In Guatemala, the leaves hanging from the towering trunks of the palm trees casted large shadows upon the grassland. In sporadic spots where the sun shone through, droplets of rain slivered down. This natural site was where the people of Guatemala longed to be, their children running around playing with makeshift wooden swords.

 

It was what it could have remained as, had it not been for the United Fruit Company.

 

Pulling back the machete over his head, Julio thrusted it down with full force, aiming at the thinnest part of the banana bunch. The stem only budged by an inch. Julio wiped the sweat off his forehead before returning his calloused hand to the handle of the machete, then pulling it overhead and bringing it down again. This time, the stem was three-quarters through being cut. One more time until it was severed completely, then a few dozen more times until his work for the day was done.

 

And a few dozen more days, or months, or years, or perhaps a lifetime until Julio could pay off the immense amount of debt he was in.

 

“...And this, this is our main banana plantation. So far, Guatemala has been one of our most efficient banana republics.” 

 

Julio paused before turning his head towards the source of an undoubtedly American-sounding voice. Across the vast banana field and a multitude of heads that were bent down, tending to the banana trees, he spotted three blonde men in suits. Sparked by intrigue, he inconspicuously moved his task closer to the scene at hand.

 

Right at the fence where the three men stood, Julio continued slamming his machete up and down while eavesdropping on the conversation. 

 

At first impression, he thought these Americans sure talked a lot, and about nearly everything. They jumped from talks of the company to talking down on the laborers to women and finally back to business. At one point, he zoned out, until the mention of the Guatemalan government snapped his ears right back into place.

 

“The Guatemalan government, those incapable freaks… It doesn’t matter, as long as our deal goes on… Y’know, as long as we get our land concessions, tax exemptions, control over railroads and ports, all that nitty gritty stuff… Not that they have a choice anyway. They’re dependent on the profits of the company.” The men’s tones dripped with greed, and their laugh to conclude was nothing but expensive and malice. Julio slammed his machete harder into the banana bunch, slicing through its stem in a single motion.

 

“Hey, that one’s hard at work.” Julio froze upon hearing one of the men’s condescending comments. Just as he thought he had been figured out, they resumed their conversation.

 

“We should start investing more in the infrastructure of this country, no? The Brits did that with Argentina and established the port of Buenos Aires. Skewed the trade right to them, and transportation of goods got way easier.”

 

“Yeah but ain’t there more important things to be putting our money towards?”

 

“Like our pockets?” The men’s laughter rang up again, “But in all seriousness, I don’t want to be putting our hard-earned money towards non-Americans. Hell, no other firm could even invest in the Chinese on the transcontinental railroad in California even though they’re the most useful bunch of them all. So then, why should we invest in a foreign country, a small banana republic no less?”

 

“Man, I wish we could bring back actual slavery so that we could put all of these Latin Americans to work on the plantations without ever having to pay them. Imagine the profits we’re missing out on…”

 

As the voices tuned out, Julio stared down at his machete and the chopped banana bunches in front of him. Registering what one of the men had said earlier, he was quickly overcome with dread and anger. Standing upright and approaching the men menacingly with a machete, he could not help himself but lash out at them.

 

“You…You filthy, greedy Americans…” Julio stopped right at the fence that separated him from the three men whose faces turned sour quickly, “I have been bending my back here, laboring endlessly and tolerating everything that you all have said. Every vile, outrageous thing that has spilled out of your mouth.

 

You dare to say you want slavery back, but this is already slavery, no? And if it is not slavery, then it is concealed under another form. Perhaps you know of the exploitative and unethical nature of indentured servitude in other countries. And here, in Guatemala, You exploit the vulnerabilities of the Guatemalan people in order to extract little dollar bills to be stowed in your piggy banks.”

 

A beat passed before the three men cracked up in fits of uncontrollable laughter. One of them pointed a finger at Julio.

 

“You’re blaming this on us? You’re blaming the people who are giving you an opportunity to pay off your debt?” His laughter died down before mouth turned into a sly grin, baring his pearly white teeth at the man before him. The man who was stained with dirt and the callouses of hard work. The man who wore the same ripped articles of clothing for the past years because he could not afford to buy new ones.

 

The man, Julio, stood firmly on his bare feet, glaring at them. Yet, he dared not to lift his fingers, let alone his machete. All he could do was bare his teeth back and hope that they would lend him a sliver of mercy. He was powerless against them. Guatemala was powerless against them.