The Almería orchard: thousands of immigrants drowned in the 'sea of plastic'

Níjar / El Ejido / AlmeríaIt is a dry, arid land, dotted with scrubland, cacti, and white rockrose. And suddenly, from the barren landscape emerges an immense white expanse almost 30 kilometers long, guarded by the Gádor mountain range and the Mediterranean Sea. This is Almería's sea of ​​plastic, the great vegetable garden of Europe, where nearly 100,000 workers labor, most of them immigrants, and about 30% of them undocumented. In total, there are some 35,000 hectares of greenhouses—the equivalent of 50,000 football fields combined—that can produce up to 3.5 million tons of vegetables and fruits: peppers, cucumbers, tomatoes, zucchini... Tens of thousands of greenhouses engulf everything, penetrating the towns and cities of the region, white plastic sheets visible from space, blending in with houses and industrial buildings. It is the economic engine of the region: on one side the western area, surrounding El Ejido; on the other valley, the vast esplanade at the foot of the municipality of Níjar.

Most agricultural workers in Almería have precarious working conditions. Many of them are undocumented, and Almería is the gateway to their dream of Europe. Here, they can find work without the required paperwork. This situation could change with the announcement made this week by Pedro Sánchez's government to implement an extraordinary regularization program for undocumented immigrants in Spain, a measure that could affect more than half a million. "It's good news, people are hopeful, it will affect thousands," explains Daniel Izuzquiza, a member of the Jesuit Migrant Service (SJM), a community that works with the most vulnerable in the Níjar area. They don't yet have a detailed count of how many people will benefit, but it could be tens of thousands of workers. However, until they can read the fine print of the announcement, they are proceeding with caution regarding the implications of this socialist decree.

Degrading wages

Immigrants working in agriculture mostly earn between 4.5 and 6 euros an hour. Mohamed Yarie arrived on the coast of Formentera a year and a half ago from Guinea Conakry, leaving behind his wife and four children. Now he lives in Roquetes de Mar and travels more than 20 kilometers each day on a scooter to reach a spot where farmers pick up the seasonal workers they need for the day. All of them are undocumented. During the last month, he has worked 7 days, at 5 euros an hour. That's less than 300 euros a month, while a room costs between 250 and 300 euros.

Both he and Abdellatife, a 33-year-old Moroccan man, attend Spanish classes offered by the organization Cepaim. The language is paramount. It allows them to defend themselves and claim their most basic rights. Abdellatife has been unemployed for two months. He emigrated from his country after working for nine years in a car upholstery company. Now, once he can obtain his papers, he wants to go to Madrid or Barcelona to find work in this sector and bring his six-year-old daughter with him. Although he has been unemployed since November, he doesn't complain. "I'm better off than in my country. In Morocco, I earned 20 euros; here, I can earn up to 50 in a day," he reflects.

"Immigrants fill the jobs nobody else wants. Just because I'm not willing to go down a mine or work in the fields doesn't mean those who do shouldn't be paid well. But we depend on the markets, which are predatory. If the goal is to make money, anything goes. Who owns the greenhouses in Morocco? People from here, so you can't say you have to cut costs and pay poorly to compete with Morocco. How long will this model be profitable? Until the economy takes off in Morocco or Senegal," argues Juan Miralles, president of the board of trustees of the NGO Cepaim.

At 50 degrees

Safety conditions are also poor. Organizations that help immigrants report that they often use sprayers or pesticides without adequate protection. Sometimes they wear surgical masks, sometimes not even that. What will happen in a few years? What health consequences might arise for these day laborers? The heat is also a problem. The greenhouses are ovens during the hottest months. Production in Almería isn't seasonal; it's stable for almost 10 months, except for July and August, and some workers have been forced to work in temperatures nearing 50 degrees Celsius (122 degrees Fahrenheit). And with few breaks. In January, with temperatures of 16 degrees Celsius (61 degrees Fahrenheit) outside, the smell of burning plastic is noticeable in some areas.

Housing is the other major problem. There simply isn't any. In the last forty years, towns like Níjar and El Ejido have tripled their population (not counting undocumented immigrants). However, the housing stock has barely changed. These are colonization villages, from the 1950s and 60s, when the Francoist government created the National Institute of Colonization and relocated people from the interior or from areas of Albacete and Granada to these countryside, granting them plots of land and establishing newly planned villages. "Níjar is overwhelmed. There are no historic centers, no old houses. The immigrants live in farmhouses "Half-ruined. The market offers nothing because workers can't afford it," Miralles explains. Even those with money can't find anything. It's hard to find not just rooms, but beds. Every year the situation worsens because, on top of everything else, landlords "don't trust immigrants," denounces Abdelaziz Chabar, a veteran who also collaborates with CEPAIM: "What are they left with? Settlements."

According to the latest studies, there are approximately 7,000 people living in shantytowns throughout Almería. It's often the first destination for newcomers. From there, they move to a shared apartment, and when they can reunite their entire family, they look for a flat for everyone. But it's becoming increasingly difficult. And their stay in the settlements is becoming chronic. Abdelkrim lived in the Atochares settlement for nine months before joining the Jesuits. He's 37 years old, arrived in Lanzarote by boat in 2023 after paying €3,000, and is now studying social integration. This has allowed him to gather the experiences of many of his peers through the MUSA project, an initiative to document the labor exploitation suffered by migrant workers. She spoke with 2056 and they explained to her the miseries of life under the greenhouses: "You go inside a greenhouse and nobody notices anything. The big companies can't have undocumented workers, but they can make them work up to 14 hours a day, without paying overtime. Even on Sundays, especially with zucchini."

The irregular status of many undocumented immigrants and their need to regularize their situation opens the door to mafias and scams perpetrated by unscrupulous business owners. "When the administration fails, small business owners emerge who have people living in [undocumented immigrants]. farmhouses or inside the greenhouses, and they charge for it, even others who, to regularize a worker, say: "If you want a contract, I'll sell it to you," explains Seve Lázaro, one of the three Jesuits who work in the area. AbdelKrim has seen how some farmers made the workers pay Social Security, and the workers, out of ignorance, accepted it without complaint, and also how they asked a day laborer for 11,000 euros in exchange for providing him with papers, both the registration certificate and an employment contract.

Alberto is one of the Spanish teachers at Cepaim. He was born in Almería and has been collaborating with the most vulnerable for years. When he arrived in El Ejido, he did so with prejudices. "I thought all farmers were bad," he admits while talking about the "perverse" system to which immigrants have been subjected. But, little by little, he saw that there is all kinds. "There are those who help, they risk a lot if they are caught giving work to undocumented immigrants or “They’re left to sleep in the greenhouses because they have nothing else,” he recounts. Miralles expresses a similar sentiment. “The administration tells the farmers, ‘If you don’t do anything, you’ll be responsible if something happens.’” That’s why there’s so little humanity. Nobody—or very few people—risks their lives to help strangers.

The farmers are distrustful. In the small hamlet of Atochares, children play in the square, while the elderly stroll and the occasional farmer drives by, eyeing the newcomers suspiciously. When questioned about the greenhouses, they avoid speaking openly about them. “What’s the point?” a farmer asks suspiciously when asked where the panoramic view of the valley can be seen, right next to the tourist paradise of Cabo de Gata. Around these towns, there’s rubble and filth everywhere. A misery that disappears in the mountains. In the only open bar in Níjar, a group of farmers have coffee after lunch. Tuesday. They joke among themselves in a game of nonsensical cross-talk for the newcomers. "Give me a shot," says one. "Yeah, so you'll get in the car and kill someone," replies another from a table, amid laughter and glasses of liquor, while a Civil Guard officer finishes eating with the family.Long live Spain!"!", shouts a man as soon as he enters the bar, having been informed of the presence of Catalans inside. Inside, not a single immigrant. There is coexistence but not true harmony. They are worlds that exist in parallel.

One of the complaints made by some organizations and workers is the collusion between the administration and the farmers. They say they are tipped off about inspections, that there are WhatsApp groups to avoid getting caught. Abdelkrim has experienced this firsthand. Suddenly, shouting, panic, running, and the foreman sends them home after only two hours of work. They are ushered out through the far end of the greenhouse, away from the road, and warned not to tell anyone who they work for. And, of course, the day counts as two hours worked: 10 euros despite having gotten up at four in the morning. Miralles is understanding. "It's impossible to put gates on the countryside. You'd need an army of inspectors; I don't think there's any collusion," he concludes resignedly. "There are 8-9 inspectors for thousands of companies. Why? Because it's not in their interest. By the time the inspectors arrive, the workers have already been indoctrinated," writes CIDOB researcher Blanca Garcés Mascareñas in a report on the situation of workers in Almería.

Camel's gaze, goat's gaze

Abdelkrim has identified the paradox experienced by the day laborers of the plastic sea. When he asks them if they are satisfied with their work, despite the low wages and the squalid conditions in settlements or farmhouses Despite the complete lack of safety measures, over 90% of the workers, despite the ruined state of the site, answer yes. Why? Because they work. "It's another form of slavery," Lázaro summarizes. "They live out of necessity to support themselves and their families. They earn 900 euros, of which they send 300 or 400 to their families. It's the five-euro lure. A trap. They live exploited, but they can build themselves, for example, a house in their country of origin. But with these exploitative working conditions, what can you dream of? What future do you imagine? What price do you pay? "The price of ruining your life," argues the Jesuit, who sums it up with a metaphor: "Camel's gaze, goat's gaze." The workers cannot raise their eyes, like the goat, tricked into seeking the stubble, always with its snout to the ground, while the camel gazes at the horizon.

And this inability to look to the future has consequences. First, the day laborers, exhausted by long working days under precarious conditions, have little time to try to get training. Also, because many days they don't know their work schedule for the next day until the evening, when they are notified by phone. Second, many hide their reality from their families for shame of showing them how they barely survive. "I thought life would be easier," admits Mohamed Yarie.

"The intensive greenhouses in this area use a lot of water, provide a lot of work, but also money, and the labor isn't valued," summarizes Abdelaziz. He and Alberto remember how the residents of the Alpujarra, those who lived on the slopes of the Sierra Nevada, came down to the Almería plains, abandoning their vineyards and orange groves, to grow the immense sea of ​​plastic. "They've destroyed the mountains to build greenhouses. Luckily, the sea and the mountain range act as boundaries, otherwise they'd keep expanding," laments Abdelaziz. "Those who now have greenhouses also had to abandon their land," points out Alberto. And he concludes: "There's a lack of memory."