SANTA ANA ZIROSTO, Mexico — It didn’t take long for Mexican avocado picker Francisco Isidro to get back to work after authorities announced the lifting of a U.S. security alert that temporarily halted avocado exports.

Back on the job the morning after the alert was lifted, Isidro threw a rope over an avocado tree about 20 feet (6 meters) high and climbed up. Fifteen minutes later, he had filled a box with avocados bound for the United States.

“Thank God … and now we’re getting paid!” he shouted happily after several days without work.

Eight days after the alert affecting Michoacán state and the deployment of more Mexican troops in the region, U.S. authorities fully lifted the restrictions that spurred producers to shut down operations, and exports resumed. Michoacán is Mexico’s main avocado-producing state and a region where four cartels designated by the Trump administration as terrorist organizations operate.

By the weekend, orchards were operating again, packing plants were running at full speed and U.S. Department of Agriculture inspectors had returned to certify the fruit and ensure it was free of pests before entering the United States.

The workers were happy to get their daily wages back. Some producers hoped the increased security would reduce violence and extortion. Others feared the calm would not last long.

“We’ll be safe for a while, we’ll see what happens next,” said Valentín Rodríguez, a longtime avocado industry businessperson.

The U.S. alert caught Isidro high in a tree in an orchard in Santa Ana Zirosto, an area of green, low hills in western Michoacán where criminal groups are very active. There were no explanations, just the foreman’s shout to stop cutting.

Isidro, 39 years old and with two decades of experience as a harvester, knew that this meant either starting to look for another job until the situation returned to normal — since they’re paid by the day — or supporting his family solely on what his wife earned from a small store.

More than 90 miles (145 kilometers) away, in the town of Tacámbaro, an engineer at an avocado packing plant received the alert in the early hours of the morning: The facility should be kept sealed and under quarantine.

Some 200,000 people employed by Michoacán’s avocado industry were left in limbo.

Authorities did not say what threat triggered the alert. But in a state where numerous local cartels make money not only from drugs but also from extortion, there are plenty of possibilities.

Some growers have come to consider extortion an unavoidable production cost. A producer from Michoacán told The Associated Press recently that he pays 1 peso per kilo exported in extortion fees and exports about 90 metric tons a day, which amounts to more than $5,000 in daily payments.

In March alone, Mexico shipped nearly 4,800 tons of avocados a day to the United States.

Trucks loaded with avocados are also sometimes robbed on roads in western Michoacán. And some farmworkers have been stopped and beaten by armed men near the border with Jalisco without being told why, according to one worker who spoke on condition of anonymity for fear of retaliation.

U.S. inspectors have been assaulted and temporarily detained in the past, triggering similar export suspensions. On some occasions, threats arose after inspectors detected pests and were pressured not to report them, said an official familiar with their work who spoke on condition of anonymity for security reasons. The U.S. Embassy does not usually provide details about the incidents.

Inspectors now have less of a presence in the orchards, which are located in isolated hills where armed groups operate with little interference, and concentrate on packing plants.

“If the United States says that it is suspending technical services for security reasons, it’s impossible to export. If it’s for a plant health, it’s the same,” said Rodríguez, who grows, packs and sells avocados. “We are at the mercy of whatever the U.S. market and government decide to do with the industry.”

There is also a political dimension, he said, adding that Mexico didn’t export avocados to the United States for eight decades after a worm was found in an avocado pit in 1914. The U.S. ban was lifted in 1997 as domestic production could no longer meet growing demand.

More than 80% of Mexican avocados are sold to the U.S. Thousands of tons of avocados travel daily to the United States, especially at the beginning of the year, when demand for guacamole surges ahead of the Super Bowl. To keep that volume moving, certification is key.

Isidro is a “certified” picker. He knows how to disinfect cutting tools before using them, handle the fruit quickly and carefully, and report any spots or damage. The orchards where he works are also certified, providing dining and bathroom facilities for workers.

Jesús Méndez, his supervisor, inspected the boxes before they were loaded onto a truck with the tracking details. The trucks wait until all those in the area are ready before traveling in convoys to packing plants, accompanied by police patrols to prevent robberies.

At the packing plants, inspections continue, checking quality, the fruit’s flesh and possible pests. The avocados then move along mechanical lines that sort them by size before workers place them into boxes.

Once labeled and sealed, the trailers head for the U.S. border. At the slightest security alert, every point along the route can be brought to a standstill.

The deployment of more than 1,500 soldiers to protect Michoacán’s avocado-growing region and recent arrests of people allegedly involved in extortion have eased concerns, but only partially.

Luis Manuel Soto, a 36-year-old grower and packer from western Michoacán, hopes the increased security will bring improvements. So far, he says, he has not felt them.

In 2024, he said, armed men pulled him from his vehicle and threatened to kill him unless he paid them and withdrew a complaint over extortion and an attempt to seize his orchards. The threats returned last July, even though one person involved in the earlier case has been convicted.

“They left me a funeral cross and … a written message saying I had only days left,” Soto said from a town near Morelia, Michoacán’s capital.

The threats have continued by phone. Now he divides his time between occasional visits to his orchards, managing his businesses and social projects remotely, and going to prosecutors’ offices to request protection.

In Santa Ana Zirosto and surrounding communities, residents welcome the military presence.

“It gives us some peace, but it also scares us a little because it could lead to confrontations with some of the groups,” said Méndez.