The thorns of Tabacundo, Ecuador’s rose capital of the world

On the road to Tabacundo, a landscape dominated by parched mountains begins to fill up with greenhouses. This town of around 21,000 inhabitants and known as the “rose capital of the world” is located in the Pedro Moncayo canton, in the province of Pichincha in Ecuador, and sits 37 miles north of Quito at an altitude of 9,400 feet. Beginning in the 1980s, the area’s economy has hinged on the production of roses, thanks to its altitude, temperate climate and sunlight for up to 12 hours a day. But, as pointed out in the report Las flores del mal: las floricultoras y su crecimiento acelerado (The flowers of evil: flower growers and their rapid growth) from the organization Acción Ecológica, the availability of cheap labor was also a factor. Most workers earn the basic wage of $470 (plus statutory benefits), while the cost of a family’s basic groceries is $813. According to the Ecuadorean Ministry of Production, women represent 51% of the workforce in the industry nationwide, and in this town, they account for 60%.

It is calculated that the area produces between four and five million blooms of some 400 varietals every day. According to National Association of Flower Producers and Exporters of Ecuador (Expoflores), 75% of rose production is concentrated in the province of Pichincha, and of the total national flower production, 77% consists of roses, which made Ecuador the third-largest exporter worldwide last year, after the Netherlands and Colombia. That year for the first time, exports exceeded $1 billion, “a very important milestone that sets the course for the future,” says Alejandro Martínez, president of Expoflores. The three main destinations for the flowers are the United States, the European Union and Kazakhstan, the country through which Russia has accessed imports since the beginning of the war in Ukraine.

Upon arriving in Tabacundo, all the signs of a town devoted to floriculture are evident: dilapidated greenhouses belonging to a company that went bankrupt, modest stands offering bouquets of 25 roses for a dollar, warehouses selling tractors, pesticides, spray pumps, packaging materials and lots of plastic. In the countryside, there’s an unexpectedly acrid smell in the air due to the intensive use of pesticides. According to a study published in the scientific journal JMIR Publications, constant exposure to these products is associated with multiple health problems, including cognitive impairment, miscarriages, respiratory and skin diseases, prostate cancer, breast cancer and leukemia. In addition, having to work between eight and 10 hours a day on one’s feet can cause muscle and joint problems, and the constant pressure to achieve high productivity often leads to work-related stress.

Workers organizing

In the town’s center sits the headquarters of the Association of Flower Workers of Pichincha (ASOTFLORPI). It was founded in 2012 by Marcia Lema, a strong woman in every sense of the word, whose fierce face is softened by tender green eyes. “I worked as a supervisor on a large plantation for 10 years,” she says. “There I saw many people who fell ill and had problems getting social security coverage. As I often say, it’s hidden slavery, which is why the idea of creating the association was born, to support the rest of our colleagues.”

Lema stopped working on that farm because she had a stroke and since then, has suffered from cardiac problems. At 45 years of age, she began to study law to be able to defend other workers, and got her degree when she was 50. Today, she is 58 and her association has 2,500 worker-members. However, its sustainability is at risk because it is no longer receiving the international funds it once did, and members don’t always pay their monthly membership fee of $2.50. Even so, Lema is not defeated. “What motivates me is being in motion, because if I stay within four walls, I fall into depression,” she says.

Most of the time, ASOTFLORPI takes on cases related to the pressure that some companies exert on their workers to get them to quit. “People they consider to be of an advanced age, from 40 to 45 years old; people with health problems that they developed on the same plantations, they make their life impossible so that they have to quit,” explains Lema. “They want to avoid covering their health care, seniority benefits and severance pay.”

Among ASOTFLORPI’s targets is Rosinvar, which starting back in 2014 has been seen as one of the most successful companies in the Pedro Moncayo canton. At that time, it had 400 employees and that same year, won first prize at the Flowers Expo Moscow International Fair for its long-stemmed flowers (between 50 and 100 centimeters, they are highly sought after in Russia); the size of its buds (6.2 centimeters — the average is 5.4); and the consistency of their colors (the most prized is the classic dark red of the firm’s Explorer and Freedom varietals). Three years later, Rosinvar declared bankruptcy. “There was a time when companies would declare bankruptcy, fire their workers, and not take responsibility for anything,” says Lema. With the support of ASOTFLORPI, employees formed a union and took over three Rosinvar farms.

The study Condiciones de trabajo y derechos laborales en la floricultura ecuatoriana (Working conditions and labor rights in Ecuadorian floriculture), carried out by the National Federal of Agroindustrial Workers, Farmers and Free Indigenous People of Ecuador (FENACLE), shows a 60% rate of noncompliance in the Pedro Moncayo canton in terms of right to organize, social security, minimum wage and overtime pay.

“As in any industry, there are informal companies that do not follow the law,” says Martínez. “But you can’t generalize. The obligation that all companies have is to enroll their employees in social security, even if they’re on a temporary contract. In the case of farms that have the Flor Ecuador certification, those enrollments must take place the same day of the contract, but there can be informal businesses, or even those that are formally constituted, that try to evade the law.”

The Flor Ecuador certification is an Expoflores initiative that was created 23 years ago to guarantee social and environmental practices meet international standards. “The majority of markets and importers require certification, that the flowers are truly able to be traced, so that you are complying with the minimum parameters in terms of social and environmental sustainability. That is what we encourage,” explains Martínez.

In other cases, offenses can range from tax evasion to the possibility of the involvement in illicit activities like drug trafficking, noncompliance with labor laws and environmental responsibilities, and health problems due to insufficient quality control. “The companies affiliated with Expoflores account for nearly 70% of the 5,900 hectares of nationwide production,” says Martínez, “and on those farms people feel good, they receive their salary on time, they’re well-cared-for and they eat well.”

In the case of Rosinvar, thanks to the legal proceedings initiated by ASOTFLORPI, the company’s properties were sold and “in 2020, some of the employees were able to receive between $10,000 and $80,000 associated with that liquidation,” says Lema.

Flower workers’ day to day lives

Carmen García is 45 years old and works at a medium-sized company as a sorter. Her job is in the post-harvest sector: she examines flower quality and organizes them according to their characteristics. She uses a tool to strip stems of leaves and thorns. Then, she sorts the flowers by size, checks to see if they have signs of mistreatment or sickness, or bugs: spiders, thrips, botrytis or powdery mildew. She writes a report on the anomalies she identifies so that a supervisor can determine which pesticide to apply in greater quantities. Then, the embonchadoras assemble bouquets of 25 flowers (bonches, as they are called in the industry), and they go on sale. The flawless roses are exported; the imperfect ones, left for the domestic market.

García has worked on her feet for 20 years. “It’s very tiring, especially in high season,” she says. “Your eyes get blurry, your hands cramp and sometimes, a flower can get by you that has bugs, and the supervisor comes and scolds you. The psychological pressure is intense. We should work eight hours a day, with a one-hour rest for lunch, which is the only time that we could sit. But we work 10 or more hours and they won’t pay us even one extra hour — but if you miss a day, they fine you $40.”

Mario Tangoa is 62 years old. For 13 years, he worked as a fumigator until he retired five years ago. He sprayed crops with a blend of two or three chemicals, depending on the damage to the plants. His group of three workers used 1,000 liters of pesticides every day. They worked from 3 to 7 in the morning. “At that time, the bugs are asleep. You have to catch them while they’re asleep,” he says. Their workdays could not be any longer, because of their level of exposure to the chemicals. “Even though they gave us all the equipment and made sure we were well protected, it still got into you,” he explains. “At the end of the day, you had a headache and felt dizzy, but I didn’t have respiratory problems. Now that I’m older, I feel how it affects me when I get the flu.”

Segundo Fernández is a 57-year-old bricklayer, but when he lost his job during the COVID-19 pandemic, he went to work in rose cultivation. He planted a 2,500-square-meter plot on the lot of his home, which he now works with his wife. Their business borders on informal, and lacks floral agriculture registration. “It’s hard for the informal ones to sell directly to an importer or wholesaler,” says Martínez. “Usually, they work with intermediaries, who wind up extorting them to lower prices, or even not paying them at all. That does happen, it’s undeniable.”

In low season, Fernández is paid 20 cents per flower. “But they have told us that there, in the United States, buyers pay a dollar per stem and then sell them for $10,” he says. Around Valentine’s Day, they pay him between 50 cents and a dollar per stem. No matter when he sells, he always receives the lowest payment. “You don’t earn a lot, you work to have your daily bread; the ones who profit are the intermediaries.”

Rodrigo Cachipuendo has had better luck. He worked for a long time as a supervisor in several large Tabacundo farms, and for 10 years, has had his own plantation in the Cayambe canton, which is adjacent to Pedro Moncayo. On a half hectare, he has planted 50,000 plants of around 10 varietals. His wife is a post-harvest expert and their son is in charge of sales. His experience has allowed him to sell directly to importers and wholesalers. Many of his flowers go to Russia. “The business is profitable,” Cachipuendo says. “In high season, we sell 50,000 stems per month and they pay us between 40 cents and a dollar per stem. With those profits, you can live all year.”

The workday is over. Around five in the afternoon, the highways that connect the floricultural area’s towns fill with workers who, backpack slung over their shoulder, walk to the town centers or wait on the sidewalk for the public transportation that will bring them home. Soon, some greenhouses will turn on the red light that stimulates flowering. Tomorrow, it will all happen once again.

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