revista Económica (Tegucigalpa, Honduras) said that all three companies (that is, you two, plus Zemurray's Cuyamel) were in a vast trust. (1)

I researched your corporate profiles in my public library. You are listed as two separate companies: Dole, once upon a time Standard Fruit and Steamship Co., founded by the Vaccaro Brothers at the turn of the (last) century, bought by Castle & Cooke in 1964. Chiquita, neé United Fruit Company, becoming United Brands in 1970. No connection between the two.

But seventy years and more later, people here in Central America aren't sure. This I learn speaking with those in your domains, and with your workers. Many just call your omnipotent omnipresences THE COMPANY.

Puerto Barrios

All day I have spent dodging mud splattered by passing Chiquita and Dole trucks. I have watched the containers stacked in one shipping yard, and loaded on the CHIQUITA LAS AMERICAS. In another lot across the road, the sunshine trucks are gathering.

This is the port that Boston Octopus built. Guatemala has always been its domain--hasn't it?

But why did I see Dole trucks out West, near the Mexican border, on the way to Ocós? Why are they using Chiquita's--perdone, COBIGUA's port here? When did Standard Fruit arrive in this country?

Down near the waterfront, between the pier and the Hotel del Norte, is a small park. Trees shade the odd-shaped building of the Gobernación Departamental de Izabal. I enter with my pocketful of questions.

A young man greets me. He sits behind a glass-topped wooden desk. From a hutch, he hands me a booklet: the history of Izabal, with the legal documents establishing each town. I take a quick skim of it. So, the port was founded by decree in 1888 by Rufino Barrios. It was built in 1892 by United. But, what of the recent presence of the banana companies?

I rest the booklet on one knee, a finger at the chapter of this city. "Does United Fruit still own the port?"

"COBIGUA has the contract until 2020."

"COBIGUA." My mind slips back to the sign I saw: THIS ROAD PAVED BY COBIGUA. "Is that Chiquita?"

"Sí."

"I noticed up the road that Standard Fruit has an office. I didn't know it also was here in Guatemala."

"Yes. But as far as I know, it has no plantations here. It buys from independent producers." He swivels his chair, leaning back.

"And the COBIGUA fincas. Where are they?"

The man nods his dark head to the right. "In the Río Motagua valley."

I think back to the names of the plantations I've known, and will soon visit. "So Fincas La Inca, Cuatro, Chinoq and Arizona are all Chiquita?"

"Sí. Its plantations used to extend further west, to beyond Morales and Bananera. But now all that belongs to BANDEGUA."

"BANDEGUA--that's..."

"...DelMonte."

I take a few notes, before posing my next comment. "I'm a bit surprised to see Standard Fruit shipping from the same port as Chiquita. In my country there is so much competition between the two."

"Yes, they both ship from here. But BANDEGUA uses Santo Tomás de Castilla." Schucks--no bite.

"Who owns that port?" I ask with a shrug.

"The Guatemalan government."

* * *

I step back into the muggy sunshine. That red wagon drawn by a lone mare turns into the Hotel del Norte. The driver nods at me, a bright smile flashing his clove-colored face. Inside sit two foreigners. White, blond-haired foreigners. Their blue rücksacks bulge in the back boot.

I begin walking into town. As I near the STANDARD FRUIT OF GUATEMALA building, I gather up my courage.

I enter this air-conditioned office across from the port gate. Even though it is a bit after five, it still bustles. Truck drivers come in with their bills of lading.

The receptionist tugs at her large earrings, looking at the clock. She tucks a few more things away into the drawer, neatens stacks of papers upon the desk. She plops an English-Spanish dictionary atop the pile.

The phone rings. She answers and transfers the call. Only the connection is lost. With a worried sigh, she glances over her shoulder to the cubicle where it was to go. She shrugs. "Me voy. Hasta mañana," she says, escaping the madness.

An Afro-Honduran agrees to speak with me. A descendent, perhaps, of the Bananero, that banana worker statue that graces the entry to this port town.

He leads me to his desk surrounded by computer screens. He sits back in his chair, arms crossed against his broad chest. "So, what do you want to know?"

Time to go fishing. "Pues, I knew United Fruit had fincas here in Guatemala. But I didn't know Estandard was here, too." My pen is poised for his response.

"Well, this is our story. Are you ready?

"In 1994 we began here in Guatemala, with Fincas Tacuba and Tiquisaque, in the southwest of the country."

I try to visualize where this might be. "Near Esquintla?"

"No, towards Coatepeque. They originally belonged to United Fruit, but were sold to an independent producer. Tacuba sells exclusively to us. Tiquisaque to Chiquita."

"Ah. So that explains why I saw both Dole and Chiquita trucks on the road towards Ocós."

"Exactly. That's where the fincas are." He swivels his chair, arms still crossed. "To continue.

"In 1997, Dole bought up another company--fyffe's--here in Guatemala, Honduras--and a third country. Costa Rica, I believe. It's held by COBSA--Compañía Bananera, S.A."

"Which is a part of Standard?"

"No. It's associated with Standard. But it's owned by Guatemalans.

"With the purchase of fyffe's, Dole obtained various fincas. In Guatemala, Casa Blanca and Champona here in the Izabal. Also Finca Mojarras, near Coatepeque."

He turns away from me. His arms remain in place. As I jot down all this information, I think of a shell game. They are here. They are the owners. And yet they're not.

He continues. "This office is for the administration of shipping. The main administrative and legal offices are in Guatemala City."

Let's cast the line again. "And Standard uses the same port here as Chiquita? It seems a bit strange. In my country, they are such competitors."

"Yes, we rent the port and its services from COBIGUA."

"Which is also known as Chiquita?"

"Yes."

"In Honduras, Standard has its own shipping port, no?"

"Puerto Castilla. But we also ship out of Puerto Cortés."

"So, that isn't just a Chiquita port?"

"No." His face stiffens at my questions.

"In Honduras, we have a regional office in El Progreso. But the main office is in La Ceiba.

"Here in Guatemala, we grow bananas, melons and mangos. In Honduras, our products include bananas, pineapples, grapefruits and palm oil.

"Is there anything else you'd like to know, señora?"

"Yes, sir, one last thing." The hell with fishing. Time to use the dynamite. "There are some who say that--in reality--United and Estandard are one and the same. Is that true?"

He looks directly at me, jaw hardened. He stands up, uncrossing his arms, placing his large hands upon the desk. He leans towards me. "No," he says firmly. "They are definitely two different companies.

"Is that all, ma'am?"

"Yes, señor. Thank you very much." I cap my pen, and stuff my journal into my pocket. "May you have a good evening."

Outside, the Chiquita trucks are still lining up in front of the portón. An armed guard there is registering each load, before opening the gate.

 

Omoa

The strong sun is glistening off the bay. It is a quiet afternoon. No weekend families here to play in that crystalline water.

In the cool shade of his champa, el Suizo tells me of the Companies that abandoned these lands, of their intrigues to gain fincas in the Motagua River valley. He has the stiff bearing of a military man.

"Because of the meddling of the US government, Honduras lost much of its territory to Guatemala. The frontera was decided by the one-judge, supposed 'Interamerican Court'. One judge--from the United States."

He speaks of the border dispute provoked by United Fruit Company and Cuyamel, settled in 1933. But, el Suizo claims, Standard was also vying for lands in the valley.

"Estandard had a presence in Guatemala that early? The man I talked with in its office in Puerto Barrios told me they didn't arrive there until 1994."

El Suizo's face tightens beneath his balding white hair. "Liars." He suppresses a spit to the ground.

I glance off to the West, where that valley lies. The Merendón Mountains roll off in green, hazy rows. Storm clouds from the North are beginning to blanket their summits.

 

Puerto Cortés

Within this banana-flesh, petal-red cookie-cut building, two workers and I study a map. We are tracing the rail routes of The Chiquita Train and The Manchangay. One explains to me: "It's a mispronunciation, they say, of 'merchandise.'"

I cannot resist asking them. As employees, they surely would know. "Is it true that United--er--Chiquita and Standard Fruit are one Company?"

"Well, here they are definitely two separate companies. But up there..."

"Up there in the North," the second man finishes, "Who knows?"

* * *

I close the door behind me. The air conditioning is dripping. Its water trickles out the chain-link fence, onto the sidewalk.

On the curb, a young man sits. He holds his head in hand. Vomit pools at his tattered-shoed feet.

Tela

I ask ex-pats and a Peace Corp volunteer in an Italian restaurant. I ask the locals in dirt-floor comedores and street-side snack stands:

Who built Nueva Tela--now that luxury resort Villas Telamar? Who established the research gardens of Lancetilla? Was this the domain of United Fruit--or of Estandard?

Some people respond, of that Great Boston Octopus. Others, of the Vaccaro Brother's firm. At times, just simply: THE COMPANY.

* * *

One pouring-rain day, I ask Alan, the young desk clerk at my hotel.

"The US government."

"Not the Company?"

He hisses a sigh, as if I should know. "The Company is the US government."

I want to scoff at his ignorance. But then I remember history. The 1954 overthrow in Guatemala--orchestrated by the US, to protect US interests, to protect those people from "Communism." The Dulles brothers--Foster, Secretary of State, and Allen, CIA chief--had been both employees of...United Fruit Company.

This young Alan may have a point.

 

Trujillo

Señor Galván and I stand in the midst of his cluttered museum. An older man, he's preserving remnants of this town spun in history. He tells me of the Fruit Companies' intricate web in the area.

The Vaccaro brothers were here, from 1902 to 1904. They had fincas of sugar cane and sarsaparilla. They timbered hardwoods from these mountains.

"Why did they leave?"

"I don't know," he replies with a baffled shake of the head.

Afterwards, 1904, United Fruit came. It called itself the Trujillo Railroad Company. It pulled out in 1940. Yes, it used the excuse of sigatoka destroying the fincas to leave. United didn't build the railroad to Tegucigalpa, as promised. The government would have confiscated its property.

I point to the brick marked YUNAY FRUIT COMPANY, from the 1940s. "Who was this?"

"They were from San Francisco, California. Began to establish itself here in 1911."

Yunay... Mamita Yunai ... as United was known in Costa Rica....

"Señor Galván. Are United and Standard one and the same company? Or are they two different ones?"

"Well, there are those who say they are different. But, no, they are the same company--just different names." He shuffles his feet, tilts his head. "It is very confusing and mysterious."

* * *

One day I fall into conversation with the vendors in the central market. A very slight man--a bit taller than me--joins in. The top buttons of his loose white shirt are undone.

He used to work in a collective office here--an office for many collectives. At that time, a Peace Corp volunteer was there. "It was good because he taught us much about how to make operations more efficient. And what pesticides and fertilizers to use. Things like that."

"The African palm plantations near here. Are they collectives?"

"Some are. But most are owned by one man," he responds. "Though all the collectives are owned by the Big Foreign Companies."

"Who are they, sir?"

"Oh, US AID, the Peace Corp, the US government."

I raise one eyebrow. "Heck, I didn't know the US government owns fincas here."

He shakes his head. The dim light pools in his high cheekbones. "Well, no, they don't own the land. Hondurans do. But the Foreign Companies tell us how to grow, and set the price. The collectives have all other control."

"So, then the collectives can choose to whom to sell?"

"Oh, yes. But for us to continue to get the money and help from the Big Foreign Companies, we must co-operate."

"Are United and Estandard Fruits part of these Big Foreign Companies?"

He shrugs his thin shoulders. "No. The US government agencies--US AID, the Peace Corp and the like. The Fruit Companies are part of the US government."

Can this man be serious? I shift my pineapple-heavy bag, and run a hand across my hair. But, then--it is the same thing I'd heard in Tela.

"But, oh," he catches my attention again. "Because we Hondurans don't have the capacity," he taps his head with a short finger, "to learn to grow, and run a business."

Amazed at what this man had just said, I step out into that sunlight. It is dimming in the approach of those clouds once more rolling in from the North.

---

Lorraine Caputo is a documentary poet, translator and travel writer. Her works appear in over 400 journals on six continents; and 23 collections of poetry – including In the Jaguar Valley (dancing girl press, 2023) and Caribbean Interludes (Origami Poems Project, 2022). She also authors travel narratives, articles and guidebooks. Her writing has been honored by the Parliamentary Poet Laureate of Canada (2011) and nominated for the Best of the Net and Pushcart Prize. Caputo has done literary readings from Alaska to the Patagonia. She journeys through Latin America, listening to the voices of the pueblos and Earth. Follow her travels at: www.facebook.com/lorrainecaputo.wanderer or https://latinamericawanderer.wordpress.com.