Where the Land Never Rests: The Life of Day Laborers in Zacatecas
By Leslie Cruz
Translated and edited by Soledad Quartucci, Latina Republic
Published by Latina Republic on June 6, 2025
For over eight years, the fields of Zacatecas have established themselves as leading contributors to Mexico’s national production of chili peppers and garlic. Year after year, harvest expectations are not only met but exceeded, solidifying Zacatecas as a leader in this agricultural sector.
However, behind every seed that germinates in the soil, behind every box that reaches the country’s markets, lies a less visible but profoundly significant story: that of the indigenous hands that make this productive chain possible.
Agricultural day laborers, mostly from indigenous communities, are the silent engine sustaining this prosperity. Their situation, however, has drawn attention both at the state and international levels, not for recognition or dignification of their work, but because they starkly reflect the faces of structural poverty: Exclusion from healthcare and education systems, lack of labor rights, absence of access to social programs, and a precariousness that extends beyond the workplace into their daily lives.
These conditions push them to migrate from one field to another, constantly traveling across the country in search of day labor. For many families, this form of work is the only viable means of subsistence, though it rarely represents a real path to development.
In Zacatecas, their presence has transformed not only cultivation methods but also the social dynamics of the communities where they temporarily settle.
Regions like San José de Lourdes, Río Florido, Villa de Cos, and the Chaparrosa Valley have seen their populations double—or even triple—during agricultural seasons, becoming scenes of cultural exchanges but also of tensions.
These communities receive waves of mobile populations that bring not only labor force but also identity: languages, customs, colors, knowledge. And although initially these groups were seen as strangers, today their presence has become part of the usual landscape.
Women and girls walk with their colorful dresses, embroidered shirts, and skirts that still carry the symbols of their hometowns. Men, on the other hand, have often adopted jeans and t-shirts, replacing traditional garments, though each group retains its particularities, forming a true multiethnic mosaic.
Among the most frequent groups are the so-called “huicholitos,” that is, the Wixaritari, as well as Tepehuans and Coras, who mostly migrate in family units.
Although many have distanced themselves from traditional artisanal production, they still preserve ancestral symbols and knowledge expressed through clothing, language, and certain practices they only reproduce in trusted spaces.
The labor dynamic is usually organized into crews, led by a foreman who transports them in trucks to the ranches where they are needed. There, under the intense sun, they perform planting and harvesting tasks during long shifts. In some cases, landowners allow the entry of street vendors offering fresh waters, food, or even ice creams, barely alleviating the harsh conditions.
Work is measured by production: “the more crates I fill, the more I earn,” they say, and under this criterion, many families choose to work together. This sadly includes children.
Child labor is present and normalized in these fields. While adults work, the little ones run between rows, play with the soil, and grow outside the school system, deprived of other possible versions of the world.
Women also play a fundamental role in this dynamic. Not only do they work under the same conditions as men, but they do so while carrying caregiving responsibilities.
It is common to see them pregnant, with babies in arms, or leaving their young children in plastic boxes at the edge of the row, without assistance or daycare facilities that would allow them a respite. Still, they remain there, determined, strong, indispensable.
During planting and harvesting seasons, the landscape of Zacatecas changes. Not only the fields, which are dyed with the colors of production, but also the communities, which transform into transit stations, routes for trucks and vans carrying crews from one place to another.
The bustle of day laborers is heard, their native languages, their laughter, their shouts identifying them. But when the season ends, the towns return to their usual rhythm, and the landscape fades as quickly as it arrived.
This type of work keeps them trapped in a cycle of subsistence, where personal and collective development is always relegated. The working conditions they face are not only precarious but deeply unjust.
There is no economic empowerment possible when the income barely covers survival, and even less so when there are no policies recognizing their value as workers and bearers of living cultures.
Nevertheless, despite everything, their presence has left a mark in Zacatecas. They have enriched the territory with their cultural diversity and have made visible a reality that was long ignored.
Indigenous day laborers not only sustain the fields; they transform them. And although much remains to be done to dignify their work and guarantee their rights, narrating their stories is a first step to stop normalizing their neglect.
This ethnographic and recording work began in September 2024, with the planting of garlic seeds, thanks to access facilitated by acquaintances to the agricultural fields of the Villa de Cos community. It was resumed in May of the current year, coinciding with the harvest of the seeds planted seven months earlier.
The methodology employed was based on participant observation during a full workday, seeking a respectful approach with the workers. However, as anthropologists, we are aware that our presence inevitably implies a certain degree of intrusion into contexts that are not our own.
During the day, it was evident that many of the indigenous day laborers are reserved and shy individuals. On several occasions, when attempting to engage in conversation, responses were minimal or simply accompanied by a smile.
Part of this can be attributed to the language barrier, as some do not fully master Spanish; but it also reflects the distrust or bewilderment that the presence of an outsider showing interest in their daily lives can generate.
However, there are exceptions. Some day laborers, upon seeing me walking with the camera, began to ask: “Where are you from?” thus marking a shift in the interaction. At that moment, one becomes the subject of study. Such was the case with a man who, while cutting garlic with a machete, asked me:
—”And where are you from? What are you doing here?”
While answering his questions, a relationship of trust began to establish. I asked him if he missed his town, if he planned to return soon. He responded:
—“No, listen, I’m from far away, from as far as you can imagine. I’m from a mountain range in Durango, and I’ve been here in Río Florido for twenty years, working. I thought about going back with my wife, but one day, coming back from work, she had left. Took my TV, even the blankets off the bed… So I stayed here, kept on working.”
This kind of trust, which is rarely offered spontaneously, is the kind that must be cultivated in the field in order to access deeper, more human testimonies. The same goes for children: some greet you, ask questions, play; others watch shyly or hide. Every gesture represents a different way of receiving a stranger, and all deserve to be interpreted with sensitivity and respect.
Documenting the lives of indigenous groups from their own perspectives involves more than simple observation; it requires acknowledging the value of those views—so often ignored or rendered invisible.
The purpose of this ethnographic work is precisely to generate a critical reflection on the current reality of agricultural labor:
Who works the land? What are their life trajectories? How are their stories intertwined with the food that arrives at our tables or in local markets?
The goal is also to foster collective awareness that, at some point, may translate into tangible actions. It is not only about abstract national policies but about local initiatives that directly impact the living conditions of these groups: Mobile educational spaces, short workshops for children, dignified housing, sociocultural activities that promote interaction and mutual recognition between indigenous communities and the places where they settle. Giving them visibility and voice is an essential step toward dignifying the existence of some of the most marginalized groups in the country.
About Leslie Cruz
Leslie Cruz is originally from Zacatecas. She is an archaeologist and photographer whose work blends visual documentation with ethnographic and archaeological research. Her focus spans northern Mexico, the central valleys and Mixteca Alta of Oaxaca, and the Maya area. Her anthropological photographic practice documents everyday life in Indigenous communities and diverse social settings. She approaches her work ethically and respectfully, valuing accompaniment and reciprocity. For her, the image serves as both visual testimony and a form of dialogue and communal return. Her work has been featured on PhotoVogue, and a selection is available through Cuarto Oscuro, where she explores the aesthetic and political dimensions of documentary photography. Follow Leslie @lesliecuga_.
Latina Republic is a nonprofit media organization dedicated to humanizing immigration and amplifying underreported stories from Latin America. Through in-depth journalism, interviews, and original research, we uplift local voices and highlight social justice issues across the region. In this publication, Latina Republic contributed editorial guidance and English translation to support the sharing of this powerful ethnographic work with a wider audience.
